Beep. Beep. Beep.

  The rhythmic sound of a machine cut through the haze. Distant. Faint. But steady.

  Aurora’s consciousness clawed its way back from the abyss, her mind sluggish, body heavy. She could feel the weight of a thick blanket over her, the dull ache in her limbs, the sting of something pinching her skin—an IV? Her fingers twitched.

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  Her eyes shot open.

  Her heart slammed against her ribs, a surge of panic overriding the grogginess. Her head whipped around, searching, her breath coming fast and uneven—

  Pain. A blinding, searing pain exploded across her skull, racing down her spine, wrapping around her ribs like iron bands. Her ankle burned, sharp and unforgiving, like something had tried to twist it clean off.

  She gasped, squeezing her eyes shut, forcing herself to breathe. Slow. Steady.

  She wasn’t in the field. There were no bullets flying, no screaming, no Gauss cannon ripping through metal.

  She wasn’t dying.

  Blinking through the pain, she took in her surroundings. White walls. Bright fluorescent lighting. The faint scent of antiseptic. An IV stand beside her bed. A heart monitor beeping softly. A hospital.

  The realization hit her like a freight train.

  How the hell did I get here?

  She sucked in a breath, trying to recall what had happened. Flashes. Blurred images. The battle. The wreck. The gunfire. A silhouette moving through the chaos. A voice. A grip. Being carried.

  Strong arms. Blood—so much blood.

  James.

  It was coming back in pieces. The heat of battle, the cold of the night, and James—fighting like something inhuman, moving faster than she thought possible, cutting through men like they were nothing. She remembered the way her body had been weightless, cradled against something firm. The memory was hazy, slipping through her fingers before she could grasp it fully.

  Why?

  Why had he carried her? He could have left her. It would have been easier. Smarter.

  She frowned, a strange unease creeping into her thoughts.

  Before she could dwell on it, the door creaked open.

  Her head snapped toward the sound, ignoring the spike of pain. A figure stepped inside, stopping at the threshold. It was Daniel.

  "You're finally awake," Daniel said, his tone as cold and detached as ever.

  Aurora blinked, her mind still sluggish, trying to piece everything together. The fight. The crash. The pain. It all felt distant, as though she had been trapped in a fever dream, yet the ache in her body reminded her it had been all too real.

  "What happened?" she rasped, her throat dry and raw.

  Daniel remained as expressionless as ever. "On your way back, you were attacked by EHD assets. In the ensuing battle, 23 operators were killed. The contractor, Laim, was killed in the opening blows. Your vehicle crashed, and you sustained severe injuries. You've been unconscious for almost two weeks."

  Her eyes widened. Two weeks?

  She barely processed the number before another thought slammed into her—the core.

  "What about the core?" she asked sharply, pushing herself up, only for pain to flare across her ribs.

  Daniel didn’t react to her distress. "It's safe. It has already been implemented."

  Aurora let out a slow breath, allowing herself to relax slightly. At least the mission wasn’t in vain.

  But something still wasn’t adding up. How had they made it back?

  Last she remembered, they had crashed. They should have died out there.

  "How did we make it back here?" she finally asked, her voice quieter this time.

  Daniel studied her for a moment before answering. "We were hoping you could tell us."

  Aurora frowned.

  "All we know is that thirteen days ago, James showed up carrying you before collapsing from exhaustion. He regained consciousness three days later, took his payment, and left without a word. He only said he needed to 'finish burying an old ghost he thought long dead.'"

  Her heart twisted in a way she didn’t quite understand.

  James left.

  She had never known a man more unshakable, more resolute in his actions. But something about the way Daniel phrased it, about the words James had left behind…Wherever he was going…He wasn’t leaving anything standing when he’s done.

  She felt a strange weight settle in her chest—something tight, something uncomfortable.

  He didn’t even say goodbye?

  Daniel continued, his tone as flat as ever. "Based on intel, his last known location was on the outskirts of Virginia. It appears he’s heading south. He crossed out of our borders five days ago."

  Aurora swallowed, her mind racing.

  James left. And she didn’t know why that bothered her.

  Maybe it was because he had been the one to save her. Maybe it was because, despite everything, despite how hard the job was, he had ensured she made it back.

  Wherever he was going…He wasn’t leaving anything standing

  James awoke, his mind instantly sharp, instincts firing on all cylinders. No fog. No confusion. Just clarity. The last thing he remembered was the battlefield, the wreck, the drug surging through his system, the bodies hitting the ground one after another.

  Then nothing.

