The Sprawl at dawn was too quiet.
The fires from the night before had burned themselves out, leaving alleys coated in soot and broken glass that caught the weak sun. Each step crunched under Jack's boots. Ash drifted from a half-collapsed billboard above, the crown someone had painted over his face now smeared by smoke and rain.
Victor walked behind him, rifle slung, his breath ragged. The silence between them wasn't the calm kind. It pressed in, thick and heavy, like the dust in the air.
Jack didn't mind silence, but this one felt alive—like every window they passed was a mirror waiting to crack.
He paused at the corner of an abandoned shop, eyes narrowing at his reflection in the cracked glass. The man looking back wasn't just him. The grin ghosting at the corner of the reflection's mouth didn't belong to Jack.
He looked away before it could grow teeth.
Victor saw it, though. He always did. "How much of that's you?" His voice was low, almost careful, like he was afraid of breaking something fragile.
Jack ran a thumb across his blade's hilt, avoiding his eyes. "Enough."
"Enough for what?"
Jack didn't answer.
The silence stretched. Ash spiraled down between them, catching the weak light like it wanted to make the moment pretty. It failed.
Victor finally let out a short laugh, sharp and bitter. "You talk like you've still got choices."
Jack turned to him then, eyes steady but tired. "And you talk like you still believe I'm yours to save."
The words hung there. Victor's hand twitched like he almost reached for him—then he shoved it back into his coat pocket instead.
They moved again. The Sprawl was waking, but not in any way that felt human. Gangs lingered in shadows, watching them pass. Murals of Jack's crowned face, still dripping with fresh paint, stared from every wall. A group of kids whispered his name from a stairwell, their voices carrying like smoke.
Victor's shoulders stiffened with every whisper. Jack's jaw stayed locked.
By the time they reached the old subway entrance, the air had gone heavy again. The stairwell down was coated in water and grime. The flicker of half-dead lights painted the walls like shifting ghosts.
Victor stopped at the threshold. "We don't have to go down there."
Jack tilted his head. "You scared?"
"I'm not scared of the dark." Victor's tone cracked on the last word, betraying him. "I'm scared of what you'll bring out of it."
Jack met his eyes, and for once, didn't smirk or argue. He just looked tired. His reflection wavered faintly in a puddle by his boots, Marcus's face bleeding through for a second before vanishing.
Jack's voice dropped, almost too soft to hear. "Would it matter if I wasn't myself?"
Victor froze.
It wasn't the question—it was the way Jack asked it. Not sharp. Not defiant. Quiet. Like the thought had been living in him long before he spoke it out loud.
Victor's chest tightened. His mind flashed back years—to the first friend he'd lost to Marcus's influence. A man who swore he was fine, right up until the moment he put a blade through his own brother's chest. The same look in his eyes. The same soft question.
Victor stepped forward before he could stop himself. His hand almost landed on Jack's shoulder, but he hesitated, fingers curling mid-air. The distance between them felt like glass—thin enough to see through, too fragile to break.
"Yeah," Victor said finally, voice rough. "It would matter. To me, it would."
Jack blinked once, slow. He looked away before Victor could read anything in his eyes.
They descended into the subway.
The tunnel smelled like rust and mold. Water dripped steadily somewhere deeper in, echoing through the dark. Their boots splashed through puddles that reflected broken light like fractured mirrors.
Jack's pace slowed without him realizing it. The tunnel walls pressed close, every shadow threatening to move. His hand twitched around his blade, but he didn't draw it. Not yet.
Victor's voice cut through the damp silence. "When this is over, when Marcus is gone… what then?"
Jack almost laughed. Almost. "You're assuming there's a me left after him."
"That's the only reason I'm still here," Victor snapped.
The sound echoed too loud in the tunnel, bouncing off the walls until it sounded like more than one voice. Jack stopped mid-step, turning slowly.
Victor regretted it the second the words left his mouth. His throat worked, but he didn't take them back.
Jack studied him, the dim light carving harsh lines across his face. For a second, the silence stretched too far. Victor thought he saw Marcus's grin flicker in Jack's eyes.
Then Jack sighed and turned away, boots splashing as he moved deeper into the tunnel.
Victor followed, but slower. His gaze caught on the wall as they passed—graffiti scrawled in red, still wet, still dripping. Not a crown this time. Just one word, jagged and fresh.
KING.
Victor stopped, staring at the paint bleeding down the wall. His stomach twisted. He looked back at Jack's silhouette moving ahead through the dim light, shoulders squared like he carried the whole Sprawl on his back.
The whispers of the tunnel water almost sounded like voices. Like chanting.
Victor didn't move for a moment. He just stood there, staring at the fresh paint running down like blood, and listened to the echoes.
Jack never looked back.