Chapter 4

Elena's boots splashed through the rancid water of the sewer, the sound echoing off the crumbling walls. The air was thick—decay, mildew, and something metallic that clung to the back of her throat.

Her burnt hand throbbed, but she clutched the communicator tighter, the edges digging into her palm. She didn't care.

The call had been made.

The last lifeline had been cast.

And now, all she could do was pray it didn't snap.

The man's voice still echoed in her mind—calm, measured, almost too casual for the weight of the world hanging between them.

And then the girl's voice.

Sharp. Furious. Cutting through the conversation like a blade.

Elena had hung up first, before the argument on the other end could spiral further. But she knew the girl hadn't been finished.

Neither was Elena.

She found the others huddled in the tunnel's widened section, their figures slumped against the damp walls.

The single bulb above them flickered, its dying light casting long, jagged shadows across their faces.

Kellan. Lira. Soren. Dax.

The last of them.

Each bore the weight of their shared desperation.

Their bodies tense.

Their eyes hollow.

Elena stepped into the light, her tattered coat swishing around her legs.

"He's meeting us."

Silence.

She felt the weight of their gazes. The mix of skepticism, exhaustion, and the tiniest flicker of something dangerous—hope.

Kellan shifted first, rolling his broad shoulders, his scarred knuckles flexing.

A low snort.

"Good news, huh? Doesn't feel like it."

Lira scoffed, cracking her neck. "So, after the girl told you to go to hell, he's still coming? Sounds shaky."

Soren twirled her blade, her frost-kissed hair catching the dim light.

"I'll believe it when I see it, Voss. We're running on fumes here."

Dax, ever the quiet one, lifted his hooded eyes.

His voice was barely above a whisper.

"A chance is better than nothing. But I'm not holding my breath."

Elena's chest tightened. Their doubt was a knife to the ribs, but she forced herself to keep her stance firm.

"It's something."

Her voice didn't waver.

"We've got no other moves."

Kellan took a step forward, his shadow looming over her.

His next words weren't a threat—not quite.

"If this flops," his voice was low, rough, "I'm done. I'll join the villains—live a little longer, at least."

Lira nodded, bitter and sharp.

"Same. I'm tired of running. Might as well get something out of this mess."

Soren's blade stilled.

Her glare was ice.

"I'd rather die fighting than bend a knee to those bastards."

Dax shrugged.

"Death or defiance. I don't care. Just not surrender. But I'll see this through."

Elena exhaled sharply.

"You're splitting already?"

Her good eye burned as she looked at them.

"We haven't even tried."

The bulb buzzed, casting their shifting expressions in fragmented light.

Finally, Lira tilted her head, curiosity edging past cynicism.

"Who the hell are they, anyway?"

Elena's pulse quickened.

She steadied herself.

"Before they retired—"

She met each of their gazes.

"She was S-class. He was A-class."

Kellan raised an eyebrow.

Skepticism thick in his tone.

"Names. Give us something to chew on."

Elena's burnt fingers curled slightly.

"Her hero name was Darkshadow. His was Fireboy."

A beat of silence.

Then—

Laughter.

Kellan let out a bark of disbelief.

"Fireboy?"

He doubled over.

"Are you—he sounds twelve!"

Lira cackled, slapping her thigh.

"A decade ago? Rankings were a joke back then."

Soren smirked, flipping her blade.

"Maybe he's Fireman now. All grown up."

Dax was quieter. But when he spoke, his words carried weight.

"She's right. Standards changed."

His hood slipped slightly, revealing tired eyes.

"An A-class from ten years ago might be B-class today."

Lira snapped her fingers.

"Exactly. If they were S and A back then—"

Her grin widened.

"They're probably washed-up nobodies now."

Elena's burnt hand twitched.

Her frustration bubbled to the surface.

"They were legends."

Kellan crossed his arms.

"And where the hell have those legends been?"

His voice was cold.

"Hiding out while we bled? What kind of heroes does that make them?"

Elena's patience snapped.

"They're our shot."

Her tone was final.

"I've set the meet. Time and place."

She turned sharply, splashing away.

"Come if you want. Or don't."

The others watched her go.

The bulb swayed above them, casting their shadows in restless, uncertain shapes.

Kellan kicked the muck.

His expression was grim.

"She's delusional."

But his voice was quieter now.

"I've got nothing better. I'm in—for now."

Lira rolled her shoulders.

"If it's a bust, I'm out. But villains do sound cozier every day."

Soren sheathed her blade, her tone edged with ice.

"I'll go. But I'm not bowing to some has-beens."

Dax simply pulled his hood lower.

"Curiosity," he muttered.

"Or just no reason to stay here."

Their reluctant agreement hung in the air.

A fragile pact born of desperation.

As they dispersed into the shadows, the weight of the decision settled like a storm on the horizon.

Beyond the cities. Beyond the war.

A remote island sat untouched by the world's ruin.

Towering trees stretched skyward, their canopies a thick, green veil. The air hummed with the rustle of leaves, the scent of pine, the distant crash of ocean waves.

Nestled within the wilderness was a house.

A home built for escape.

Its walls were smooth cedar, weathered to honey-brown. The sloped roof gleamed with slate tiles. Wide windows framed the trees, their dark iron edges glinting under the afternoon light.

The garden bloomed wild.

Roses bled red, lavender swayed purple, sunflowers stood tall, golden faces drinking in the sun. A stone path wound through the chaos, leading to a porch where a chipped teapot sat forgotten.

Inside, warmth and quiet.

A fireplace crackled, flickering golden light across well-worn bookshelves.

And then—

A sharp voice cut through the peace.

"You can't be serious, Ryn!"

A young man's voice—calm, strained.

"She sounded desperate, Mira."

Footsteps. A shadow pacing.

"We swore we were done with this," Mira snarled.

Ryn exhaled.

"I'm just going to hear her out."

A pause.

Then a sharp rustle.

The unmistakable sounds of a struggle.

Then—

The slam of a door.

The night swallowed their argument whole.