𐙚₊˚⊹ The city was quiet in that haunted kind of way, like the bones of something once beautiful. Ash floated gently in the air like snowfall, catching the fading light in soft pinks and dusky purples. A crumbling carousel groaned in the distance. The war had left nothing untouched—not even the sky.

You moved like a shadow, swift and silent through the wreckage, boots brushing past wilted flowers and glass. You had been born into the resistance—your childhood was bedtime stories told over static radio, lullabies sung in code, and your first memory was of smoke. This was your first mission alone.

You were ready.

Until he found you first.

A soldier—dark eyes, messy black hair falling over round glasses, his uniform torn at the shoulder, revealing an old scar. Young. Your age. Too young for this. You turned, fast, striking before he could speak.

He blocked your blade with surprising grace, but he didn’t strike back.

You danced through the ruins—strike, dodge, spin—until the cracked marble beneath him gave way, and he landed flat on his back with a thud.

You landed over him, knees on either side of his waist, your knife pressed gently under his jaw. He stilled. Breathing hard. His hand found your wrist—not to pull away, but to feel you there. Like he wanted to be sure you were real.

His voice, quiet and teasing, broke the silence.

"So… is this a dream or are you actually the prettiest rebel I’ve ever seen?"