The wind cut sharp across the broken skybridge, carrying smoke and the faint glow of fires from the streets below. Halo District 9 sprawled under them like a battlefield turned graveyard—silent in patches, chaotic in bursts. From this height, every flicker of neon looked like a warning flare.
Jack walked first, boots steady on the warped steel grating. The bridge had no walls, no rails—just rusted struts and empty air. His coat whipped in the wind, torn fabric snapping like wings.
Victor followed close, rifle hanging loose at his side, though his eyes never left Jack's back.
They hadn't spoken since the gang's chant. King… King… The word still echoed up the towers, carried on smoke. Victor didn't need to say it; he could feel the weight in Jack's silence—the way the name clung like a second skin.
Halfway across, Jack stopped. His hand hovered near his blade but didn't draw it. He stared down at the street far below where graffiti crowns glowed fresh and wet, still dripping paint down the walls. Someone had worked fast.
Victor's chest tightened. "They already marked you."
Jack didn't answer. The wind rushed through the steel beams like a hollow breath. He crouched, ran a finger along the grating, then stared at the rust that bled onto his skin as if it were blood.
"You wanted fear," Victor pressed, his voice cutting through the gale. "Now you've got worship. You can't outrun that."
Jack's mouth twitched at the corner, not quite a smile. "Worship is just fear with softer teeth."
Victor stepped closer. "Don't start sounding like him."
Jack turned then, slow, and in the pale neon glow his eyes caught a flicker that wasn't his. Marcus's grin edged into his expression for half a heartbeat before vanishing.
Victor froze.
Jack saw the hesitation in his face and straightened. "Say it," he demanded.
Victor's jaw worked. His rifle hand clenched. "If I see him in you again… if I hear him in your voice… I'll end it. You. Him. Both."
The silence that followed felt heavier than the steel under their boots. Ash from some distant fire drifted through the air, clinging to their coats like dust at a funeral.
Jack didn't lash back. He just looked at Victor for a long moment, the lines in his face unreadable. Then he moved on, stepping across the bridge without a word.
Victor's throat tightened. He followed, but each step felt like it was dragging him closer to a line he couldn't uncross.
At the far end, a half-collapsed stairwell dropped them into what used to be a marketplace. The stalls were burned out, their metal sheets warped, the ground slick with puddles reflecting the crown graffiti overhead.
Civilians huddled in the corners—too hungry to fight, too scared to flee. When Jack passed, their eyes tracked him like prey watching a predator. Some whispered his name. Others lowered their heads and muttered prayers.
One old woman spat at the ground. "King or monster—don't matter. Both bring ruin."
Jack paused, gaze cutting toward her.
Victor held his breath.
But Jack just walked on, the tension breaking like a blade sheathed at the last second.
Still, Victor saw it—the twitch in Jack's hand, the way his jaw locked. He wanted to answer. He wanted blood. He just stopped himself in time.
The marketplace funneled into a narrow passage lined with shattered glass panels. Their reflections followed them—ghostly doubles fractured across the shards.
Jack glanced once at his own reflection and froze. The mirror didn't show him. It showed Marcus, standing tall, smirk sharp, head crowned in red paint.
Jack's breath caught. He blinked—and the reflection snapped back to him. Just him.
Victor saw the pause. "What did you see?"
Jack shook his head, too fast. "Nothing."
"Don't lie to me."
Jack kept walking. "If you don't trust me, leave."
Victor almost did. He almost stopped and let the distance grow. But his feet kept moving, unwilling to let Jack vanish into the dark alone.
They reached the center of the passage when the air shifted. A static buzz hummed through the broken glass.
Every reflection twitched. Not just Jack's—Victor's too.
The mirrored doubles moved a half-second late, as if controlled by another hand. In one shard, Victor's reflection lifted its rifle and aimed at Jack's back.
Victor's pulse hammered. He dropped the rifle, staring at his reflection. "This isn't me—"
Jack spun, blade drawn in a blur, tip catching just under Victor's chin before he could finish.
The reflections laughed. All of them.
Marcus's voice layered through the air, not in Jack's head this time but in the tunnel itself. "There it is. My crown, my throne, my blade."
Jack's arm trembled. The edge of the knife kissed Victor's throat. He wanted to pull back—God, he wanted to—but his hand wouldn't move.
Victor didn't flinch. His voice was steady. "It's you, Jack. Not him. Choose."
The reflections leaned closer, their grins wide. Marcus's voice sharpened: "He'll never forgive you. End him. End the doubt."
For a breath, Jack's vision blurred—Victor's face replaced by Marcus's, then back again, like a coin flipping.
He snarled, ripped the blade back, and slashed sideways—not at Victor, but at the glass. Shards rained to the ground, reflections shattering, Marcus's laughter fading into static.
Victor stood frozen, throat nicked, a bead of blood running down. His eyes never left Jack's.
Jack's chest heaved. He wiped his blade clean on his coat, voice rough. "Told you. I'm in control."
Victor touched the cut on his neck, eyes hard. "For now."
The marketplace was dead silent again. Ash drifted through the broken ceiling. Somewhere far above, another chant rose faintly in the distance: King. King.
Jack didn't smile. Didn't speak.
Victor tightened his grip on the rifle, but his thoughts were already shifting. If the line comes again… next time, I don't hesitate.
Neither of them said it out loud.
But the ash settled heavier between them than words ever could.