The bonfire popped and hissed, but the air between them was dead quiet.
Mikey stood there, swaying slightly, but the last trace of drunken haze had bled from his eyes. His apology stumbled out, rough and desperate.
"Amelia… I'm sorry, I didn't mean any of—"
SLAP.
Her hand cracked across his face so hard it snapped his head to the side. The sting burned deep into his cheek, leaving his skin numb and raw.
He didn't move.
Didn't even breathe.
He'd been slapped by her before—but not like this.
Not with this kind of finality.
Amelia didn't say a word. She just turned on her heel and started walking away, her shoulders stiff with rage.
Bobo, who had been sat in his chair, stood and shuffled toward Mikey.
"Kid… I've messed up before, but holy shit. You fucked up. Just let her go, talk to her in the morning when—"
But Mikey didn't hear him. His feet moved on their own, carrying him after her.
"Amelia!"
She kept walking, head forward, pace steady.
He stopped short, his voice cracking.
"Amelia, I'm sorry, can we talk? I didn't—"
He froze, the words sticking in his throat. Something broke loose inside him, raw and ugly, spilling out before he could stop it.
"Why do you hate me?!"
His shout cut across the fire and the chatter.
"What's your problem with me?!"
That did it. She stopped. Her back stiffened, and then she spun around, eyes glistening, face taut with fury.
"Fine," she said, marching toward him, every word sharp as glass.
"You want to know? You're the most stubborn, selfish, prideful, arrogant, fake little piece of shit I've ever met!"
The crowd quieted. Even the music faltered, someone fumbling to lower the volume. Luce and Ryosuke turned from the fire, eyes narrowing.
Mikey's jaw clenched, heat rising in his chest.
"When have I ever been any of those things?!"
Her laugh was bitter, humorless.
"Are you serious? Your stubbornness speaks for itself! If you had listened to me back then, Desmond would still be alive!"
His eyes widened like she'd stabbed him.
"We're doing this? Right here, right now?"
"Yeah!" she screamed, her voice cracking in fury. "Right now!"
"Why the hell should I have believed you back then?!"
"Because I told you your dad was in danger!"
She jabbed a finger hard into his chest, shoving him back a step.
"That should have been enough! But no—you didn't listen, because you're stubborn. Because you think you always know better."
Mikey's voice rose, raw and pained.
"How do you think that makes me feel?! That was my dad, not yours! Mine! So stop it!"
Her face twisted with rage.
"That's the thing, you selfish asshole—we all loved him! All of us! We lost him too. But you—you act like you're the only one who matters. Like your grief weighs more than anyone else's."
The silence around them thickened. The fire snapped, throwing sparks into the night sky. People were watching now, drawn in one by one.
"You mope around one day, then lash out the next, then smile and charm your way through like nothing happened," Amelia spat. "Pick a goddamn lane, Mikey! Pick. A. Lane."
Luce shifted forward, her jaw set, but didn't intervene. Ryosuke folded his arms, unreadable.
Mikey tried to speak.
"I—"
She cut him down.
"You sulk around like you're the only one with scars. Well, here's news for you—we're all scarred. I am. Bobo is. Ryo is. Luce is. You think you're special? No. The only difference is you let it define you—because you're soft. Because you were raised out there with them. You'll never be one of us."
Mikey flinched, the words lodging in his chest.
But she wasn't finished.
"All you do is take," she seethed. "You never give. You think you do, but it's always for you."
She takes a deep breathe.
"I read the reports."
Confusion and fear flickered across his face.
"What reports? What the fuck are you talking about?"
"Elliot," she spat. "Those soldiers would have never found him if you didn't lead them to the junkyard! You didn't think about the consequences—you never do. You're so wrapped up in your own shit to care about any one else's."
Mikey's eyes widen.
"What are you saying..."
"I'm saying you got Elliot killed! You did! He would have never been there! You took Desmond from us and Elliot too! Whose next?! Us?! Nobody here is blaming you, but I do. I see through the boyish charm. You absolute shit stain of human being!"
The ground seemed to tilt beneath Mikey. His lips moved, but no words came. He turned toward Bobo, toward Luce, pleading.
"Did you know?"
They both looked away. Shame written on their faces.
"You knew?"
