Mikey held the necklace tight against his chest, fingers curled around the metal as if it alone could keep him tethered. The exhaustion finally claimed him, and with the weight of his parents pressed against his skin, he slipped into sleep.
When he woke, it was to the smell of sizzling meat and the soft clatter of metal against metal. For a second he thought he was dreaming again—there was light behind his closed eyes, warm and steady. He blinked them open slowly.
The pod's dim lamps had been joined by something brighter, spilling in through the window. At the kitchenette, Luce stood over a pan, her shoulders hunched but moving with a steady rhythm.
Mikey pushed himself upright, every motion sharp with pain. His ribs stabbed at him as he sat up, his hand instinctively pressed against them. The necklace chain still dangled from his fist. He looked around—the others were gone. Only the two of them remained.
Luce turned her head at the sound of him stirring.
"Oh. You're up."
Her voice was softer than usual, stripped of its usual edge.
Mikey shuffled to the dining table, dragging his body into the chair with a rasp in his throat.
"Did everyone leave?"
His morning voice cracked, low and rough.
"Yeah," she said, turning back to the pan. "Went to get treatment. A few errands. You were the last one down… figured you needed it."
She glanced at him over her shoulder with a faint smile.
"Looked like you hadn't slept in years."
He exhaled something that might've been a laugh.
"Thanks."
His eyes wandered toward the window again. Blinding light poured down from above, too strong, too steady to be natural.
"What's with that? The sunlight. We're still underground, right?"
"Artificial sun," Luce answered, sliding meat and eggs onto two plates. "Just a floodlight strung near the ceiling of the sinkhole. Helps morale. Kids especially. Makes it feel like the world isn't all stone and shadow."
She set the food in front of him, added bread, then poured water from a pitcher. Finally she lowered herself into the seat across from him, her movements careful, her back stiff with pain.
"Thank you," Mikey muttered, already reaching for the food.
Luce's lips curved faintly.
"Don't mention it."
The food was plain—rubbery eggs, stringy meat, bread that flaked dry in his mouth. But Mikey ate like it was a feast, every bite dulling the knot in his stomach.
"How are you feeling?" she asked after a quiet stretch, sipping from her cup.
He swallowed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Sore. Ribs are killing me. Head feels like it's splitting."
Her eyes dropped briefly to the chain around his neck, the way the pendant swayed as he ate.
"I wasn't asking about your body," she said softly.
Mikey froze for a second, then looked at her.
He knew what she meant.
"Horrible," he admitted. "I'm… trying. But it still feels raw. Like it just happened. Every time I let myself think about it, I go somewhere dark." His jaw tightened. "Anger. That's all I feel. For him."
"Him?"
"Payne." He almost spat the name. "I hate him. I had him. Twice. Right in my sights." His voice cracked, and he slammed his hand on the table. "And I couldn't finish it."
Luce met his eyes, steady, unflinching.
"It'll get easier. With time."
"I don't want it to."
Her brow furrowed.
"Why not?"
He sat back, chest heaving, then forced himself to breathe before answering.
"Because if it gets easier, it means I've accepted it. That I've moved on. And what kind of son would I be if I could just… move on?"
Luce's face softened, shadows tugging at her eyes.
"I know this isn't my place, but… Desmond and Darla—they would've wanted you to. Not to forget. But to keep living. That's all parents want."
Mikey looked down at his plate, silent for a moment, then said, "I don't know if I'm ready." He hesitated, then added quietly, "I get these dreams. Every night since it happened."
"What kind of dreams?" Luce leaned in slightly, her voice low.
"Not dreams. Nightmares. Always start the same—memories of before. Or me alone. Then he's there. Payne. Always. And then I see them. My parents. Dying. Over and over, and I can't stop it…"
His voice broke on the last words.
Luce pushed back her chair and crossed to her desk. She rifled through a drawer, then returned and placed a thin, worn notebook on the table between them.
Mikey frowned.
"What's this?"
Luce sat again, folding her hands over her lap.
"I've lost a lot too. My mother died giving birth to me. So it was just my dad. He fought for the Defectors. We lived here, in the silo." She swallowed hard. "When I was ten, he went on a mission. Something went wrong. One of the Directors showed up—Mei. That witch. She's different from the other three. She doesn't just kill. She enjoys it. She captured his squad. Dragged it out for days. When she was finished… they found the bag on the shore. Their heads inside. Including my dad's."
Her voice wavered at the edges, but her eyes didn't. They stayed fixed on Mikey's.
"So when I tell you I understand, I mean it. That hole you feel—it doesn't go away. But I learned something."
She nodded at the notebook.
"Writing. Every day, even just a line. About how I felt. About the dreams. Anything. It helped. Little by little."
Mikey picked it up, thumbing through the empty pages. His reflection rippled faintly in the blank white.
Luce's blue eyes met his green ones.
"Just try. Doesn't have to be much. But sometimes getting it out of your head is the only way forward."
His thumb pressed against the first page, holding it like something fragile. He let out a shaky breath.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Luce forced a smile. She swallowed the ache in her chest, locking it down the way she always had. Opening up had never been easy for her—too many scars, too many ghosts—but with Mikey, it was different.
She saw the reflection of her younger self in him.
Raw.
Hurting.
Fighting to stay afloat.
"No problem," she said softly. "Use it as much as you need."
They ate the rest of their meal in quiet, the scrape of cutlery the only sound between them. When the last crumbs were gone, Luce rose, wincing as her bad leg protested. She pulled on her coat, fastening it one button at a time, then lingered in the doorway.
"I'm heading out for a bit," she said, adjusting the collar around her neck. "Feel free to stay here as long as you want."
Mikey nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Will do."
She gave him the smallest wave, a flicker of warmth in her pale eyes, before stepping out into the corridors of the silo. The door shut with a soft metallic click, and then she was gone.
Silence filled the pod.
Mikey sat there a moment, staring at the notebook in front of him. Blank. Waiting. His fingers tapped the cover as if unsure whether to touch it, whether he deserved to. Finally, he stood, searched through her drawers until he found a pen, and returned to the table.
He clicked it open. The sound was sharp in the quiet, like a spark catching in the dark.
He bent over the page. At first, the words came slow, awkward, like dragging stones. But then they began to flow—anger, grief, fragments of memory, the weight of nightmares, the fragile shape of hope. He wrote about his parents, about Payne, about the ache that lived behind his ribs. He wrote until his hand cramped, until the silence felt less empty.
And he kept writing.
For days.
Then weeks.
Two months passed, and in that notebook, Mikey bled onto the page everything he couldn't say aloud.