Rafe's knock always came too early.
Three sharp raps on the apartment door. No pause. No politeness. Just certainty.
Frankie was already awake.
She slipped from the mattress without disturbing Sofia. Her sister slept curled beneath the oversized fortress jacket, breathing softly, hair spread across the pillow like spilled ink. Frankie watched her for a heartbeat longer than she needed. A quiet reminder of why every lie, every risk, every night beyond the walls mattered.
Then she crossed the room and opened the door.
Rafe stood there, already dressed for the ruins. Tomas behind him. Yara halfway down the stairwell. All of them smelled faintly of oil, leather, and dust , the scent of the other life.
Marco waited below, leaning on his cane. He looked up at Frankie with that stubborn set to his jaw, the one that said he would walk into hell again if asked.
"Run's on," Rafe said. "Sunrise departure."
Frankie nodded.
No discussion. No refusal. This was routine now.
Rafe's eyes flicked past her into the apartment. Sofia. Warm. Safe. A weakness Rafe didn't understand, but knew better than to comment on.
"We move light," Rafe said. "Eastern quarter. Quick sweep."
Frankie stepped back inside to collect her cloak and blades.
Sofia stirred. "You're going again."
"Only a short run," Frankie said.
"Don't come back late."
Frankie brushed hair from Sofia's forehead. "I always come back."
Sofia nodded and rolled over.
Frankie pulled up her hood and slipped out the door. The lock clicked behind her.
They left Novara Prime before dawn.
Temple bells still echoed faintly behind the walls as they passed through the outer gate. God-blessed sentinels in bronze armor watched with bored eyes. Scavenger crews were tolerated vermin , useful, replaceable, beneath divine concern.
Bribes changed hands. Names were scratched into ledgers. No one cared enough to read them.
Once beyond the last archway, the city's glow faded quickly.
Stone turned to rubble. Marble to broken concrete. Order to decay.
The Death Zone breathed.
Cold wind slid through skeletal buildings. Dust drifted like ash from unseen fires. Silence waited.
Frankie inhaled.
Out here, she didn't have to pretend as hard.
But she still did.
They moved through familiar streets. Rafe leading. Tomas keeping time. Yara scanning rooftops. Luca at Frankie's side without speaking. Marco bringing up the rear, cane tapping steady against cracked asphalt.
They reached an abandoned municipal hall by midmorning.
"Ten minutes," Rafe said. "Fill bags."
They scattered inside.
Frankie moved through rooms collecting small, dense valuables , brass fixtures, old tools, sealed tins. She could have carried far more. But she didn't. Not yet.
Outside, clicking broke the quiet.
Three rat-class scavengers crawled from beneath a collapsed stairwell. Low, fast, hungry.
Tomas froze. Yara's hand dropped to her blade. Marco tightened his grip on his spear.
Rafe hissed, "Positions"
Frankie stepped forward.
To the others, she simply moved fast. Faster than she should. But not impossibly so. Not yet.
The first rat lunged.
Frankie sidestepped and drove a dagger into its skull. A sharp twist. The creature collapsed, dissolving into dust as all scavengers did when killed.
The second came low. She met it with a kick that snapped its spine against a pillar.
The third tried to flee.
Frankie threw her second dagger. It struck true.
Three kills. Three heartbeats. Done.
When she turned back, Tomas was staring. Yara swallowed hard. Marco exhaled slowly.
Rafe just smiled.
"Efficient," he said.
No one asked how.
They left the hall loaded with loot.
They didn't see the Hunter-class until it dropped.
Bone armor. Silver slit eyes. A blade forming along its arm.
It landed behind Marco.
Frankie felt the shift in the air the danger before sight.
"Down," she said.
Marco threw himself aside just as the Hunter's blade carved through empty space.
Luca lunged forward, spear striking the creature's chest. The blow staggered it, but not enough.
The Hunter turned toward Luca, blade rising.
Frankie crossed the distance in a blur of motion. To the others, it looked like practiced speed. Brutal precision. Nothing more.
She slid under the Hunter's swing, drove a dagger into the joint beneath its arm. The creature howled. Its armor cracked.
It adapted. Its blade lengthened. It came again.
Frankie retreated, drawing it toward a broken pillar. She let it overcommit, then pivoted around the obstacle, using terrain, not power, to gain position.
She vaulted onto its back, ran along its spine like climbing a staircase, flipped forward, and landed behind it.
Both daggers plunged into its neck.
The Hunter froze. Cracked. Dissolved into silver ash.
Silence.
Marco lay breathing hard. Luca stood tense but unharmed. Yara wiped dust from her eyes. Tomas muttered a prayer.
Rafe clapped once.
"Well," he said. "That's new."
Frankie didn't answer. She checked Luca. Checked Marco. Everyone alive.
Then she stepped back, letting the moment pass.
They pushed deeper into the ruins afterward.
No one spoke about the fight.
But something had shifted.
Tomas watched Frankie carefully now. Yara avoided her gaze. Marco regarded her with quiet gratitude. Rafe looked at her with a calculating glint.
Only Luca remained unchanged steady, close, grounding.
By late afternoon they rested on an old rail bridge above a dried canal. Water passed. Food shared. Packs heavy with profit.
Rafe sat beside Frankie.
"You keep this up," he said, "and we'll own half the black markets."
Frankie met his eyes calmly.
"That's not my goal."
Rafe smirked. "Everyone has a goal."
He left her with that.
Luca sat beside her a moment later.
"You pushed yourself," he said.
"I had to."
"And if one day you don't come back?"
Frankie considered it.
"Then I've failed."
Luca nodded, accepting the answer.
They returned to Novara Prime at sunset.
The gates swallowed them. The Death Zone receded. The city's divine glow wrapped around them like a comforting lie.
To the guards, they were scavengers.
To the merchants, suppliers.
To the priests, tolerated dirt.
But outside the walls, something new had begun.
Silent kills. Perfect strikes. A crew that never lost a fight.
No one knew the truth.
Not yet.
Because the girl walking quietly beside Luca, hood low and hands clean, was still hiding what she had become.
Godless.
And rising.