Jack didn't dream anymore. Not really. Sleep came in pieces, like falling through cracks in the floor, and every time he landed Marcus was waiting for him.
Tonight, he didn't even try. He sat against the wall of the half-collapsed factory, coat pulled tight, listening to the pipes drip. Victor had finally passed out nearby, his rifle propped against the wall, head tilted at an angle that had to hurt. The guy could sleep anywhere. Jack envied that.
The Sprawl outside kept humming. You could hear it if you stayed quiet long enough—the wind dragging broken signs across the street, scavenger dogs fighting over scraps, somebody crying in a room they thought no one could hear. It was ugly, but it was life.
Jack leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling that wasn't really there, just beams and rain coming through the holes. For a second, he remembered being seventeen, stuck in some rundown apartment with nothing but time and cheap beer. Back then, the world had felt just as broken, but the weight hadn't been on him. He wasn't anybody's king.
Now the Sprawl chanted his name. He didn't know if that meant they wanted him or if they wanted to see him burn.
"Can't sleep either?"
Victor's voice was rough, tired. He hadn't been asleep after all. He shifted, stretching his legs out in front of him.
Jack gave him a sideways glance. "Didn't want to."
Victor rubbed a hand over his face, smudging dirt across his cheek. "You ever think about… before all this?"
Jack almost laughed. "Before?" He let the word hang there. "Before I had Marcus in my head, before gangs painted crowns on every wall, before you followed me into this mess?"
"Yeah." Victor's voice was softer now. "Before."
Jack didn't answer right away. He thought about it, though. He thought about nights he used to waste, girls who didn't stick, the taste of cigarettes stolen from someone else's pack. He thought about Helena—where she might be right now, whether she still thought he was worth saving.
"Sometimes," Jack admitted finally.
Victor watched him for a while, eyes searching his face like he was trying to read something written there. Then he shifted again, moving closer. Not too close, but closer.
"You scare me, Jack." His voice was steady, but quiet enough that it barely carried. "Not just because of what's happening to you. You scare me because… when you fight, when you lose yourself out there—I'm not sure you want to come back."
Jack met his gaze. The words sat heavy between them.
For a long second, neither of them moved. The rain drummed above. Somewhere far away, gunfire rattled through the night.
Jack should've brushed it off with a smirk, or a threat, or something sharp. That was easier. But instead, he said, "What if I don't?"
Victor's breath caught, barely audible. He looked like he wanted to argue, to pull Jack back with words, but none came. He just shook his head, frustrated, and let it drop.
Silence filled the space again. The kind of silence that made you feel the shape of the other person beside you.
Jack broke it, softer this time. "You'd still follow me?"
Victor didn't look at him. "I haven't stopped yet, have I?"
That was the closest thing to an answer Jack was going to get.
He turned away, staring at the puddle forming on the cracked floor. Marcus's face didn't show up this time. Just his own, tired and worn, a crown of rusted beams hanging above him like some cruel joke.
For the first time in a long while, Jack didn't feel like moving.