  His eyes adjusted quickly to the sterile white of the hospital room. Monitors beeped in steady rhythm beside him. His body ached, but it was a distant thing, just an annoyance. He glanced down at himself. His wounds were already sealed, scars fading by the hour. Whatever damage he had taken, his body had burned through it like a machine resetting itself. He must have been out for a while.

  The door creaked open. A nurse entered, clipboard in hand. She blinked in surprise, then smiled.

  "Good to see you're awake, Mr. Grayson. I have to say—you’re quite amazing. Your body heals at a rate that frankly shouldn’t be possible."

  James didn’t even blink. "I know."

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  He swung his legs over the side of the bed, testing his weight. A dull ache rippled through his limbs, but nothing debilitating. Just enough to remind him of what he had been through.

  The nurse’s smile faltered. "Sir, you were critically injured. When you were brought in, you were in a near-constant state of overdosing . Your nervous system was overloaded, and your body was barely keeping up. You need to rest."

  James ignored her, reaching for the IV in his arm. One smooth motion. A sharp pull. The needle slid free.

  Blood beaded at the puncture site, but his body was already sealing the wound.

  "I appreciate the concern," James said as he pushed himself to his feet. He staggered briefly but forced himself steady. "But I have things I need to do."

  The nurse tried again, "At least wait for—"

  He was already moving.

  James checked out with the same efficiency he approached everything. The doctors asked questions. The administration tried to get him to sign another contract. SDS was eager to lock him down, but James ignored all of it.

  He collected his gear, his weapons, his payment.

  Then he left.

  Stepping outside, the crisp evening air hit him like a wave. The streets were quiet, the glow of artificial lights casting long shadows across the pavement.

  And there she was.

  James grinned for the first time in days.

  His car.

  A sleek, reinforced black machine, built for speed and endurance. His fingers traced along the frame as he approached, feeling the familiar metal beneath his touch. She was still as perfect as he remembered.

  "Hey, girl," he murmured, opening the door. "You miss me?"

  The engine purred to life beneath his fingers.

  It was time to go.

  But not yet.

  James’ fingers tightened around the ring and necklace in his palm. Some people deserved closure.

  He pulled onto the main road, feeling the familiar hum of his car beneath him as he drove out of SDS HQ. He didn’t care about the eyes on him—the soldiers, the officials, the analysts watching from their offices. Let them watch.

  The city faded behind him, replaced by quieter roads, residential streets. It was sometime later when he pulled up in front of a house.

  Laim’s house.

  James killed the engine, staring at the building through the windshield. It wasn’t quite a suburban home, but it wasn’t fully a city townhouse either. It had a small front yard, enclosed by a low fence, but its structure was sharp, rigid—red brick with defined, harsh edges.

  James exhaled, gripping the ring tighter before stepping out of the car.

  He barely made it to the steps before he saw movement behind the window. A shadow. A presence. They had seen him coming.

  By the time he reached the door, it was already opening.

  A girl stood there.

  No older than fifteen. She had Laim’s sharp features, but softer, untouched by war. She stared at him—suspicious, guarded.

  James hesitated.

  He had faced monsters, killers, mercenaries, mutants the worst the world had to offer. But this? This was harder. It always was.

  Not feeling anything for the dead didn’t make delivering the news any easier.

  Slowly, he removed his sunglasses showing off his glowing Cherenkov blue eyes.

  "Hey." His voice was steady, careful. "My name is James. I worked with your father—"

  "NO!"

  The girl’s scream shattered the silence.

  She stepped back, her hands trembling, her breathing uneven. Denial. She already knew.

  James didn’t move, didn’t react, only watching as heavy footsteps pounded through the house.

  A boy rushed forward—older, seventeen, maybe.

  The resemblance to Laim was uncanny.

  His stance was immediately defensive, his arms wrapping protectively around his sister. "What’s going on?" His voice was edged with warning, his glare sharp.

  James remained still. He understood this reaction. He’d seen it before.

  His fingers slipped his sunglasses into his jacket pocket.

  "Perhaps it’s best we take this discussion inside."

  With that, the boy motioned for James to come inside, leading him to the living room. The space was modest, lived-in, but with a quiet emptiness hanging in the air—like the weight of something missing had already settled over the home.

  The girl sat on a chair, still crying softly, her shoulders shaking with each uneven breath. James took a seat on the couch across from them, exhaling quietly before speaking.

  "I was telling your sister that I worked with your father on his recent job."

