**Keene**

  The city doesn’t react.

  It never does.

  The building settles around them with a low, exhausted groan, concrete joints flexing under stress that never quite reaches collapse. Dust sifts down from fractured beams like ash from a distant fire. Somewhere far below, a generator hums unevenly, coughing once before finding its rhythm again. Somewhere else, a patrol changes shift, boots scraping metal, voices bored and unafraid.

  Sector Four keeps breathing.

  As if nothing inside it just cracked open.

  Keene is on his knees.

  The floor beneath him is cold, gritty with powdered concrete and purple glass shards that bite into his skin every time he shifts. He doesn’t notice. Arin’s blood is warm on his hands — too warm, too much. It coats his palms, seeps into the fabric of his sleeves, runs between his fingers in slick rivulets that refuse to stop.

  He presses harder.

  As if pressure alone might convince the world to change its mind.

  “Stay with me,” Keene whispers.

  The words sound wrong. Thin. Borrowed.

  “Stay with me. Just — just stay.”

  Arin’s chest rises in short, uneven bursts. Each breath rattles, wet and strained, like it has to fight its way past something broken inside him. His eyes are unfocused, pupils blown wide, staring at nothing and everything all at once.

  Keene shifts his grip, hands shaking as he tries to seal wounds that don’t want to close. Blood keeps coming. It always does.

  Razan drops beside them, knees hitting the floor hard enough to echo. He sways slightly, one hand bracing against the concrete. Blood streaks his side, his knuckles, his wrist where the skin split earlier. It drips steadily, dark against the dust.

  He barely seems to notice.

  “We need to move,” Razan says, words tumbling over each other, urgency scraping his throat raw. “We can still — there’s a hospital, we can still —”

  Keene looks up at him, eyes wide, wild, desperate in a way that makes Razan’s stomach twist.

  “Help me,” Keene says. “Hold him. Just — just hold him.”

  Razan doesn’t hesitate. He slides closer, careful despite the shaking in his arms, supporting Arin’s shoulder, keeping him steady.

  Marek is standing a few steps back.

  He hasn’t moved since the Panther disappeared.

  Dust coats his clothes in a fine grey film. Blood trickles from his nose, drying into a thin, dark line down his upper lip. His chest rises and falls too fast, too shallow. His hands tremble — not from fear, but from exhaustion pushed well past anything reasonable.

  He stares at Arin.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  At Keene’s hands.

  At the blood.

  He takes one step forward.

  Then another.

  Each movement feels deliberate, heavy, like he’s wading through something thick and unseen.

  He kneels and places two fingers gently against Arin’s neck.

  Waits.

  One second.

  Two.

  Three.

  Too long.

  The silence stretches, pulling tight.

  When Marek looks up, something in his expression has changed.

  Not hardened.

  Emptied.

  “It’s too late,” he says quietly.

  Razan’s head snaps toward him. “No.”

  Marek doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. “If we move him now, he won’t make it.”

  “We can try —”

  Marek shakes his head once.

  Small.

  Final.

  “Let his last words be with us,” he says. “Not with sirens.”

  The words hit like a physical blow.

  Keene’s breath catches. His hands press harder, useless, trembling. “No,” he murmurs. “No, no —”

  Arin exhales.

  Slow.

  Long.

  It sounds like relief.

  His eyes flicker, finally focusing — not on the blood, not on the fractured ceiling above, but on Keene’s face.

  “Hey,” Arin whispers.

  Keene leans in instantly, forehead almost touching his. “I’m here. I’m here.”

  Arin’s mouth twitches, almost a smile. “You’re… bad at lying.”

  A weak laugh escapes Keene before he can stop it. It breaks halfway through and turns into something ugly, raw.

  “I know,” he says. “I know.”

  Razan grips Arin’s shoulder, fingers tight but careful. “You’re gonna be fine,” he says, voice rough, unsteady. “You hear me? You’re gonna —”

  Arin’s gaze drifts to him.

  “Razan,” he breathes. “You’re loud.”

  Razan chokes out a sound that might have been a laugh once.

