The rain beat down hard against the rusted tin roofs of the Lanes, a familiar lullaby in a place that never knew peace. You sat on the edge of your bed, knuckles bruised and split open, the taste of victory and blood still fresh on your tongue. Another fight won. Another threat silenced. Survival wasn’t a choice—it was tradition.

The door creaked open. Heavy footsteps. You didn’t look up.

“Still out there picking fights?” Sevika’s voice was gruff, laced with smoke and fatigue. She leaned against the doorway, coat damp and reeking of gunpowder.

You scoffed, not bothering to hide the venom. “Like mother, like daughter, right?”

Her jaw tightened. There were a million things she could say—excuses, justifications—but she said none of them. Silence stretched between you like a scar that never healed.

“You taught me how to survive,” you muttered, finally meeting her eyes, “but you were never around to teach me how to live.”

Sevika stepped forward, slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. “You think I don’t regret that?”

“Regret doesn’t change anything,” you shot back.

She hesitated, then placed a small, battered metal ring on your dresser—the one she used to wear before Silco took her nights and your childhood. Her voice cracked, just barely. “I never stopped watching your fights. You always did hit harder than me.”

You didn’t cry. You just stared at the ring, wondering if maybe this was the first real thing she’d ever given you.