Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The team had been on the run for days. Their mission, to uncover crucial information about their mother’s whereabouts and her connection to the mysterious forces hunting them, had taken them to the farthest reaches of the Raelo they were on. Every step forward felt like a race against time, but the enemies that pursued them were relentless, leaving them with little space to breathe. The map they’d secured had been hard won, and the weight of their findings made it all the more urgent to escape and regroup.

They’d been chased through abandoned cities, hidden in caverns, and narrowly avoided traps set to capture or kill them. The atmosphere was tense—dangerous. Every corner they turned felt like an ambush waiting to happen. It wasn’t just the physical threat that loomed over them anymore; it was the gnawing pressure of time running out, the uncertainty of whether they could find their mother before their enemies found them.

When the team finally located the ship—an old but functional transport vessel capable of getting them off the Raelo—it felt like a miracle. This was their only chance to escape. The ship was barely operational, with parts of its systems having long since broken down, but it was capable of getting them far away from the Raelo and the threats that lurked in the shadows.

The problem was, the ship was preparing to launch, and they didn’t have enough time to fix all of its failing systems. Even worse, they weren’t the only ones aware of its location. The enemy forces had tracked them down, and a surprise attack was imminent. They had mere minutes before the enemy would catch up, and they needed to act fast.

The team scrambled to board the ship, securing their belongings, activating whatever systems they could, but it became clear: they could only escape if someone stayed behind. The ship’s security system was locked down—set to protect its vital systems and prevent unauthorized access—and it could only be unlocked manually from a console in the ship’s engine room. But that meant one person would have to remain on the Raelo, risking being captured, or worse, while the others fled to safety.

The reality of the decision hit hard.

“We don’t have time,” Judah said, voice tense as he stared at the ship’s countdown, which flashed on the screen. “We’re either all on this ship, or none of us are. We can’t afford to wait for someone to override the security system manually. We need someone to stay behind.”

“We’re not just going to sacrifice one of us,” Michelle snapped, her voice full of anger and panic. She clenched her fists at her sides, pacing in front of the team. “There has to be another way. We fight, we figure something out. We’re not leaving anyone behind.”

“We don’t have time for another plan,” Josiah argued. “The ship will take off in minutes, and the hostiles will be here before we can blink. It’s either we leave now, or we all stay and fight, which means none of us leave.”

Micah stood back, his mind racing. His protective instinct flared up, but he fought to keep his thoughts clear. He knew what needed to be done, but he wasn’t about to let anyone else make that choice for him.

“I’ll stay behind,” Michelle said before anyone could protest. She stepped forward, meeting Micah’s eyes. “I’ll stay and override the system. You’re not losing anyone else today.”

She spoke with certainty, but Micah’s heart twisted at the thought of her putting herself in harm’s way. He stepped forward immediately, his voice firm and resolute.

“No. You’re not staying behind.” He shook his head, jaw set. “ I’m the one who should do it.”

Michelle froze, a dark scowl forming. “You’re not making that decision for me, Micah. I’ll stay behind, I’ll take care of it.”

“No,” Micah repeated, his gaze hardening. “You’ve already been through too much. You don’t get to keep sacrificing yourself.”

The two stared each other down, the rest of the team watching, unable to intervene. In that moment, the urgency of the situation didn’t matter; it was all about the weight of the decision. Both of them were willing to make the sacrifice, both of them trying to protect the other from the pain of loss.

“Michelle,” Micah finally said, his voice softer now, almost pleading, “this is what I have to do. We both know it.” He turned to face the rest of the team. “I can’t live with the thought of leaving you all to deal with this without me.”

The silence in the air thickened, and Michelle’s expression faltered. “Micah, no—”

“You’re the reason I’m doing this,” he interrupted. “If it were up to me, I’d stay by your side, but you know this has to be done. You’ve already been through enough. You don’t have to keep shouldering this burden.” His voice cracked slightly at the last words, but he held her gaze with a steady resolve. “It has to be me. I’ll get the system online, and you all get to safety. It’s the only way.”

The air inside the ship’s control room was thick with tension. The countdown for departure continued to tick down, and every second felt like a hammer to Michelle’s heart. Their enemies were closing in, and time was running out. There was no other option, no other way. The sacrifice had to be made—someone had to stay behind to ensure the rest of the team could escape. But she couldn’t accept it. She wouldn’t.

