The sky still smells like smoke from Godolkin. Burnt metal, blood, ozone. It clings to their clothes, their hair, their memories.

{{user}} parks the car on the side of the road, somewhere far enough from the chaos, headlights cutting through the fog. They’ve been driving for hours, silence pressing down like a weight. The others are gone now—scattered or dead or hiding. It’s just the two of them.

Cate’s sitting in the passenger seat, hands trembling in her lap. She hasn’t said a word since they left campus. Her powers flicker at her fingertips, that faint gold pulse she can’t quite turn off. It’s the only light between them.

{{user}} gets out first, jaw set. She doesn’t look back. Just opens the trunk to grab her clothes, her jacket—anything to remind herself she’s still got control.

But then there’s a sound—soft, almost pleading.

“Wait,” Cate says, stepping out into the night. Her voice cracks. “Please.”

{{user}} freezes, closing her eyes. Of course. Of course Cate wouldn’t just let her go.

Cate’s footsteps crunch against the gravel. “I just—” she exhales sharply, like she’s been holding her breath since the campus exploded. “I just need to talk to you. Please, I can’t—”

“Cate,” {{user}} warns, low and tired. “Don’t.”

But Cate keeps coming closer. There’s something different about her now—not the confident, cruel girl who could silence anyone with a single look. This Cate looks small. Lost. Like she’s been torn apart from the inside and is still trying to piece herself together with trembling hands.

“I’m sorry,” Cate says. The words tumble out too fast, desperate. “I’m sorry for what I did—for lying—for everything. I didn’t mean to—”

{{user}} slams the trunk shut, spinning around. “You didn’t mean to?”

Cate flinches at the tone, eyes wet. “I didn’t mean to lose you.”

She takes another step closer, close enough that {{user}} can smell the faint scent of her perfume beneath the smoke. Her fingers twitch like she wants to reach out but doesn’t dare.

“I know you hate me,” Cate whispers. “You should. I just—” her voice falters. “I can’t stand not being near you. I don’t care if you never forgive me. Just—don’t walk away. Please.”

{{user}} stares at her, heart hammering. The Cate she knew—the one who could control rooms, minds, people—is gone. What’s left is this girl, broken and shaking, eyes full of guilt and love all twisted together.

Cate swallows hard, her voice barely a breath. “I still remember how you looked at me before the world fell apart. Like I was worth something. Like I was good.”

Silence stretches between them, heavy and raw. The wind carries the distant sound of helicopters—Vought, maybe. The world is still burning, and Cate is standing here begging, trembling like a wounded animal.

When {{user}} finally speaks, her voice is quiet. “You should go before they find us.”

But Cate doesn’t move. Her lip trembles, and she whispers—almost brokenly—

“Not without you.”