  Arin’s breathing stutters. He swallows, eyes sliding past them now, as if the room itself is losing meaning.

  “They said there was a place,” he murmurs. “Elysian Fields.”

  Keene stiffens.

  Arin doesn’t sound doubtful.

  He sounds comforted.

  “Green,” Arin continues. “Quiet. No rain.”

  His chest rises.

  Falls.

  “If it’s real,” he adds, “I hope it’s boring.”

  A tear slips free from Keene’s eye and drops onto Arin’s shirt. He doesn’t wipe it away.

  Razan’s shoulders shake. He looks down, jaw clenched so hard his teeth creak.

  Marek closes his eyes.

  One tear escapes.

  Just one.

  Arin’s breath slows.

  Then stops.

  His eyes don’t close.

  Keene feels it before he understands it — the sudden weight, the way the body in his hands no longer pushes back against the world.

  “No,” Keene whispers.

  Arin doesn’t answer.

  Razan reaches out with a trembling hand and gently closes Arin’s eyes.

  For a moment, no one speaks.

  Even the building seems to hold its breath.

  Rain begins again outside, light but persistent, tapping against broken windows like a reminder the world is still moving.

  Then Razan stands.

  “This is your fault,” he says, voice low, vibrating with something sharp and dangerous. “I told you we could handle it. You said —”

  “I told you not to come here,” Marek snaps back.

  The words are raw. Unfiltered.

  “You wanted to see the city from above,” Marek continues, anger breaking through the exhaustion. “You wanted a view. And now —”

  Razan shoves him.

  Hard.

  Marek stumbles back a step, barely catching himself on a broken beam.

  “You don’t get to say that,” Razan growls. “You came too.”

  “I came to watch your back,” Marek fires back. “You came because you didn’t want to listen.”

  The air tightens.

  Keene stands slowly.

  Blood drips from his hands, splattering softly against the floor.

  “Stop.”

  His voice is quiet.

  Both of them freeze.

  Keene looks between them, eyes hollow. “He’s dead,” he says. “Argue later. If you still can.”

  The silence that follows is heavier than any shout.

  Marek looks away first.

  Then —

  Movement.

  Keene feels it in his chest before he sees it. A low vibration, traveling through steel and concrete. A rhythm that doesn’t belong to the building.

  He steps toward the broken window and looks down.

  Lights bloom below.

  Figures move.

  Too fast.

  Too coordinated.

  Not patrols.

  “Veinrunners,” Marek mutters, already moving.

  The first window explodes inward.

  Glass detonates across the room as a body rolls through, landing low, controlled, absorbing impact like it’s muscle memory. The Veinrunner’s breath comes harsh and ragged, shoulders heaving once before stilling.

  Another window shatters.

  Then another.

  Two more bodies breach from opposite sides, boots scraping, hands finding purchase instantly. One missteps — just barely — and catches himself on a hanging cable, jaw clenched as pain flashes across his face.

  They don’t rush.

  They study.

  One Veinrunner crouches low, fingers brushing the blood on the floor. He rubs it between thumb and forefinger, eyes narrowing.

  Still warm.

  The second moves toward the broken window, scanning angles, rooftops, ledges. His gaze tracks escape routes automatically, calculation overriding fatigue.

  Both look exhausted.

  Both look relentless.

  “Targets fled upward,” one says quietly.

  “Carrying weight,” the other adds. “Injured.”

  Then —

  Footsteps.

  Measured.

  Unhurried.

  The officer enters last.

  He steps over glass without looking down. Dust and blood coat the room, staining the walls, the floor, the ceiling in chaotic patterns. Purple shards crunch beneath his boots with deliberate finality.

  No bodies.

  He kneels, fingers brushing the blood-streaked concrete.

  Still warm.

  “Clean extraction,” he says quietly, more observation than praise.

  His eyes move once around the room, taking in trajectory, timing, hesitation marks where someone almost stayed too long.

  He straightens and looks toward the broken window, rain misting in through the gap.

  “Find them,” he orders.

  Outside, the city keeps breathing.

  And somewhere in the dark, the night counts what it has taken —

  —and what it has let go.

  ---

  End of Chapter 9