Micah, ever the protector, stood resolute, his face drawn in determination, but Michelle could see the weariness in his eyes. She could see it all—the weight of the decision, the knowledge that he was about to make the ultimate sacrifice for the people he loved. And it cut her to the bone. Her fingers were shaking, her heart pounding in her chest, but she wasn’t going to let him walk away this time.

“Why do you always do this?” she demanded, her voice tight with frustration. “Why do you always put yourself last, Micah? You’re not a martyr! ” Her voice cracked as she stepped forward, her hand reaching for his in desperation. “You can’t just keep sacrificing yourself for everyone else! It’s not fair!” The words spilled out in a rush, the raw emotion breaking through the walls she’d tried so hard to maintain.

Micah flinched, the words hitting him like a physical blow, but he didn’t waver. He knew why he did it, even if it didn’t make it any easier to explain. “Michelle, I—I can’t let anything happen to you. Or to any of them.” He took a step closer, his voice steady despite the storm in his eyes. “I’m the one who can take this on. I’m the one who can do it. We don’t have time for anything else.”

Her grip tightened around his hand, and she looked up at him with eyes full of pleading. “But why, Micah? Why you? You’ve already lost so much for me. For us. And now you want to lose yourself too?” Her words felt like daggers, each one a reminder of the pain they had both endured—the losses, the sacrifices, the fears that never seemed to let up. She had been bracing for this moment for so long, but now that it was here, her mind couldn’t wrap around the idea of losing him again.

She shook her head, her voice breaking. “I’m not going to lose you too, Micah. I can’t. I can’t do it.”

There was a tremor in his hand as he reached up to cup her cheek, brushing away the tear that had slipped down her face. “You’re not going to lose me, Michelle,” he said softly, though the finality in his tone sent a chill through her. “I’ll always be with you, no matter what happens.”

His eyes were pained, yet resolute, as if he’d already accepted the fate that he had to face. She couldn’t bear to see that look in his eyes—not again. She couldn’t accept that he was willing to walk away from her for their safety, that he would give up his own life for theirs.

“You’re wrong,” Michelle whispered, voice shaking as she refused to let go of his hand. “You’re wrong. You’re not supposed to be the one who sacrifices everything. I—” Her words faltered as the reality of the situation washed over her. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself, but it wasn’t enough. “I can’t let you go, Micah. I won’t. ”

The ship’s engines hummed quietly in the background, the countdown growing louder as the urgency of the situation weighed on them both. Every second counted. And yet, in that moment, nothing felt more important than the pain in her chest—the fear of losing him, the fear of never being able to hold him again.

Micah exhaled sharply, his own resolve beginning to waver at the sight of her anguish. He had known this would hurt her, but seeing it now, hearing the break in her voice, made the weight of his choice that much heavier. But he couldn’t take it back. He couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t do this.

“Michelle…” His voice trembled slightly, but he swallowed hard and continued. “You mean everything to me. But this is the only way. Please understand that.”

She nodded, her eyes filled with unshed tears, but she didn’t let go of his hand. Her breath hitched, her heart shattering as she realized the magnitude of what he was saying. He was leaving. Leaving her. And there was nothing she could do to stop it.

The others were ready to leave, their expressions grim, but they knew there was no stopping Micah now. It was his decision, and it was already made.

Michelle stepped closer, her lips trembling as she reached up to kiss him—a soft, desperate kiss, as if trying to imprint the moment into her mind, as if she could somehow hold onto him with just this touch. He kissed her back gently, the kiss filled with a quiet, aching sadness that neither of them could fully express.

“I’ll be right here when you come back,” she whispered against his lips, the words barely audible.

Micah pulled away just enough to look at her, his eyes soft, but filled with the weight of everything he was leaving behind. “You will,” he promised, his voice low. “You’ll always be with me, no matter where I go.”

Her fingers tightened around his, unwilling to let go even as he stepped away. The others were waiting. There was no more time. The ship’s countdown was almost finished.

“Goodbye, Michelle,” Micah said, his voice strained with emotion. “I’ll always love you.”

“I love you too,” Michelle whispered, her throat tight, the words feeling too heavy to say, but she forced them out anyway. She couldn’t lose him without telling him—without him knowing. “Please come back to me.”

And with that, he turned, disappearing into the ship’s interior to complete the override. Michelle stood there, her heart in her throat, watching him go. The seconds ticked away, and the ship’s engines roared to life, but she didn’t move. She couldn’t. Not yet.

