The badlands stretched before them in endless waves of rust and bone.
Ruined metal ribs jutted from the earth like the remains of old titans, half-swallowed by sand. The sun burned white through the haze, bleaching the ground and turning every shadow sharp and thin.
24 walked ahead, quiet and steady, his long coat fluttering behind him. Lu followed a few paces back, mask tilted low against the glare. They hadn't spoken much since the river. The silence wasn't uncomfortable — just heavy, filled with the echo of what they'd done.
By mid-afternoon, they stopped beneath the hollow carcass of an old transport truck, its rusted shell offering a sliver of shade. 24 dropped his pack, crouched, and unstrapped his blades, setting them across his knees with the same precision he always did. Lu sat nearby, watching him work.
For a long while, she said nothing. Then—
"You said before you wouldn't jump," she began quietly. "Not unless you had to."
24 didn't look up. "I did."
"You used it twice since we started training," she pressed. "Once when I surprised you… and once in the river fight. Why hold it back? You could've ended everything faster."
He paused, fingers tightening slightly on the hilt of his blade. The wind moaned softly through the truck's torn metal.
"Because every jump costs something," he said at last. "And sometimes, the price isn't worth what you gain."
Lu tilted her head. "What kind of price?"
He finally looked at her. The faint brand — the number 24 — caught the light at his neck, pale against the grime and scars.
"The jump wasn't made for soldiers," he said. "It was made for weapons. A tool for killing faster than thought."
He leaned back, eyes distant.
"Every time I jump, my body tears itself apart — just for an instant. The cells burn hot enough to rupture. My nerves overload. The EGI designed us to recover… but the damage never fully goes away."
He tapped a finger against his temple.
"Memory fractures. Organ strain. Sometimes… for a second after a jump, I can't tell what's real. The world feels wrong. Like I didn't land in the same one I left."
Lu was silent. The wind filled the pause, dry and hollow.
"So why still use it?" she asked finally.
24's eyes narrowed. "Because sometimes there's no choice."
He looked out over the horizon — the fractured earth, the distant shimmer of heat where nothing lived.
"It's the difference between surviving and not. Between finishing a fight… or leaving someone like you behind."
Lu shifted her weight. Her hands were folded in her lap, but her knuckles were pale under the gloves.
"When you used it in front of me," she said softly, "I thought it was… beautiful. Like time froze."
24's gaze flicked to her, unreadable. "That's because you weren't inside it."
He turned away, tightening the strap on his pack.
"Inside the jump, everything breaks. Space folds wrong. Your body screams before your mind catches up. If you stay too long…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "You don't come back the same."
"You've… stayed too long before," Lu guessed.
He didn't answer. He didn't need to. The silence said enough.
They walked again once the light began to soften, the horizon bleeding into orange. Dust drifted around their boots, and the wind sang low between the cliffs.
Lu finally broke the quiet.
"So you don't like it."
"No," 24 said. "But I've learned to live with it."
"Then why keep training me if it hurts you to fight?"
He slowed a little, his voice lowering to something almost human.
"Because if I don't, it'll all mean nothing. The jump, the scars, the number on my neck — everything the EGI made me into."
He looked at her over his shoulder. "Maybe if you learn from it… it means I didn't stay a weapon forever."
Lu didn't respond right away. Her steps softened, her mask reflecting the dying sun.
"You're not just a weapon anymore," she said finally.
24 didn't reply, but the faintest twitch of his jaw — the closest thing he had to a smile — flickered and vanished beneath the wind.
That night, they camped against a cliff face.
The stars burned hard and cold, scattered across the dark like shards of glass. 24 lay awake, staring at them, his body aching with the familiar hum of the jump's residue — that ghost pain that lingered in the nerves long after.
Beside him, Lu sat cross-legged near the fire, sharpening her blade in slow, rhythmic strokes. The glow reflected in her mask like twin suns.
Neither spoke for a long time.
But when 24 finally closed his eyes, the hum in his head eased slightly — not because the pain was gone, but because, for once, he wasn't alone in it.