The cold forest surrounding Knox Manor swallowed Youri whole as he wandered forward without direction, his breath shivering through the air in pale bursts. His tears had frozen against his cheeks, tiny crystals clinging to his skin. Volar was a planet of only two seasons—six months of blistering heat as it moved close to its star and six months of merciless cold as its orbit carried it far away. This was one of those long, lethal winters.
Youri walked barefoot, each step sinking into the soft bite of snow. The thin subject uniform he wore barely reached his knees, its fabric stiff from frost. His arms wrapped tightly around his trembling torso, as if he could squeeze warmth back into himself. With every step, memories surfaced—flashing, invasive, unbidden. Emma's smile in the garden. Liam pulling him by the hand through the courtyard. Lira laughing under the sunlit dome. Every echo of joy rose up painfully against the cold that ate at his bones.
And among those memories, one stood apart—Flavio's voice drifting through the dim nights at the institute. The stories he told of places he had seen, the quiet comfort he offered when the world felt unbearable. As the wind tore through the trees, those memories grew softer, muffled by the numbness creeping through Youri's limbs.
Sleep began to weigh on him, a heavy fog seeping into his mind. He stumbled, legs shaking, and finally collapsed to his knees. His numb hands dropped uselessly to his sides. With the last bit of strength he had, Youri tilted his head upward. The sky stretched endlessly above, sharp and brilliant, the stars shimmering coldly over him like distant fires. He let his eyes close, surrendering, and his body slumped into the snow.
He had run out of time.
When consciousness returned, it came as warmth—soft at first, then steady and real. Someone was holding him. Carrying him.
Youri's eyes blinked open slowly. He felt the sway of footsteps, the firm support of a back beneath him, and strands of long dark hair brushing lightly against his cheek. Recognition hit him like a spark.
Thirty-five.
Panic, confusion, disbelief all collided inside him as the realization settled. Thirty-five was alive. He had saved him again. Youri had assumed the man had died during the expulsion along with Knox and Flavio—lost under fire, crushed beneath the collapsing metal—but he was here, walking through the frozen forest with Youri slung over his back.
Youri had seen him only twice inside the Institute of Potential. Once in the hallway, when he had bumped into him and thirty-five had screamed—a sound so violent it sent a shiver spiraling down Youri's spine. The second time was from his cell, as Andy escorted thirty-five past him like a caged animal. To Youri back then, thirty-five embodied danger, the nightmare whispered about by the others.
But now, resting against his back, he felt something he wasn't prepared for. Thirty-five felt human. Warm. Alive. The steady thump of his heartbeat echoed through Youri's cheek.
A faint voice escaped Youri before he could stop it. "Thank you…"
Thirty-five made no response, only continued walking through the snow as if he hadn't heard a word.
Eventually, the trees thinned and the two reached a long stretch of empty road, dead and silent beneath the early morning fog. No vehicles passed; no people appeared. They walked for hours, the cold slowly lifting with the first hints of dawn.
Youri felt strength returning to him, enough to lift his head slightly. "I think I can walk now," he said gently. "You can set me down… you should rest."
Thirty-five answered with a single guttural roar, low and rough. He didn't stop.
Youri blinked. "Are… are you okay?"
Another roar came—this one quieter, slower, almost tired.
"…You can't talk, can you?" Youri whispered.
Thirty-five offered no answer, only kept moving. And that silence told Youri everything. Thirty-five had lost the ability to speak.
They continued on until the sun finally rose, painting the sky with pale light. Far in the distance, a shape appeared—dark, slanted, uneven. As they drew closer, the form sharpened into the silhouette of an old building, abandoned and slowly collapsing into itself.
Its windows were cracked and blackened with soot. Upper floors bowed inward, their weight snapping the bones of the structure beneath them. The roof sagged dangerously, scarred by storms and time. Wooden beams jutted from the wreckage like broken ribs.
Youri tapped thirty-five's shoulder and pointed. "Let's go inside. You need to rest. You've been walking for hours."
Thirty-five gave a faint, weary roar and headed toward the building.
At the entrance, he crouched low, allowing Youri to slide gently off his back. They stepped into the ruined structure together. The walls were layered with peeling paint, the plaster beneath stained with mold and water damage. Sections of the ceiling sagged with long cracks running through them like veins. The floor was a chaos of debris—broken bricks, splintered wood, and dust that puffed with every step.
Doorways led into rooms swallowed by shadows, where only thin slivers of light cut through gaps in the decayed walls. The skeletal remains of the building revealed themselves in the half-light—concrete columns supporting fractured floors, chunks of ceiling missing entirely and exposing rusted wires. Moss clung desperately to corners where moisture gathered. Graffiti in violent colors stretched across the walls, a reminder that life had once passed through here long after the building itself had died.
Youri ventured deeper, drawn toward a room at the back. Its walls were mottled with peeling paint and exposed brick. A faint green tint clung to the plaster, the color of dampness left unattended. A tall, arched window dominated the far wall, its glass shattered or missing entirely. A fragment of cloth fluttered over the frame, shifting slightly with each passing draft.
Beyond the broken window, daylight glowed softly—warm compared to the gloom inside.
The floor was cracked tile, uneven and stained with dark patches of soil and dust. Shadows pooled thickly in the corners, still and unmoving.
"Thirty-five," Youri called, his voice echoing faintly.
Thirty-five entered the room, his silhouette heavy and silent in the dimness.
"This should work…" Youri said, lowering himself onto the floor. "We can rest here."
Exhausted and worn, the two lay down. Their bodies were battered, their minds frayed, but as their eyes drifted shut, the horrors they had endured felt distant—like memories retreating into the dark.
For the first time in days, the world around them was quiet.
They finally slept.