—

The seconds felt like hours as Micah sprinted toward the ship’s systems, his breath coming in sharp gasps. His mind was focused solely on the task ahead, but beneath the calm determination, his heart hammered painfully in his chest. He couldn’t afford to hesitate. The ship’s engines would fire soon, and they had no time to spare.

Then, with a deep breath and a quiet prayer, Micah pressed the button that would seal the ship’s fate—and theirs. His hand hovered for just a moment over the control panel, as if lingering in the moment, as if wishing there could be another way, another choice. But the seconds were slipping away, and he knew there was no turning back.

As the button clicked into place, the ship’s engines roared to life behind him, a deafening sound that vibrated through his body. The countdown began. Time was running out faster than he could process. He glanced up at the door to the ship, imagining Michelle’s face—the panic, the desperation, the unwillingness to let him go—and his heart twisted in response.

The countdown reached thirty seconds.

His fingers trembled as he worked frantically, entering the final security codes, overriding the ship’s system so it would function without him. His mind raced faster than the seconds. His thoughts kept drifting back to Michelle—her face, her voice, her pleas. He had promised her that he would always come back, but how could he? Not like this.

The countdown continued. Fifteen seconds.

“Please… stay safe,” he whispered under his breath, his voice barely audible above the hum of the engines.

He couldn’t help it. He thought of the way she had kissed him earlier, the feeling of her hands in his, her voice full of love and fear. He thought of her words, Please come back to me. How could he? The weight of the sacrifice was almost too much to bear, but he knew it had to be done.

Five seconds.

He wiped the sweat from his brow, but his resolve didn’t waver. The mission was too important. He was too important to let them down.

With a final glance at the ship’s systems, he sealed the last command and bolted toward the exit. But as the doors began to close behind him, he could already hear the roar of the ship taking off. The ground beneath him trembled, and he felt the pull of the ship's departure as if it were a physical weight on his chest.

The ship lifted off, the hum of the engines filling the air. His heart thudded painfully in his chest, and for a fleeting moment, he thought he heard Michelle’s voice. The final words she had whispered to him echoed in his mind: I love you, too.

His eyes burned, but he refused to let the tears fall. He couldn’t. Not now. Not when the mission wasn’t over. His final words—those words he had told her—played on a loop in his mind: You’ll always be with me, no matter where I go

As the ship soared into the sky, his body still frozen in place, Micah felt the crushing weight of his choice. He had made this decision for them, for the team, for Michelle. But it didn’t make it any easier. And as the last remnants of the ship’s roar faded into the distance, he was left alone in the empty silence, the aching void of separation pulling at his soul.

The seconds felt like hours as Michelle stood frozen, her gaze fixed on the doors that Micah had disappeared through. Her breath was shallow, her heart heavy with the realization that, no matter how many times she tried to tell herself it wasn’t true, he was really gone. The ship had taken off, and he was no longer with them. The silence inside the ship seemed to echo louder than any sound, the absence of his presence filling every corner.

Shiloh, Judah, Josiah, and Elijah had already gathered near the control deck, exchanging quiet, sorrowful glances. They were heartbroken to lose their brother. Micah had always been their rock, their protector. But it was the unspoken worry over Michelle that weighed most heavily on them now. They could feel the agony radiating off of her, and they knew the pain of seeing her lose the one person who had meant everything to her. She had been holding it together for so long—strong, independent, stubborn—but this, this was different.

Shiloh was the first to step forward, her footsteps barely making a sound as she approached her friend. She hesitated for just a moment, then placed a gentle hand on Michelle’s shoulder.

“Hey,” Shiloh said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Michelle didn’t respond. She remained still, her eyes unblinking as if she were waiting for Micah to come back through the doors, as if she could will him to return just by standing there. But the reality was sinking in, and the numbness had begun to crack.

“He’s gone,” Michelle’s voice was hollow, lifeless, and it shook with the weight of her grief. “He’s really gone.” She said it like a statement, as though there was no more denial left in her, just the cold truth.

Shiloh’s heart broke at the sound of Michelle’s voice—so different from the strong woman who had always faced everything head-on. Her friend’s resolve, the tough exterior she had always worn like armor, was crumbling in front of her. It wasn’t just that they had lost Micah; it was that Michelle had lost a piece of herself. She had already lost so much, and now this.

Michelle finally turned, her face contorting with the pain she had been holding back for so long. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she held them back, trying so desperately to keep her composure.