His voice broke.
"All of you knew?"
The realization hit like a fist to the gut.
I got Elliot killed…
His chest seized, breath shallow, sweat beading on his forehead.
And still, Amelia pressed on. Her words were jagged, merciless.
"Everyone sees through you. The only reason you're still standing here is because you're Desmond's son. That's it. Without that, you'd already be off the silo edge."
Her voice dropped, venom in every syllable.
"And you know what? I could forget all of that. Forgive all it—Desmond, Elliot, everything—if you weren't so damn weak."
She shoved him again, harder this time.
"That's what you are. Weak. A parasite. You take and take, and you give nothing. You've never suffered like the rest of us, and yet you walk around more broken than anyone. You're pathetic. You bring no value. You're nothing. Nothing."
Her chest heaved, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.
"I actually started to like you, Mikey," she whispered. "I almost believed you were a good person. But you're just like the rest of them. Just like Payne. And the thing I hate most? Your sad, pathetic obsession with hating him. You'll never get revenge. You want someone to blame for Desmond's death? You want to kill the man who took your fathers life?"
Her voice turned cold, slicing him open.
"Then aim the gun at yourself."
The words left the air hollow. Mikey's knees nearly buckled. His eyes burned, tears pooling but refusing to fall.
Luce finally stepped forward, her voice sharp.
"Amelia. Enough."
She looked at her for half a second, breathing hard, then turned away. "I'm done anyway."
She walked past Mikey, but stopped once, glancing back with one final cut.
"And for the record? I invited you to the rooftop because I liked you. I almost kissed you because I liked you. I thought you were different."
Her face twisted, raw with hurt.
"Shame on me."
She vanished into the shadows, leaving only the crackle of fire and the weight of silence.
Mikey stood in the center of it all—alone, trembling, the crowd's eyes burning into him. His cheek still stung where she'd slapped him, but the words had done worse.
They hollowed him out.
Left nothing behind but ash and guilt.
Mikey's chest heaved like it might split open. The edges of his vision blurred, sounds muffled and distant.
His breaths came too fast, too shallow, clawing for air that wouldn't fill him.
Luce broke the frozen silence, her voice tight but steady. She looked between Bobo and Ryosuke.
"I'll talk to her."
She didn't wait for an answer.
Luce jogged off into the lantern-lit dark, long strides carrying her after Amelia's retreating figure. The flap of Amelia's tent was already half-swallowed by shadow at the plaza's edge.
Bobo hesitated, then moved toward Mikey. The kid's head was bowed, hair hanging in his face, his whole body trembling like a wire pulled too tight. Gently, Bobo set a heavy, calloused hand on his shoulder.
"Kid… I—"
SWAT.
Mikey slapped his hand away so hard it startled even Bobo. His voice tore out, jagged and raw.
"Get off me."
He turned, face hidden, shoulders hunched. His feet moved before thought caught up—stumbling, then breaking into a run
He bolted into the aisles between tents and benches, swallowed by pockets of shadow beyond the bonfire's orange reach.
Bobo started after him.
"Mikey, wait—"
Ryosuke's arm slid out, quiet and firm, stopping him. The swordsman's face was unreadable; his tone left no room for argument.
"I will handle the boy."
Bobo held his gaze, worry gnawing, then let his hand fall. Ryosuke slipped away, a dark shape moving fast and silent down the corridor of canvas and crates.
Left by the fire, Bobo exhaled hard, dragging a hand down his face. He turned to the onlookers—faces half-lit by flame, murmurs snagging on the edges of quiet.
They'd heard every word.
He clapped his palms together, forcing a grin that didn't reach his eyes.
"Alright, alright. They're bein' looked after. Teenagers, you know how it is."
He strode to the fire and pitched another log into the blaze. Sparks leapt skyward.
"C'mon—music up, drinks flowin'. We're not lettin' one spat sink the night."
The drumline found a shaky rhythm; the scrap guitar chimed back in. Laughter returned in thin threads, conversations retying themselves with careful knots. The bonfire burned hot, but its warmth didn't quite chase the new chill from the plaza.
And somewhere out past the glow—one behind a tent flap with her face in her hands, one running blind through the lanes of Level 127—two people tried to breathe through the same hurt, each alone with it.