Askai woke to a sound he still hadn't learned to accept as his own.
The phone lay on the bedside table, vibrating insistently—its unfamiliar ringtone cutting through the quiet like a blade.
New phone. New number.
He had been careful. He couldn't let Vance know he was returning to the West. A phone was a liability that could be tracked. It was a confession waiting to happen.
The ringing stopped but Askai still didn't move.
Did he really want to go back?
The question lingered, heavy and unwelcome. Somehow, leaving felt like betrayal. Vance had almost begged him the night before—pleaded, really—that he never set foot in that place again.
Would he have said the same to Kai?
To the boy he used to be. Or in some way he still was.
Would he have tried to protect that monster too?
The answer came swiftly, mercilessly.
No.
No one protected broken dolls. They were ugly things. Useless. Cracked beyond repair.
Once, briefly, he had indulged the fantasy—of borrowing this new identity forever that he had reluctantly came to acquire. Of pretending he was something polished, untouched and whole.
But even then, somewhere deep in his mind, he had known.
Nothing ever really escaped that black hole, they called West.
The phone rang again.
This time, he picked up.
There was only one person who had this number.
"When are you coming back?" Askai asked the moment the line connected.
"You finally decided to pick up," Brendon hissed, voice pitched low, irritation threaded through every word.
Strange.
"What happened?" Askai asked, ignoring the jab.
"You need to get out of Middle Nolan," Brendon said. "Tonight. There's going to be a civil war by nightfall."
Askai straightened. "What the hell are you talking about—and why are you whispering?"
He moved toward the window of Brendon's penthouse, the city unfolding below in steel and glass. The sun was already sinking.
"Moraine's locked everything down," Brendon continued. "Turned his place into a fortress. No one's getting out. There are eyes everywhere. And your very dear Vance—" a pause, sharp with contempt, "—has decided to throw a war party in the West. He's using Imara. But that's not the point. Authorities are mobilizing in the Middle. Gangs will riot. Middle Nolan is about to tear itself apart."
Askai didn't answer.
From the window, he could already see it—uniforms flooding the streets, checkpoints forming, vehicles cutting off intersections. The city tightening like a fist.
A curfew.
"There's no way I can leave," Askai said quietly. "They're everywhere. I can't risk running into them."
Brendon swore under his breath. "You don't have a choice. Askai can't get out of this mess—but Kai can."
The name landed hard.
"You still have loyal people here," Brendon pressed on. "Gang leaders. Old crews. I'll send you the contacts. Tell them Kai's alive and they'll bleed to keep you safe. You have no idea what it did to them when they thought you were dead."
Askai closed his eyes.
"Once they know Kai's alive," he said, exhausted, "there's no going back."
"Are you insane?" Brendon snapped. "This isn't the time for identity crises."
Maybe a month ago, Askai would've made the call without hesitation. But something held him back now—something small and treacherous. This borrowed life. This fragile illusion of peace.
Then, faintly, he heard another voice on Brendon's end of the line.
The call cut off.
Askai stared at the phone.
Silence rushed in but it didn't last.
The doorbell rang and his eyes flicked to the security screen—and froze.
The man staring up at the camera was another ghost from his past.
Ramsay.
An old comrade. A man he had once ruled the streets beside. Someone he had buried along with Kai. Askai had no idea what he was doing in Middle Nolan.
Ramsay had been loyal. Brutally so. He'd put his life on the line more times than Askai could count. Kai would've given anything to sit across from him again, share a drink, laugh like the world hadn't already ended.
But Kai was dead.
And Askai had nothing left to give.
He leaned back against the counter, watching as Ramsay rang the bell again. And again. Desperation crept into his movements. Ramsay pulled out his phone, dialing rapidly—muttering under his breath as he waited for someone to answer.
No one did.
Askai turned away, heading toward the dining hall—
—and stopped.
On the screen, Ramsay fished a familiar object from his pocket.
A pair of keys.
Askai swore softly.
"Damn it."
Askai bolted for the nearest room just as the lock clicked and the door swung open.
Ramsay stepped inside.
This was not how it was supposed to go.
Ramsay had a pair of extra keys. Askai wouldn't fault Brendon for giving him one. He was worthy of all their trust but fucking Brendon should have warned him.
