They emerged into the night, Prism Gear in hand, hope burning fragile as a candle. But hope, as always, drew betrayal.
As they regrouped in a warehouse by the river, Selene froze. Her shadows writhed violently, sensing danger before anyone else.
Figures stepped from the darkness—rebel faces, familiar ones. Men and women who had bled beside them in the southern quarter. But their eyes glowed faint crimson, their movements mechanical, precise.
At their head stood one of their own.
The boy who had whispered doubt in the tannery. His voice was steady now, calm, utterly wrong.
"You speak of freedom," he said. "But freedom is chaos. Fear. Hunger. I was tired of fear. He showed me order. He showed me the peace of surrender."
The rebels closed in, weapons raised.
Evangeline clutched the Prism Gear, tears streaking her soot-stained cheeks. Selene drew her blades, fury a living storm.
Elric only stared at the boy, his expression unreadable. When he finally spoke, his words were a whisper of iron.
"Then you are no rebel. You are the Judas spark. And sparks are meant to burn out."
The warehouse erupted into chaos—friend against friend, rebels against their own. And above it all, unseen but omnipresent, the Phantom Engineer laughed.