Don't move.

That's the kind of thing someone says to you when something bad is about to happen.

Or when they're wrapping your burned hands in bandages while your best friend hugs you around the chest, repeating 'sorry' over and over.

"Stay still," Mina says.

"Kind of hard with this twat hugging me," I mumble.

Elliot rests his head against my back, taking his arms off of me. "Sorry."

I sigh. "It's fine."

Mina finishes wrapping my hand and pats it gently. "There. Bandages will be removed in about a week, so hang tight."

"'Kay, thanks," I say. I flex my fingers and wince. Yep, that'll hurt for a while.

"I'm sorry," Elliot says.

"Don't be," I reply. "I knew the risks of pulling you out. But I wasn't going to lose you, and I think Mina would say the same."

Mina nods. "I was about to pull you out myself, but Archie got to it first."

He puts his back to mine. "I'm just sorry you had to go through that."

I lean against him. "We love you, you idiot. We're not going to let you get burned up in a tank."

Mina sits with us. "No, we aren't. We're never leaving you. Ever. So, get used to it."

"Ditto," I say.

The three of us have been thick as thieves since childhood. Mina was always the strong one, Elliot the determined one, me the. . .useless one.

I never really had any special talents or anything, so I don't know why those two still have use for me. Still, they hang around me.

Mina holds her hand to us. "Promise that no matter what happens, we'll stick together. The three of us."

I place one of my bandaged hands over hers, then Elliot puts his on mine.

"On three," I say. "One. . ."

"Two. . ." Mina says.

"Three!" Elliot says. We throw our hands into the air.

And that is our friendship in a nutshell.

The promise should have meant something permanent.

In our city, nothing ever is.

By morning, the sky is the wrong color.

Not grey—grey would be normal. This is something else. A dull, bruised violet that hangs too low, like it’s pressing down on the rooftops, on our lungs, on the spaces between our ribs. It makes breathing feel… borrowed.

I notice it the moment I wake up.

I also notice the pain.

My hands throb under the bandages Mina wrapped so carefully. Each pulse feels like a reminder: you reached into fire, and fire remembered you back.

“Don’t move.”

I freeze.

For a split second, I’m back there again—heat, screaming metal, Elliot’s voice disappearing into smoke.

Then—

“Relax, it’s just me.”

Mina.

I exhale slowly and turn my head. She’s sitting by the window, watching the sky like it personally offended her.

“You’ve been up long?” I ask.

She doesn’t look at me. “Couple hours.”

“That’s not healthy.”

“Neither is whatever that is,” she says, nodding toward the sky.

Fair.

I push myself upright, ignoring the protest from basically every part of my body. “Where’s Elliot?”

“Didn’t sleep,” she says. “Went out.”

That gets my attention. “Out where?”

“Out there.”

She finally looks at me, and there’s something in her eyes I don’t like. Not fear—Mina doesn’t really do fear. It’s sharper than that.

“He said something was wrong,” she adds.

“Something is always wrong.”

“Not like this.”

I swing my legs off the bed. “You let him go alone?”

“He didn’t ask.”

“That’s not the same as permission.”

Mina stands, folding her arms. “You want to chase after him like a child?”

“It’s accurate.”

I stand anyway.

Because here’s the thing about Elliot: when he says something’s wrong, it usually is. And when he goes off on his own—

—it’s because he thinks he has to.

“We promised,” I say, quieter now.

Mina’s jaw tightens.

“Yeah,” she says. “We did.”

The streets feel different.

Empty, but not in the usual abandoned, post-curfew way. This is… expectant. Like the city itself is holding its breath.

Ash drifts through the air.

At least, I think it’s ash.

It doesn’t fall right. It floats, slow and deliberate, like it’s choosing where to land. When one speck brushes against my sleeve, it clings for a second too long before dissolving into nothing.

“Tell me you’re seeing this,” I mutter.

“Unfortunately,” Mina replies.

She reaches out and catches one of the drifting particles between her fingers.

“Mina—”

Too late.

The ash moves.

It curls, almost like it’s alive, wrapping briefly around her fingertip before vanishing.

She jerks her hand back. “Okay. Don’t touch it.”

“Bit late for that advice, isn’t it?”

She wipes her fingers on her jacket like that’ll undo whatever just happened. “It reacted.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“To heat,” she says.

I blink. “What?”

She nods toward my hands. “It ignored you.”

I look down. A few particles drift close to my bandages—then veer away, like they’ve changed their minds.

“…That’s not comforting.”

“No,” she agrees. “It’s not.”

A distant clang echoes down the street.

We both turn.

“That him?” I ask.

“Only one way to find out.”

We find Elliot in the old transit yard.

Or what’s left of it.

The place was already half-dead before, but now it looks… worse. The metal structures are warped, not melted like the tank from yesterday—bent, like something invisible squeezed them.

Elliot stands in the middle of it all, staring at the ground.

“Oi!” I call. “You planning on telling us before you go on mysterious solo adventures, or is that just your thing now?”

He doesn’t respond.

Mina moves faster than me, crossing the yard in long strides. “Elliot.”

Still nothing.

We reach him at the same time.

And then I see what he’s looking at.

The ground is blackened—not burned, not exactly. It’s like the color’s been drained out of it. Veins of that same unnatural violet from the sky run through the cracks.

And in the center—

something is breathing.

Not lungs, not anything recognizable. But the ground itself rises and falls, slow and steady, like a sleeping animal beneath the surface.

“…Tell me that’s not what I think it is,” I say.

Elliot finally speaks, his voice rough. “I don’t know what it is.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“It was smaller before,” he adds.

Mina stiffens. “Before?”

“I got here ten minutes ago,” he says. “It’s… growing.”

As if on cue, the ground pulses.

The violet veins flare brighter.

And the ash in the air—

stops drifting.

Every particle freezes midair, suspended.

Watching.

“Okay,” I say slowly. “I officially hate this.”

The thing beneath the ground takes a deeper “breath.”

And this time, we feel it.

A pull.

Not physical—not exactly. Something inside my chest tightens, like my heartbeat just got hooked on a string and tugged.

Mina grabs my arm. “Do you feel—”

“Yeah.”

Elliot steps back. “It’s affecting us.”

“No kidding,” I snap.

Another pulse.

Stronger.

The ash begins to move again—but not randomly. It starts spiraling inward, drawn toward the breathing thing.

“Guys,” I say, “I don’t think we should be standing here.”

“Agreed,” Mina says immediately.

But Elliot doesn’t move.

“Elliot,” I warn.

He shakes his head. “If this is spreading—if it’s everywhere—”

“Then we definitely shouldn’t be right on top of it!”

“It might be connected to the tank,” he insists. “To what happened yesterday.”

He’s probably right.

And I hate that.

Another pull hits us, sharper this time. I stagger slightly, my bandaged hands instinctively clutching my chest.

The ash is moving faster now, a tightening vortex above the blackened ground.

“Mina,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady, “tell me you’ve got a plan.”

She watches the thing for a split second longer.

Then—

“Yeah,” she says.

She grabs both of us by our collars.

“We run.”

The ground inhales.

Deep.

Violent.

And something beneath it—

opens.

We don’t look back.

Because some instincts are older than promises. And right now, survival is louder than everything else.