Chapter Two: “No Need for Heroes”

Chapter Two:

"No Need for Heroes"

The amber glow of the evening sun stretched over the broken streets of Millbrook, painting them in fading gold. What had once been a charming English town, a place of cobblestone roads and warm-lit storefronts, was now a husk of itself, hollowed out by ration shortages and quiet despair. The old high street stood in eerie stillness, the Georgian shopfronts covered in dust and half-torn notices, ghosts of a past that no one could afford to remember.

Emily Mortimore passed silently through it, her hands deep in her coat pockets. She had long since grown used to walking alone. The moment her father disappeared, so did the illusion of civility. Their true colors had been waiting beneath the surface, and now, they didn't bother hiding them.

She understood why. She lived in the house on the hill, one of the last standing remnants of privilege in a place that had burned through every scrap of its dignity just to survive. While others stood in ration lines for water and processed food, her home's climate control hummed away, filtering out the world's collapse.

She hated that they weren't wrong about her.

A commotion near the rationing station snapped her attention to the crowd. A surge of people crushed forward, voices rising in a frenzy. Too many people, not enough supplies. The same scene that played out every week, everywhere.

Then she saw the child.

A girl, no older than six, lay sprawled on the pavement, her fragile body vanishing beneath the crush of boots and hunger. Emily didn't think. She just moved.

A sharp exhale, a push forward, and she was there, slipping into the narrow space where the girl had fallen. Small limbs pressed against the filth of the pavement, fingers scrabbling for purchase. She was going to be trampled.

Emily dropped to one knee, shielding her with her body. "Hold on, baby. I got you."

The child's frightened eyes locked onto hers. Panic. Then… calm.

Momentum. Instinct. Power wasn't just strength, it was timing, precision, knowing exactly when to move, when to strike. And right now, it was about knowing when to pull.

Emily tucked her tight against her chest, spun on her heel, and pushed through the wall of bodies. When they broke free of the press, the girl let out a gasping sob.

She was safe.

Emily crouched, brushing damp strands of hair from the girl's forehead. "Are you hurt?"

The child shook her head. Thin. Underfed. Just like everyone else.

A figure stepped forward from the thinning crowd, a man, ragged and hollow-eyed. The kind of person this town had been showing by the dozen. He stared at Emily, then past her, as if seeing something only he understood.

He spat.

The wet impact struck her cheek, warm and humiliating.

Emily stood still. Expressionless. But inside, she burned. It would have been easier if they were wrong about her. But they weren't.

The man's lip curled. "Go back to your glass house, Mortimore. You don't get to play hero."

No one spoke. No one stopped him. The silence was its own verdict.

She met his gaze for a long, hard second before turning. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

She felt the eyes on her back as she started toward the community center. But before she could reach the entrance, a woman rushed forward, arms outstretched. "I'll take her." The attendant scooped the child into her embrace without hesitation, barely sparing Emily a glance.

Emily stepped back, hands curling into fists before falling limp. She wasn't needed. She never had been.

But she still tried.

"Let me help. I can pass out food, clean up, take care of the sick, anything."

A tired-looking attendant barely spared her a glance. "We've got it covered."

Emily persisted. "Are you sure? I just want to help."

"Go home, Mortimore," someone muttered from the line of waiting people. A few others nodded in agreement.

She swallowed hard. There was nothing left for her here.

Emily turned away, her stomach knotting. She had done everything that she could. She lingered for a moment longer, letting the sting of rejection settle before stepping outside into the cold night air and going home.

The walk home was silent. The kind of silence that settled deep, wrapping around her soul. She barely noticed when her feet carried her past the front gate. She would do what she always did after this routine. Practice.

Her target stood against the reinforced wall, riddled with arrows.

She steadied her breath, drew back the bowstring, and released. Thwack. Another clean hit.

Emily had been holding a bow since before she could walk. Her father had made sure of that. She remembered the first time, her tiny hands struggling to grip the smooth wood, his larger hands guiding her, steadying her aim.

"You don't need to be strong," he had told her. "You just need to breathe. Focus."

She could still hear his voice from years ago, calm, firm, certain. "Focus is freedom. In a world of chaos, we make our own stillness."

Another arrow loosed. The steady rhythm of training settled her mind, grounding her in the familiarity of repetition. Each shot, a heartbeat. Each impact, an answer she was still trying to find.

This wasn't just practice. This was survival.

She put down her bow and headed to her father's study.

The house was a mausoleum. A monument to everything he left behind.

The study was untouched.

He had left everything as it was.

His notes, his files, his carefully logged research, all of it sat there, waiting.

Emily's fingers trailed over the desk's surface, leaving a trace in the thick dust. He could have taken it all with him. Could have burned it. Could have hidden it. But he hadn't.

And somehow, that made it worse.

Her eyes dropped to the medallion on her neck.

It had been warm when he gave it to her. His voice steady. Not afraid.

"Emily, I have to go."

"Where?"

He had smiled. Not with sadness. Not with regret.

A knowing one.

"I can't tell you, but I'm sure you'll see me again."

"What...? When?"

His hand closed over hers, pressing the medallion into her palm. "In The Dive."

Her breath now shuddered as she traced the edges of the medallion. He had set the path, knowing she would walk it. But had he known where it would lead?

She turned the medallion between her fingers, its markings waiting, unreadable. A key without a lock. A path without a map. Four small holes dotted its surface, perfectly placed, almost like a button, waiting to be pressed.

Her father had left her something.

She just didn't know what it was. Yet.

But she would.