Before Shiloh could say anything more, Michelle’s shoulders trembled with the effort of holding herself together, and then the walls she had so carefully built collapsed. She was no longer able to keep the grief at bay.

Without a word, Shiloh pulled her into a tight hug. The embrace was warm, comforting, but it couldn’t take away the ache. Michelle buried her face in Shiloh’s shoulder, her sobs coming in sharp, quiet gasps as the full weight of Micah’s sacrifice hit her all at once. She had been so strong for so long, but now that strength had faded, replaced with the raw vulnerability of a woman who had just lost the love of her life.

The others stayed back, giving Shiloh and Michelle the space they needed. Their eyes were full of their own sorrow, but they knew this moment was for Michelle. No one could understand the depth of her pain—how much Micah had meant to her, how deeply she had loved him and still did. But Shiloh was there, holding her in the way that only a friend could, letting her cry when she needed to, offering her comfort without needing words.

“I’m so sorry,” Shiloh whispered, her own tears threatening to spill, but she held them back. She couldn’t afford to break down right now—not when Michelle needed her.

The seconds stretched into minutes, and the sobs slowly began to quiet, but Michelle didn’t pull away. She was exhausted, emotionally and physically, and the comfort of Shiloh’s embrace was the only thing grounding her in that moment.

“I didn’t want to lose him,” Michelle whispered hoarsely after a long silence, her voice trembling. “I couldn’t—couldn’t bear the thought of him never coming back to me.”

Shiloh squeezed her tighter, nodding even though she knew there were no words that could fix what had just happened. “I know,” she murmured, her voice soft and steady despite the tears in her eyes. “I know.”

But Michelle wasn’t done. She pulled away slightly, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, her face pale and blotchy from crying. She took a deep breath, though it was shaky. “I just— I don’t know how to let go. He’s always been the one who kept us all together, kept me together. And now… now it feels like I’m losing everything all over again.”

Shiloh gently cupped Michelle’s face in her hands, forcing her to meet her gaze. “You’re not alone, Michelle. You’ve never been alone. We’re all here for you, and we’ll get through this together. You don’t have to do this on your own.”

Michelle looked up at her, the pain still there, but there was a flicker of hope in her eyes. The team was still here. They were all still here, even without Micah. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to get through the darkness.

For now, it had to be.

As Shiloh pulled Michelle back into the hug, the weight of everything—the heartache, the loss, the void left by Micah’s absence—seemed to sink deeper. Michelle clung to her, desperate for any ounce of comfort she could find. Shiloh held her tightly, not letting go, her own tears mingling with Michelle’s as she quietly whispered reassurances. But even though Shiloh’s presence was a balm to her raw wounds, the absence of Micah was suffocating.

And just as Michelle’s sobs began to quiet, feeling the smallest flicker of warmth from Shiloh’s embrace, she felt movement behind her. Without warning, Judah, Josiah, and Elijah appeared at her side, each of them standing there, silently offering their own version of comfort.

It was Judah who stepped forward first, his hands resting gently on Michelle’s back as he joined the embrace. His usual sarcastic edge was gone, replaced with an overwhelming sorrow that mirrored Michelle’s. He wasn’t known for showing a lot of emotion, but in this moment, his grief was raw, evident in the way his shoulders were taut with the weight of it all.

“I know it doesn’t make sense right now,” Judah said quietly, his voice rough, but filled with sincerity, “but we’re not going anywhere, Michelle. You’re not alone in this.”

Josiah stepped forward next, his hands reaching out to touch Michelle’s shoulders. He didn’t need to say anything; his presence was enough. The understanding in his eyes spoke volumes. They didn’t need to say a word to know how much they all shared in this loss. Josiah was always the one who held things in, the one who kept a calm exterior, but his vulnerability now was evident in the way he stood beside her.

Elijah reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he touched Michelle’s arm. “We’re all here for you,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “Micah may be gone, but we’re not going anywhere. We’ll get through this as a team, Michelle. Just like we always do.”

With their presence, Michelle’s heart felt a little lighter, though the weight of losing Micah still felt unbearable. She didn’t pull away from Shiloh, but the combined warmth of her brothers enveloped her, and for the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to lean into the comfort they offered. They may not have had Micah anymore, but they still had each other—and that was enough to keep her going, even if just for a little while longer.