  The boy tensed immediately. James could see it in his posture, the way his hands clenched into fists at his sides. They already knew. Maybe not in words, but deep down, they had felt it.

  But confirmation hurts.

  The girl sobbed harder. The more James talked, the worse it got. By the time he reached the end, she couldn't take it anymore. She stood abruptly, her face buried in her hands as she rushed out of the room, her muffled cries fading down the hall.

  The boy, however, remained.

  Silent. Still.

  James studied him for a moment before standing from the couch and kneeling before him. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small box, setting it carefully on the table between them. The boy’s eyes flickered to it, hesitant, before James spoke.

  "I made a stop before coming here. It’s your father’s ring." James made a stop and had it professionally cleaned.

  The boy swallowed hard but didn’t reach for it. His breathing was slow, controlled, but his fingers twitched like he wanted to grab it and couldn’t bring himself to.

  James didn’t push. Instead, he reached into his pocket again and handed him two cards. One was a debit card. The other, a business card.

  "This has four hundred thousand on it. Use it to put yourself through college—that’s what your father wanted."

  The boy finally looked up at him, his expression unreadable, eyes slightly glassy. James could see it the anger, the sorrow, the weight of it all pressing down on him. But he took the card anyway, gripping it tightly.

  James gestured to the second.

  "The other is my business card. If you ever need help, just give me a call."

  James would’ve given more, but the SDS was as business-minded as ever, only paying him his 1.5 million cut instead of the full payment from the others. And he still had a fuel cell to buy… and a lot of gear to replace.

  With that, James stood, giving the boy a final nod before heading for the door.

  He didn’t say I’m sorry. He never did.

  James stepped outside, the cool air hitting him as he approached his car. He paused for just a moment, glancing back at the house one last time.

  Then, without another word, he got in, started the engine, and drove away.

  Ryan’s story was different. The man had no family—or at least none that James knew about. Ryan had talked about friends he used to travel with, but who knew where they were now? Maybe dead. Maybe wandering the wastes. Either way, there was no one to give anything to. No one to grieve for him.

  So James would give him a proper send off.

  He found a nice spot on a hill, where an old, stubborn tree stood, its roots tangled deep in the cracked earth. From here, he could see for miles—nothing but rolling wilderness, the scarred remains of a world that refused to die completely. It was as good a resting place as any.

  James knelt down, pulling out his compact shovel and digging a small hole in the tree’s shadow. It wasn’t much, but it would do. He reached into his pocket and pulled out Ryan’s necklace—a simple silver cross, worn down by time and dirt. He placed it in the earth carefully and with respect.

  Then he took out a bottle of whiskey. Not the cheap stuff. A bottle that had somehow survived the end of the world, hidden away in some forgotten bunker until he got his hands on it. He poured two glasses.

  One for himself.

  One for Ryan.

  Lifting his own glass, he took a slow sip, letting the burn settle in his throat. Then, without a word, he tipped the other over, letting the amber liquid spill into the dirt, soaking into the fresh grave.

  "I don’t know if this is your first drink, but I figured your last should be good."

  He let the silence hang for a moment. Then he stood, leaving the half-empty bottle leaning against the tree before walking away.

  There was nothing left to say.

  With that done, James finally got what he had done this whole thing for.

  The fuel cell.

  It was beautiful. Sleek, state-of-the-art, off-the-line tech. It was built to last centuries, and to James, it was worth every damn credit. He ran a hand over its smooth, reinforced casing, feeling a rare sense of satisfaction settle in his chest.

  A single tear escaped him.

  He turned to his car, running his fingers along the frame like it was an old friend.

  "Told you I’d get you one."

  With the fuel cell secured, James restocked his gear. New armor, new ammunition, supplies—everything he had lost, replaced. Everything except his blade. That, he’d have to retrieve from New York, where the bladesmith who forged it still worked.

  But he had a feeling Virginia and the upper old state wouldn’t be safe for much longer.

  The air was changing. He could feel it.

  James climbed into his car, started the engine, and drove. Norfolk faded into the distance behind him, swallowed by the horizon.

  As the tires ate up the cracked asphalt, he reached for his holo-disc and slid it into place.

  The first strum of a guitar cut through the hum of the engine.

  "The city's burnin’ in my mirror, but I don’t look back…"

  James smirked, tapping his fingers against the wheel in time with the rhythm.

  "Left the ghosts and the dead men in the cracks…"

  He didn’t sing along. Didn’t need to.

  He didn’t know if this would be his last time here.

  But if he made it back from his hunt alive…

  He had a feeling he’d see this city again.