Location: The Ruins of Old Paris (Sector 4)
Time: Six Months After the Fall
The rain in 2065 tasted like sulfur. It slicked the cobblestones of what used to be a romantic boulevard, now just a graveyard of twisted metal and holographic billboards flickering with static.
Saya Otonashi sat under the overhang of a crumbled metro station, pulling her knees to her chest. She was shivering. Not from the cold, but from the lack of blood.
Next to her lay the black cello case. It was battered, scratched, and stained with mud. To anyone else, it was just luggage. To Saya, it was the only lung that was still breathing.
"I don't know where to go next," she whispered to the case.
The case did not answer. Of course it didn't. It was filled with dust.
Saya stared at the zipper. The hunger in her stomach was a dull ache, a craving for normal food, or perhaps a donor. But the hunger in her mind—the silence—was screaming. It had been three days since she last heard him. Three days of walking in the static.
"Ren says we should head north," she muttered, her fingers trembling as she reached for the pocket knife in her boot. "Isolde thinks it's a trap. They're arguing again. I can't hear them over the noise, Hagi. The world is too loud."
She flipped the knife open. The blade caught the reflection of a neon sign buzzing overhead: LIVE FOREVER.
She didn't hesitate. She dragged the blade across her left palm.
It wasn't a deep cut—she couldn't afford to lose too much—but it was enough. The red beads welled up, dark and rich. The smell of iron cut through the sulfur rain.
With a shaky breath, she unzipped the top of the cello case, just an inch. She didn't open it fully; she couldn't risk the wind blowing him away. She simply pressed her bleeding hand against the silk lining inside.
"Talk to me," she begged.
The reaction was immediate. The blood soaked into the silk, finding the microscopic crystals hidden within.
A jolt of electricity shot up Saya's arm, bypassing her nerves and hitting the base of her brainstem. Her pupils dilated. The grey world sharpened into high-definition blue. The sound of the rain vanished.
And then, she felt it. The presence. The warmth of a hand that wasn't there, resting on her shoulder.
"North," the voice resonated in her skull. It was calm. Cello-deep. "The trap is not for us. It is for them. Go North, Saya."
Saya exhaled, a tear mixing with the rain on her cheek. The dizziness hit her a second later, her vision swimming as the connection drained her energy. She slumped against the wall, exhausted, but smiling.
"North," she repeated, closing her eyes. "Okay. We go North."
She pulled her hand back. The cut was already healing, but the scar on her soul was getting deeper.
From the shadows across the street, Ren watched her through the scope of his binoculars. He lowered them, his face pale.
"She's doing it again," he whispered into his comms.
"Let her," Isolde's voice crackled back, cold and pragmatic. "We need the intel. If bleeding makes her a better weapon, let her bleed."
Ren looked back at the girl curling around the cello case like a lover.
"She's not a weapon," Ren said. "She's dying."