The tunnel still smoked from the Harbinger's collapse.
Sparks hissed on wet steel. The air smelled like burned copper and blood.
Victor hadn't lowered his rifle.
Jack hadn't lowered his blade.
For a long moment, they didn't move. Just two figures in the wreckage, the glow of dying cores throwing broken shadows on the walls.
Victor's hands were steady now. His voice wasn't. "Tell me it's you."
Jack blinked. His lips moved, but nothing came out. His throat felt raw, his body humming with leftover fire. He wanted to say yes. He wanted to ease the look in Victor's eyes. But deep inside, a second pulse still throbbed — Marcus's rhythm, slow and certain.
The silence stretched.
Victor's jaw tightened. "You can't, can you?"
Jack exhaled hard through his nose, blade still hanging loose. "It's me."
But even he heard the way it cracked at the edges.
Victor's finger brushed the trigger. "I swore I'd put you down if it wasn't."
"Then pull," Jack muttered. His smirk was gone. His voice was hoarse, like gravel. "Do it, Vic. If you're so sure."
Victor's breath hitched. He'd imagined this moment a hundred times — but standing here, rifle aimed at the man who'd saved his life more times than he could count, it didn't feel like justice. It felt like cutting off his own arm.
He lowered the gun a fraction. "Don't make me choose."
Jack's eyes flickered. For a split second, they glowed faint red. The smirk came back — not his.
Victor snapped the rifle back up, curse tearing out of his chest.
Jack staggered, blinking, wiping blood from his mouth. His voice came back quieter. "I'm fighting it."
"Not enough," Victor shot back.
The silence cracked.
A voice slithered through the tunnel, not in Jack's head this time but in the smoke itself, vibrating against the rails. Marcus's laugh, low and patient.
"He won't pull the trigger, Jack. He never will. That's why you'll end up mine."
Victor flinched, looking around, rifle jerking toward the smoke. "You hear that?"
Jack's shoulders slumped. He looked exhausted, worn. "I always hear it."
For the first time, Victor's fear tipped into anger. He stepped forward, rifle almost pressed to Jack's chest. "Then listen to me for once: if you let him take you again, I won't hesitate."
Jack looked down at the barrel against his ribs. Then up into Victor's eyes.
The hum inside him pulsed harder. Marcus's voice whispered through the marrow of his bones: "Test him. See what breaks first — his gun or his loyalty."
Jack's hand twitched on his blade.
Victor's finger pressed tighter on the trigger.
And then —
A faint sound broke the deadlock. Not Marcus. Not drones. Not Authority.
Children's voices.
From deeper in the tunnels, a group of survivors stumbled into the light — thin, hollow-eyed, clutching scraps of food and glowsticks. They froze when they saw the two men locked in standoff. One whispered the word like it was holy.
"King…"
The echo rippled through the group. "King."
Victor's stomach dropped. He lowered his gun, just slightly, eyes darting between them and Jack.
Jack's jaw tightened. His blade lowered. He looked away, shoulders heaving, trying not to meet Victor's eyes.
The moment was broken — but not gone.
Victor said nothing. He just holstered his rifle, turned on his heel, and started down the tunnel without waiting for Jack to follow.
Jack stood in the smoke, the children's whispers crawling under his skin. The word "King" clung to him like a chain.
He wanted to shout at them. To tell them not to say it. But instead he just whispered back to himself, too low for anyone else to hear:
"…then maybe I'll be one."