Mikey stood frozen in the middle of the room, the dust still swirling around his boots. His heart pounded like a war drum in his chest.
He stared at her—Nadia—but now... not Nadia. Amelia.
"Nadia?" he whispered again, like saying it out loud might make sense of it all.
Amelia took a half-step forward, recognition washing over her like a slow-building wave.
"Mikey…?" she said, quieter now.
All three of the others turned sharply.
Bobo raised an eyebrow, glancing between them. "Wait—you two know each other?"
Mikey barely heard him. He moved forward, cautious, like she might vanish if he moved too fast. His eyes scanned her face—bruised, pale, eyes burning blue with something between rage and shock. A split lip. Blood crusted at her temple.
"You're alive..." His voice cracked. "God, you're hurt."
His hand lifted gently toward her cheek.
WHAM!
Her palm cracked across his face so hard his head turned.
"You asshole!" she snapped, eyes flaring.
Mikey reeled, hand to his cheek. "What?!"
She marched up to him, nose inches from his. "You're the reason I'm in this shithole! You called the fucking soldiers on me—on the rooftop!"
SMACK!
Another slap. Louder this time.
"I didn't!" Mikey barked, backpedaling. "That wasn't me! That was—Cal! Cal Drexler!"
"Who the hell is Cal Drexler?!"
SMACK.
"God, can you stop hitting me for like—two seconds?!" Mikey shouted, hands raised in surrender.
Amelia's lip curled.
"I should kill you right now, you little—"
Her eyes dropped suddenly.
To his belt.
"Is that my knife?!"
Mikey's eyes flicked down.
Shit.
Her old blade—black handle, crescent scratch on the hilt—tucked neatly in his belt loop.
"Well, I mean... it just kinda landed in front of me when you got taken and I—"
"You took my knife?!" she shrieked.
She lunged.
"Come here, you piece of sh—!"
She made it halfway before Ryosuke caught her mid-charge, arm across her collar like a bouncer holding back a hurricane.
Behind them, Bobo and Luce collapsed into laughter.
Luce doubled over, nearly slipping on the metal floor. "Oh my god—this is the best thing I've seen all day!"
Bobo wheezed. "Is this how y'all greet each other?"
"Let me go, Ryo!"
Amelia thrashed like a furious cat, her limbs flailing wildly against the samurai's unmoving grip.
"He stole my damn knife and sold me out to the fucking Council!"
"He did not," Ryosuke said with measured calm. "I believe his panic is genuine."
"I'll show you genuine when I bury that blade in his thigh—"
Mikey stood stiff as a post, eyes wide, lip twitching. He couldn't decide if he should run, duck, or apologize again.
Holy shit...
Nadia is Amelia.
Amelia is Nadia.
He blinked.
I never thought I'd see her again.
And now she was here—alive. Furious. Still just as magnetic and terrifying as the day she disappeared.
He looked up at her again, soft smile creeping across his bruised face.
Then she caught his gaze—those blue eyes sharp enough to gut him—and the smile died instantly.
Nothing but pure disgust stared back at him.
Like he was a rat in her trap.
His throat went dry.
Not how I thought this reunion would go...
Not at all.
Bobo's laughter began to die, replaced by a few ragged coughs as he wiped a tear from his cheek and hobbled over.
"Okay, okay," he said between breaths. "Lia, calm the hell down. Whatever twisted soap opera y'all got goin' on, you can settle it after we escape this dystopian hellhole."
Luce snorted, wiping her eyes with the edge of her glove.
"Seriously. Cut it out, both of you. I haven't laughed that hard since Tobi tried to flirt with an android."
Amelia huffed and stopped struggling in Ryosuke's grip. "Fine," she muttered, brushing off her shirt.
Mikey let out a long, grateful exhale.
"Thank god..."
Bobo turned and limped out first, waving a hand.
"Alright, let's move. We still got folks locked up out there. Time to blow this joint open."
The group fell in behind him.
Mikey and Amelia trailed in the back, walking in tense silence.
They didn't look at each other. The air between them was heavy, like static waiting to spark. Amelia's jaw was tight, eyes narrowed straight ahead, her bruised face barely concealing the fury simmering beneath.
Mikey glanced at her, then quickly looked away.
"Nad—" He stopped himself. "Amelia—"
"Shut it," she snapped without turning. "We'll talk later."
