[Tobias's POV]
It's been a month since that day.
Since the camp lit up with screams and blood, since Rowan—our so-called captain—made the call that wiped out near half the slum. The day he sold out the Spiders.
I haven't seen him since. Not sure I want to.
Yeah, we grew up together. Since ten. Planned together, laughed together.
But that doesn't mean I owe him anything. Some things go past the point of forgiveness. And he crossed that line with both feet and a smile on his face.
Still, I can't lie—his absence is like a phantom limb. You don't expect it to hurt after it's gone, but it does.
Everything feels… stalled. We sit in the same house, breathe the same stale air, but no one's steering. No direction. No orders. No dumb plans to argue over. Just silence.
The kind that crawls under your skin.
The place is quieter than ever, like even the walls are waiting for someone to say something that matters.
The war ended, yeah—but it doesn't feel like peace. Feels more like a slow decay. Like we're rotting from the inside out.
Talia's the clearest sign. She used to never shut up—always had something to say, some sarcastic jab ready to go.
Now? She doesn't talk. Doesn't eat with us. Just trains. Dawn till dusk, blades flashing in the courtyard like she's trying to carve out her thoughts one swing at a time.
She won't say it, but I know the fallout with Rowan wrecked her. Maybe even more than Elias. She trusted him—more than anyone. And he walked away like none of it ever mattered.
So yeah. The war's over. But this? This is worse.
This is what it looks like when a crew breaks, slow and silent. Like watching a building collapse in slow motion. One brick at a time.
The two of them sat hunched over the rickety table, a deck of bent cards spread between them like a fragile truce.
Elias and Alicia—locked in their usual little world. Quiet, focused, just the occasional flick of a card or murmur passing between them.
Same as yesterday. Same as every day since everything went to hell.
I dragged my feet toward them, boots scuffing against the wooden floor. The sound should've drawn their attention, but they didn't even flinch. Typical.
Elias barely looked up. His face had changed. Whatever spark used to be there—that bright-eyed wonder he wore like a badge—was gone now. Burned out.
These days, he looked like some stray mutt that'd been kicked one too many times. Always watching, always flinching at shadows only he could see.
You'd think he was waiting for the next betrayal. Maybe he was.
Except with her.
With Alicia, he almost looked normal. Like the war hadn't broken something inside him. Like his brother hadn't vanished into smoke and blood.
She brought out whatever pieces of Elias were still intact, and maybe he was clinging to that more than he realized.
I slowed as I reached the table, cocked my head like I was seeing something unfamiliar.
"You two ever go outside? I don't know, skip some rope, breathe air? Touch grass?" My voice came lighter than I expected, riding the edge of sarcasm.
They glanced up. Deadpan. No spark. Like I'd interrupted some sacred ritual. I half-expected them to hiss at me.
"Ouch, that stings." I exaggeratedly placed my hand on my heart. But their face remained the same, like stone.
"Tough crowd...tough crowd."
Fucking hell I am starting to feel like Rowan with his jokes. Bad influence I say.
Whatever. Guess those two had each other now. Didn't need me hanging around like some awkward third wheel.
Fine by me. I had a whole house full of emotionally stunted orphans to annoy—might as well spread the joy.
I made my way out to the courtyard, already knowing who I'd find there. She was always there.
Sure enough, the moment I stepped into the open air, I saw her.
Talia.
She moved like a blade herself—fast, sharp, and dangerous. A blur of motion as her dagger cut through the air again and again, each strike punctuated by the soft whisper of steel.
Her braid was tied tight, sweat glinting on her brow under the grayish light, eyes locked on some invisible enemy only she could see.
Honestly? She looked like she could gut me before I had time to squeak.
"Talia!" I called out.
No response.
"Hey!" I raised my voice, stepping closer.
That got her attention. She froze mid-swing, chest rising and falling with each breath, then turned her head just enough to glare at me over her shoulder.
The look she shot me could've carved its own tombstone—cold, warning, and just daring me to take one more step.
Right. Message received.
"Nope," I muttered under my breath, already turning on my heel. "Not suicidal today."
What the hell was with everyone lately? I got it—loss, betrayal, pain, all that jazz.
But did we all have to dive into our own personal hellscapes and lock the doors behind us? Was it really that hard to be a human being for five minutes?
I headed back inside, rubbing the back of my neck, only to find a familiar figure sitting at the kitchen table. Handy, calm as ever, half-focused on scribbled papers.
Of course it was Handy.
Still calm. Still composed.
The only one in the crew who hadn't snapped or shut down. People were still side-eyeing him for not spilling the truth earlier, sure—but unlike Rowan, they didn't cast him out.
Maybe because Handy didn't disappear. Maybe because he stayed and took the punches.
Or maybe he was just too damn level-headed to hate.
Either way, in a house full of ghosts and grudges, Handy was the last person who felt remotely sane.
I dragged a chair across the floor and dropped into it, facing Handy with a grin I didn't quite feel. "So? How's it looking?" I asked, nodding toward the pile of half-crumpled papers he'd been poring over like they held the meaning of life.
He didn't look up right away. Just flicked his eyes up from under those thick brows, the rest of his face unreadable, as usual.
Then he muttered, "Why're ya goin' around botherin' the damn kids instead of finding us some coin? Would help more than yer jokes, Tobias."
The words weren't venomous, just blunt. Handy's version of affection, probably. Still stung a bit.
I leaned back in the chair, hands behind my head. "So it's bad, huh? Guessing the money situation's not exactly thriving,"
I said, my voice flattening. The grin fell off my face, like it had somewhere else to be.
Handy didn't respond, just kept flipping through the mess of parchment—expense lists, debt notes, and whatever else.
The paper was thin, but it might as well have been a blade the way it cut through the room's air.
A slow breath left my chest. This crap never used to be my problem.
Back when Rowan was around, he always waved it off, said he had it under control. And he always did, somehow.
Food, water, shelter, even the odd bottle of something strong when one of us was too bruised up to sleep. He handled it all. Quietly. Like it was nothing.
Now we had to stress about the things that seemed like nothing back then.
"Stupid bastard," I muttered under my breath, more to myself than Handy. "Why'd he have to pull that crap?"
Out of nowhere, a weight tugged at my chest. Not a memory—something else. A pressure, like my body had just remembered something my mind was too slow to catch.
And then it slammed into me.
Today.
The anniversary.
Their deaths.
Shit.
I shot up from the chair so fast it nearly tipped over.
Mumbled something to Handy—didn't even wait for a response—and bolted upstairs, grabbing the first set of clothes my hands landed on.
Didn't care if they matched. Didn't care if they were clean. My heart was already out the door.
How the hell could I forget?
The streets greeted me with a stale wind and rotting wood. Everything smelled like piss and old smoke.
I moved fast, head low, fists clenched. Slum folk stepped aside, just enough to let me pass, like I carried something contagious.
They didn't look at me the way they used to. No longer indifferent, no longer amused.
Just wary. Afraid. Like they thought I'd explode if they stared too long. I guess we all got a piece of Rowan's shadow now.
Not quite his level—no kids crying at the mention of my name—but enough to silence conversations when I walked into earshot.
Enough to feel like a ghost, haunting the place I once belonged to.
Somewhere along the way, the buildings got sadder, emptier.
The closer I got to the edge of the slum, the more it felt like walking through a graveyard of broken homes and forgotten lives.
Then I saw it.
The house.
My house.
Or what was left of it.
The roof sagged like a dying man's shoulders, and the walls looked ready to collapse under the weight of their own memory. But still... it was standing. Somehow. Weathered. Scarred. Familiar.
I slowed down, breath catching in my throat.
It wasn't much.
But it was home.