The air was already thick with tension when Thomas, Newt, Jorge, Brenda, {{user}}, and Frypan pushed through the final blockade of debris. The walls of the Last City towered over them — cold, smooth, impenetrable. The kind of wall built by people who thought they were gods.

“They’re really gonna open fire on all these people?” Fry muttered, voice low, eyes darting across the crowd of protesters surging toward the gates.

A crack split the air.

Then another.

Automatic gunfire rained down from the upper battlements of the wall, bullets tearing through signs, shattering glass, and sending protesters screaming in every direction.

“Run!” Thomas shouted over the chaos.

The group sprinted, ducking behind toppled metal barriers as debris exploded around them. Newt grabbed {{user}} by the arm, shoving her ahead of him. “Go! Go!”

Brenda nearly slipped on the scattered rubble but Jorge caught her by the elbow, pulling her upright as gunfire stitched across the pavement behind them.

Thomas spotted a narrow alley. “There! This way!”

They dove into it, the gunfire muffling behind the concrete walls. The alley was shadowed, claustrophobic—and too quiet.

Newt slowed, breath sharp. “…We’re not alone.”

Figures stepped out of the darkness.

Masked. Hooded. Silent.

One. Two. Five. Seven of them.

They moved with purpose—like they’d been waiting.

“Back up,” Thomas warned, raising his hands. But before he could reach for a weapon, the masked people lunged.

Strong arms grabbed Brenda and Jorge. Another seized Newt. Someone clamped a hand over {{user}}’s shoulder, forcing her forward. Frypan swore as a hooded figure shoved him toward a black van. Thomas tried to fight back but three masked figures pinned him, dragging him with brutal efficiency.

“Hey! Let them go! Get off of her!” Jorge snarled, thrashing as Brenda was yanked from his reach.

The van doors slammed shut.

Engines roared.

The city blurred past the slotted windows as they were driven away.

When the van screeched to a stop, Jorge launched forward the second the doors opened. He tackled the nearest masked man, throwing punches wildly.

“Where is she? Where the hell is she?!”

A shove from behind—Brenda was tossed straight into Jorge’s arms. He caught her, stunned, still breathing hard with panic. She braced her hands on his chest as she steadied herself. “Jorge—Jorge, I’m okay!”

One masked man raised both hands in a gesture of calm. His voice came out muffled behind the fabric.

“Alright! Everyone—relax! We’re on the same side.”

Thomas narrowed his eyes, fists tight. “Yeah? Then why’d you—”

The man grabbed the edge of his mask.

Pulled it up.

And revealed a face none of them had expected to see again.

Gally.

Alive.

Newt froze. Frypan’s jaw dropped.

Jorge’s eyes went wide. “Y'know this guy?.”

Thomas didn’t hesitate.

He lunged.

His fist connected with a sickening crack against Gally’s jaw, snapping the other boy’s head to the side. Gally stumbled, grabbing the edge of a crate to keep himself from falling.

“You killed Chuck!” Thomas roared, surging forward again.

“Thomas!” {{user}} threw both arms around him from behind, planting her heels and dragging him back with all her strength. Her chest pressed against his back, arms straining as she gripped him tight. “Stop! Thomas, stop—!”

He fought her grip for a second longer, breathing hard, rage vibrating through him like electricity. But her pull was steady, grounding, and gradually the tension bled out of his shoulders.

Gally rubbed his jaw, spitting blood onto the concrete. “Yeah… I deserved that.”

Thomas glared, chest heaving.