He nodded, swallowing hard. Her hair swayed as she walked, long and black as ink, catching the dim hallway lights with every step. Her blue eyes shimmered in the neon strobes of broken overheads.
"I'm glad you're okay," he whispered. "I was worried…"
It slipped out before he could stop it.
Her reply was immediate, venom-laced.
"Well, it's your fault I wasn't. So cut the act."
Mikey winced and said nothing more.
They climbed the stairwell back up to the surface—the air outside biting and dry, thick with dust and the scent of oil and blood. The holding camp's sprawl stretched before them, chain-link fences humming with a current.
They walked the long metal walkway as prisoners inside took notice.
Silvia, still by the fence, spotted them.
Her eyes widened. She sprinted along the fence line, hand gripping the mesh as she peered through.
"Amelia!"
Amelia froze. Her face softened.
"Auntie?!"
She ran to the fence. "You're okay…"
"Bo and the others got me out," Amelia said, smiling despite herself.
"I'm glad..." Silvia turned to Luce and Bobo. Her voice was firm. "Now, as promised—get me the fuck out of here."
Luce jogged ahead to the fence controls. She knelt beside the panel, pried open a fuse box, and flipped a heavy lever. The electric hum cut out with a pop.
The gate groaned open.
And just like that—chaos.
Hundreds of prisoners surged forward, sprinting through the gate like a dam had burst. Shouts filled the air. Dust kicked up underfoot. Bodies blurred past.
Silvia rushed out and wrapped her arms around Amelia.
"Oh, baby girl..."
"Hi, Auntie…" Amelia whispered.
Bobo and Luce shared a proud smile, watching the reunion like a moment of light in the storm.
Silvia pulled away, eyes hard again. "Let's go get my husband. And then we get the hell out of here."
The six of them turned. The rest followed.
A flood of defectors now surged through Ward 6 like a wave of rebellion. Many grabbed weapons from fallen guards. Some vanished down corridors. Others charged straight for the riots already lighting up the other sectors.
Luce tapped a knob on her watch as she ran, switching frequencies.
"Isaak? Do you read me? Over."
The reply came in static and gravel.
"Luciana? I read you. Over."
"I've got hundreds of defectors and no time to explain. We need escape subs at Jöten. Now. Over."
"What?! What the hell did you do?! Over."
"Long story. No time. Just send them. Over."
"…You better have a good explanation. Over and out."
They ran hard through Ward 3. Then 2.
The battle had already spread. The air choked with smoke and shouts. Explosions echoed in the distance. Sirens wailed like a dying animal.
Defectors fell. Some fought. Some never made it past the steel halls.
But the six of them? They didn't stop.
They burst into Ward 1 like a storm.
And all hell broke loose.
Prisoners and guards clashed in a violent brawl. Muzzles flared. Screams rang out. The walls trembled under the sheer weight of bodies moving, fighting, dying.
Silvia snatched a fallen rifle and opened fire with ruthless precision.
Luce rolled behind cover, then popped up, twin pistols blazing, each shot felling a soldier like clockwork.
Bobo roared as he stormed into the fray, cleaving through enemies with a bloodied axe he found on the floor, his limp forgotten in the madness.
Ryosuke moved like a whisper, slicing three soldiers in one clean arc, he raised his cybernetic leg and slammed another one into a wall.
Amelia dropped low—fluid as a shadow—and dashed under gunfire. She slid, disarming a soldier mid-run, then danced around him with a brutal roundhouse to the jaw. His head snapped back—then she rolled behind him and snapped his neck with terrifying ease.
Mikey stood stunned.
Damn… she can fight.
He dove in. Fumbled. Fired. Missed.
Fired again. Missed worse.
Click. Click.
Out of bullets.
A soldier rushed him.
Mikey panicked. Reached for the knife—her knife. He ducked under the tackle, instinct kicking in like adrenaline-fueled autopilot.
He drove the blade upward—into the soldier's throat.
Blood sprayed hot and fast. The soldier gurgled. Fell.
Mikey staggered back, chest heaving. His hands trembled.
Fuck...
He stared at the corpse. He wasn't used to this. Not yet.
Breathe.
It was him or you.
It was him or you.
Across the chaos, Amelia went down—a soldier pinning her, choking her.
She gasped, eyes locking with Mikey's across the battlefield.