If Ramsay saw him here, Askai would be dead for good.
There was no explaining this. No version of the truth Ramsay would accept. Askai had left the West for a reason, and Ramsay would never understand why a man would choose to stay gone.
Ramsay called the East the land of sissies. He'd laugh, pour him a drink, and tell him to finally grow his balls again and head back where a man should.
To the West - land of daredevils.
To Ramsay, life was an endless adventure. And he'd happily haul Askai straight back into it—kicking and cursing if he had to.
Askai held his breath and waited.
The plan was simple: stay hidden. Let Ramsay take whatever he'd come for and leave. But the universe, as always, had other ideas.
Ramsay walked straight to the counter.
Casual. Comfortable.
He pulled out a glass and poured himself a drink.
"Of course," Askai muttered silently. "Of course you would."
There went the sanctuary.
The only place he'd had in Middle Nolan—gone, just as the city outside prepared to tear itself apart. And worse still, standing in his kitchen was the one man who could solve everything.
With Brendon trapped in the West, Ramsay was exactly who Askai needed to survive here. Ramsay wouldn't ask questions. Wouldn't hesitate. With him around, Askai wouldn't have to think at all.
And if luck truly hated him enough to be ironic, Ramsay might even be the answer Askai had been searching for all along.
Ramsay was old steel—stubborn, loyal, relentless. He repaid favors and betrayals with equal fervor. Kai had saved him more than once in the past. Ramsay had never forgotten that kind of debt.
He would help Askai. He would help get Jordan and Kael back.
But the cost—
Askai didn't wait to find out.
He eased away from the door, every movement measured, and slipped toward the balcony. The latch gave quietly under his fingers. A moment later, he was climbing down and disappearing under the open sky which felt too wide and too exposed.
Below, the streets were crawling with uniforms. Anyone wandering alone was an invitation. Askai kept his head down, avoiding the main roads, slipping instead into narrow alleys where shadows pressed close and danger breathed down his neck.
The city was on the brink. He could feel it—riot humming under the concrete.
He needed a place to vanish. Somewhere cheap.
Before the authorities found him or before the war did.
The alley narrowed as Askai slipped deeper into it, the buildings pressing close on either side like clenched teeth. The farther he moved from the main road, the quieter it became—but not peaceful. The silence here was the kind that waited.
He was scanning doorways for anything that looked remotely like a cheap motel when a sharp sound cut through the dark.
A grunt. Then another.
Askai slowed.
At the far end of the alley, half-hidden behind a stack of rusted crates, shadows were moving—too many of them. A body hit the wall with a dull crack, metal rattling faintly as something clattered to the ground.
A uniform.
Askai stopped.
Four men had someone cornered. Their silhouettes were loose, confident, and practiced.
One of them laughed. "Thought you boys were untouchable, huh?"
The man in uniform tried to push himself up. He was young—too young. His cap lay a few feet away, crushed. Blood ran from his temple, dark against the pale strip of his collar.
"I—I didn't do anything," he managed, breathless. "Curfew's not even—"
A boot slammed into his ribs.
"Curfew's whatever we say it is tonight," another voice sneered. "You lot been strutting around all day like kings. Time someone reminded you whose streets these really are."
Askai's first instinct was sharp and familiar.
Leave.
This wasn't his fight. It never had been. Back in the West, this scene would have barely registered. Fights broke out all the time. There were victims, there were bullies. Sometimes they deserved it. Sometimes they didn't.
Either way, survival meant knowing when to keep walking.
His feet even shifted—one step back, ready to disappear.
Then he hesitated.
Living in the East did strange things to a man.
Out there, life was measured carefully. Violence had weight. People didn't die just to make a point. And somewhere along the way, that restraint had sunk into him deeper than he realized.
The uniformed man coughed, curling inward as another punch landed.
"Please," he rasped. "I have a family—"
"Oh, everyone's got a family," the first man scoffed. "Didn't stop you from shaking us down last week, did it?"
"That wasn't me," the man insisted weakly. "I swear—"
"Funny thing about oaths," one of them said, crouching down to grab him by the collar. "They don't mean much when no one's listening."
Askai clenched his jaw and he did something he never thought he was going to.
Askai intervened.