The group stood together in that quiet moment, all of them wrapped in their shared grief and loss. The silence was heavy, but it wasn’t oppressive. There was something healing in the way they all leaned into one another, a reminder that no matter how much they’d lost, they still had something—each other.

Shiloh’s voice was gentle as she spoke, breaking the silence. “We’re not going to let you go through this alone, Michelle. We promise.”

Michelle nodded, though the tears continued to fall. The ache in her chest hadn’t eased, but there was a small flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, with them by her side, she could find the strength to keep moving forward.

For now, that was all she could ask for. And with the arms of her brothers around her, she knew she wasn’t alone. She’d find a way to keep going, no matter how hard it was.

And for Micah… for him, she would keep fighting.

—

Micah stood alone in the desolate expanse, the sound of the ship’s engines fading in the distance. His heart still pounded in his chest as the last echo of the countdown rang through his mind. He’d made his choice, and the consequences of it were now set in motion. The silence of the empty space around him was deafening.

The moment he pressed the button to seal their fate, he knew it was too late to turn back. He could only watch as the ship lifted off, taking his family—taking Michelle—away to safety. The weight of that final decision pressed heavily on him, but he didn’t allow himself to feel regret. It was what needed to be done, what he had to do. He wasn’t a martyr, he reminded himself. He wasn’t doing this for praise. He was doing it because he loved them too much to let them be caught, too much to risk losing them.

He took a deep breath, pushing away the rising tide of emotion that threatened to break through his calm façade. But it wasn’t just the mission, the responsibility, that kept him rooted to the spot. It was the thought of Michelle, of her tear-streaked face when he left. He would never forget the desperate plea in her eyes, the way her hand had gripped his, trying to hold him back.

His throat tightened, and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push away the image of her—the pain on her face when she realized he wouldn’t be coming back with them. He knew she was angry with him, frustrated that he always put himself at risk, always made the hard choice to sacrifice himself for others. But in that moment, he couldn’t afford to think of her pain. He couldn’t afford to think of what it would mean to lose her, to leave her behind.

But he was still here. Alone.

Micah turned and made his way to the small outpost near the ship, the one place he could start working on the override that would allow the enemy’s pursuit to be delayed long enough for the others to escape. His footsteps echoed hollowly in the empty space, each one feeling like a small piece of him breaking away.

He let out a shaky breath and pulled up the holographic interface that would allow him to take control of the ship’s systems. The moment he connected to the system, his mind felt like it was on overdrive—calculating, adjusting, overriding sequences with a speed born from necessity. But even as he worked, his mind kept returning to Michelle’s face, to her words.

“Why do you always do this? You’re not a martyr, Micah!”

Her voice cracked in his mind, and he flinched, pushing the memory aside.

It wasn’t martyrdom, he told himself. It wasn’t. It was love. And love meant doing whatever it took to protect the people you cared about—even if that meant sacrificing yourself.

The seconds ticked by, and the urgency of the situation gnawed at him. He could already hear the sounds of the enemy forces approaching, the distant hum of their ships cutting through the silence. His time was running out.

The last thing he did before finishing the override was to pull out his communicator, sending a final message to the team.

“I’m sorry, Michelle. I wish... I wish I could be there with you. But this is my choice. This is for all of you.”

“I’m sorry Michelle,”

It wasn’t much, but it was the only thing he could offer at that moment. He wanted them to know, just in case.

As the override kicked in, he heard the rumble of the enemy ships closing in. His job was done. The rest of the team was safe—for now. But as he turned toward the incoming threat, something deep inside him twisted painfully.

He wasn’t sure if he’d ever see them again, especially Michelle. His heart hurt at the thought, but he pushed it away. There was no time for regrets now. There was only the mission, only the need to buy his family as much time as possible.

Micah steadied his breath, looked toward the sky where the ship had vanished, and then squared his shoulders.

For them, he would do anything.

And as the first enemy ship crested the horizon, Micah took one last look at the empty expanse around him, preparing to face whatever came next.

As Micah stood there, the darkened expanse of space stretching out before him, the distant hum of enemy ships growing louder with each passing second, Michelle’s voice echoed in his mind.

“You’re not a martyr, Micah.”

Her words cut through the storm of his thoughts, sharper than any of the blows he’d faced in battle. She had been so angry, so frustrated with him, and it hurt in a way he couldn’t put into words. Why do you always do this? she’d asked. You don’t have to do this. You’ve already lost so much for me.