His grip tightened on the knife.
Amelia and Mikey locked eyes.
His body was telling him one thing.
Throw it.
He threw it.
Time slowed.
The blade spun through the air like a silver comet.
SNATCH.
She caught it mid-spin.
SHUNK.
Straight into the bastard's throat.
She shoved him off, coughing, blood on her sleeve.
Mikey stepped forward, hand out to help her up.
She slapped it away and stood on her own.
Then she glared up at him, shaking the knife once in her grip.
"I'm taking this back. Forever."
Without another word, she turned and sprinted off to join the others.
Mikey stood there, stunned. "By all means…" he muttered, wiping blood off his cheek.
Then he followed into the fire.
The six pressed forward, breath ragged, muscles burning. Each step dragged heavier than the last. The fight had chewed them up—bruises blooming under their clothes, adrenaline thinning out into exhaustion. But they kept going.
No one spoke. Their eyes said enough: Keep moving.
They rounded a corner—
—and froze.
A man was locked in hand-to-hand combat with two soldiers. No guns, no blades. Just fists and fury. Empty rifles lay discarded on the floor.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, built like a steel wall. Dark skin slick with sweat and blood. He fought like he had something to live for.
Willie.
With a roar, he slammed a punch into one soldier's face, sending the man spiraling into the concrete.
"RAAH—!"
BANG. BANG.
Both soldiers dropped mid-motion.
Smoke curled from the rifle behind him.
Willie turned around, heart thundering.
Silvia stood there, lowering her weapon slowly. Her eyes were already wet.
"...Willie?"
He blinked.
"Sil?"
She ran. Their arms locked around each other like gravity itself had reunited them.
"You were here?!" Willie rasped, breathless, his voice trembling as he held her like he'd never let go again.
"Right after you got nabbed," Silvia said, tears spilling freely. "I came looking. Then I got taken myself. I was gonna burn the whole place down if I had to."
Willie pulled her in tighter and kissed her, raw and desperate, a reunion written in pain and love.
Behind them, Bobo let out a low whistle. The others smiled through cracked lips and dirty faces—even Mikey, despite not knowing them, felt a strange, swelling joy in his chest.
They broke apart, forehead to forehead, smiling.
Silvia turned to the others.
"Me and Willie—gonna rejoin the fight. Help the others get out."
Luce stepped forward.
"Be safe. Escape subs are coming in from the coast. Head around the outer fences—they'll meet you there."
They nodded.
As they passed the group, Willie stopped beside Bobo and extended his arm. Bobo took it, and they clasped forearms—tight and strong, warrior to warrior.
"Thanks for getting my woman free," Willie said.
"Anytime. Godspeed, brother," Bobo replied.
"Godspeed."
Willie ruffled Amelia's hair on his way by.
"Glad you're still breathing, kiddo."
She grinned, the first real smile in hours.
"You too, Willie."
Then they were gone—two souls reunited in fire and steel, disappearing back into the war-torn corridors of Jöten.
The remaining five ran.
Every muscle screamed, but they pushed through—corner after corner, hallway after hallway, boots pounding steel, hearts pounding harder.
"We're almost at the dock!" Luce called out between gasps.
"Let's push!" Bobo shouted.
They saw it—the final gate.
Freedom.
Luce shoved it open with both arms. A blinding sliver of light cut through the gap. Mikey's breath caught in his throat.
They stepped into it—
And stopped cold.
The docks were not empty.
Two figures stood there, framed by the wreckage and sun-glare. One knelt, bruised and bloodied, the barrel of a pistol pressed to his temple.
Elliot.
The same man who had risked everything to help Luce and Bobo infiltrate Jöten. The same man whose family Luce had smuggled into safety, five years ago.
He didn't beg. He didn't flinch. He just looked up at her, lips parted in silent apology.
Behind him stood the man holding the gun.
Tall. Lean. Dressed in a suit torn and scorched by fire. Blood spattered his shirt and sleeves—none of it his. His face was marked by soot, by exhaustion, by the violence he had carved through to reach this place. Bald head. Cropped beard. A cruel slit cutting through one brow.
A man they all knew.
Payne Morrison.
He stood between them and freedom.
Calm. Silent.
The pistol didn't waver.
The fires hadn't taken him.
The war hadn't broken him.
And he was still in their way.