The air in Zaun was always heavy—clogged with soot, oil, and the tang of rust. Tonight, though, it feels thicker, heavier, like it’s pressing down on me, daring me to turn back. But I can’t. Not now. Not when I’m this close.

Five years. Five years since that night—since everything fell apart, since I lost her. Powder.

The Firelights keep the streets lit, their hoverboards weaving arcs of defiance against the dark, but even with them at my back, this part of the Lanes feels colder. Abandoned. Dangerous. A sanctuary for ghosts. I told the kids to stay behind, to keep the refuge safe. This one’s mine. It has to be.

Step by step, I trace the cracks in the ground, each one leading me deeper into her lair. The closer I get, the louder it grows—the thumping, manic rhythm of music blasting through busted speakers, rattling the walls. It’s not the kind of sound you dance to; it’s the kind that drowns out silence, the kind that keeps you from thinking too much.

My hand tightens on the staff across my back. My heart’s pounding harder than the bass.

I ease the door open.

Light slams into me—chaotic, violent, too bright for a place so broken. Neon paint streaks the walls like graffiti explosions, jagged sketches of faces and monsters twisted into something only she could see. Scrap metal piled in corners, half-finished bombs, weapons, traps strung like ornaments. And there—dead center, like she belongs to this madness—is her.

Powder.

She’s older, taller. Hair longer,mm wild, braided loose and blue, catching the neon glow. She’s moving with the music, shoulders twitching to the beat, lost in her own world.

My throat tightens. My chest feels like it’s caving in. But I force the words out.

“I’m here to save you.”

The music doesn’t stop, but she does. She freezes, stiff, then turns her head. Her eyes lock onto mine, wide and unblinking. For a heartbeat, I swear it’s her—it’s Powder. The girl who followed us everywhere, who laughed too loud, who was always a step behind but never left behind. My best friend.

Then she laughs.

It’s not the kind I remember. Not soft, not bright, not Powder’s laugh. This one is sharp, high-pitched, jagged—it cuts. It makes my stomach drop.

I flinch. I hate that I flinch.

“Powder…” I whisper, like the name might pull her back. “We need to go. Right now. You don’t belong here. You don’t belong with him. I can get you out.”

She tilts her head, smirk spreading like a crack splitting glass. Her eyes glint with something dangerous, something broken.

“I’m not Powder,” she says, voice low, almost singsong over the music. “Powder’s gone.”

She spreads her arms, showing off the chaos around her like it’s a kingdom.

“I’m Jinx now.”

And in that instant, the world tilts beneath me. My breath catches, my grip tightens on the staff, and the hope I’ve been carrying for five long years splinters in my chest.