His chest tightened at the memory. He had already lost so much, but it was all for them, for her.

Another flash of her tear-streaked face crossed his mind. He could still see her hand gripping his, her desperation. I’m not going to lose you, too.

The words stung. His pulse quickened as he remembered the softness in her voice, the vulnerability she had tried so hard to hide. He could still feel the pressure of her fingers on his skin, the way she held him as if she could keep him from slipping away.

And now, he was here— alone —away from her, away from the team. The weight of that realization was heavier than anything he’d ever carried before.

“I’m not going to lose you, too.”

Her voice was louder now, filling his thoughts, pushing out everything else. He could hear the raw emotion in those words, the pleading tone that had broken through the anger. She hadn’t wanted him to go, had begged him to stay, to come with her.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t risk their lives, couldn’t put them in danger just to keep himself safe. They deserved a chance at survival, a future free of the threats that had haunted them. And he had made the choice to give them that chance, even if it meant never seeing them again.

I love you, Michelle. You’re my reason for everything.

The thought came unbidden, and the ache in his heart only deepened. His heart hurt with the weight of it, with the certainty that this was the last time he would ever speak those words to her. I love you. It wasn’t just a declaration, it was his truth. The truth that would stay with him, whether she ever heard it or not.

As the first of the enemy ships loomed closer, a part of him wanted to believe that she would come back for him, that somehow they would find a way to rescue him. But the more realistic side of him knew that she couldn’t, that he couldn’t ask her to risk everything for him.

So, he pushed the thought aside and focused on the task at hand, overriding the systems and preparing himself for whatever came next. But the echo of her last words followed him like a shadow, reminding him of what he was leaving behind.

“You’re not a martyr.”

But maybe she was wrong. Maybe this was what it meant to love someone—sacrificing everything to make sure they were safe, even if it meant never seeing them again.

The rumble of the approaching ships grew louder, and Micah clenched his fists, ready to face the battle ahead. But even as he steeled himself, her words refused to leave him. He’d done this for her. He’d done this for all of them.

And even if he didn’t survive, at least he knew he’d given them a chance.

“I’m not going to lose you, too.”

Her words lingered in the air around him, a final whisper of the love he had left behind. And in that moment, as the first blast of enemy fire lit up the horizon, Micah let out a steady breath, the weight of his decision settling over him.

Whatever came next, it had been worth it.

For her. For all of them.

The fire from the enemy ships grew closer, the sound of weapons discharging deafening as Micah continued to work quickly. His fingers flew over the console, overriding the ship’s security system with seconds to spare. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, but amidst it all, Michelle’s voice rang out like a bell.

“I’m not going to lose you, too.”

He could almost hear the way she’d said it—her voice trembling, raw with emotion. She’d been so scared, so vulnerable. And he hadn’t been able to reassure her, not the way he wanted. The pain in her voice, the fear that he might slip away, tore at him even now. He didn’t want to leave her like that, not with so many words left unsaid.

His hand hovered over the final button that would trigger the ship’s defensive protocols. His chest tightened, the weight of his decision pressing down on him with each breath. I love you, Michelle, he thought again, his heart hammering in his chest. He hadn’t said it enough—hadn’t shown her enough how much she meant to him. And now, it was too late.

But even if this was the last time he thought those words, he knew she would understand. She had to. She had to know that everything he was doing, every sacrifice he made, was because of her—because he couldn’t bear the thought of losing her, either.

With a final glance at the countdown on the screen, Micah made his decision. The ship’s systems had been secured. The countdown continued to tick down.

His thoughts drifted back to her. He’d always been the one to try and protect her, to keep her safe from harm. But in the end, she had always been the one to protect him, to show him that it was okay to lean on someone else, to let someone else help carry the burden. He should’ve let her in more, should’ve let her share this load.

But there was no time for regrets now.

The enemy ships were almost upon him.

The sound of a distant explosion rattled through the ship, and Micah flinched, his heart racing. He pushed himself back, standing straight as he mentally braced for what was about to happen. He knew this was it—his final stand, the moment where everything he’d fought for would either pay off or fall apart.

“I’m not going to lose you, too.”

The words echoed in his head, a final reminder of what he was leaving behind.

The seconds ticked away.

He swallowed hard, his voice barely a whisper. 

“I’m sorry, Michelle. I hate to leave you like this. I wish I could be there with you. But this is what I have to do.”

The enemy ships closed in, and Micah set his jaw. No turning back now. He was ready for whatever came next. 

His last thought before the explosion rocked the ship was of Michelle. That last image of her face—frustrated, worried, heartbroken. 

And, despite everything, a part of him still hoped. Still hoped she would come for him. That somehow, against all odds, she would find a way to save him.

But as the explosion sent shockwaves through the ship, Micah’s mind went blank, and all that remained was the faintest echo of her voice.

“I’m not going to lose you, too.”

And then, silence.

—

The ship was in full flight now, the engines humming steadily beneath them, but the air inside was thick with tension. Shiloh sat in the pilot’s seat, eyes glued to the view screen, trying to push away the knot in her stomach. Her fingers tightened on the controls as she fought to keep the ship steady, her mind racing. The others were quiet around her, their expressions a mix of sadness and disbelief.

Michelle had barely moved since they left the planet’s surface, her eyes vacant as she stared at the empty space where Micah had just been. He had been the one to stay behind, the one to sacrifice himself so they could escape, but the weight of that decision sat heavily on all of them.

“Shiloh,” Josiah’s voice broke the silence. “You doing okay?”

Shiloh didn’t answer right away. She was doing her best to focus on piloting the ship, trying not to let her emotions overwhelm her, but it was hard. She couldn’t stop thinking about Micah. What if it wasn’t enough? What if they never saw him again? Her stomach twisted at the thought, but she quickly forced the worry aside. They had to move forward. They had to survive.

“I’m fine,” she finally said, her voice tight. “But I—I don’t know what’s happening with Micah right now. I can’t…” Her words trailed off, the unease in her chest too much to express.

Judah, who was seated next to her, clenched his fists on his lap. He was always the one to keep things together, to keep the tone light no matter what. But even he couldn’t hide the grief that clung to him now. They all knew what Micah was doing. They knew he’d be the one to ensure their escape, but the weight of that truth made it harder to breathe.

Michelle, however, was the hardest to watch. She hadn’t spoken a word since they left the surface, her gaze fixed on the spot where Micah had been just moments ago. Shiloh knew her older sister was struggling, but she didn’t know how to help. She couldn’t begin to imagine what Michelle was feeling. Losing Micah—again—was unthinkable. The bond they shared, the love they had for each other… Shiloh couldn’t understand it fully, but she could see how it had changed them both.

“I’m sorry, Michelle,” Shiloh whispered softly, her voice breaking as she reached for her sister’s hand. “I know it hurts, but Micah… he did this for all of us. For you.”

Michelle didn’t respond, but Shiloh could see the way her shoulders tensed, the pain in her expression. Michelle’s tears were still unshed, but Shiloh could feel them, like a weight in the air.

Suddenly, a beeping sound filled the ship’s cockpit, and a flashing alert appeared on the screen. It was a message, incoming from Micah’s ship.

Shiloh froze, her breath catching in her throat. Her heart pounded as she reached for the console, hands trembling as she brought the message up on the screen.

The others all leaned in, sensing something significant.

The message was short—too short—but it was enough. Shiloh’s hands went cold as she read it out loud, her voice strained.

“I’m sorry, Michelle. I wish... I wish I could be there with you. But this is my choice. This is for all of you.”

For a split second, it felt like the entire world stopped. The message hung in the air, the words sinking into each of them like heavy stones.

Shiloh’s breath caught in her throat. She could barely hear anything over the pounding of her own pulse. The sound of her heart seemed so much louder than the message, louder than the others’ stunned silence.

And then came the final line, echoing in her mind like a thunderclap:

“I’m sorry, Michelle.”

The words were so simple, yet they carried so much weight. The sacrifice Micah was making was real. It was final.

Judah was the first to speak, his voice shaking, his eyes wide. “No… no, that can’t be it. There has to be more—”

But Michelle’s voice cut through his protests. It was barely above a whisper, but it was there. “No,” she said softly, her voice broken. “That’s it.”

The finality in her tone was like a dagger to Shiloh’s heart. She knew this was real, but hearing it from Michelle’s lips—hearing that the message Micah had left behind was his final goodbye—was the moment that it truly hit her. Micah wasn’t coming back.

Tears blurred Shiloh’s vision as she fought to hold it together, trying to keep the ship steady, trying to focus on the road ahead. But it was harder now than it had been before. Now that they knew the truth, the distance between them and Micah felt endless.

Michelle’s gaze remained fixed on the message, and for a moment, Shiloh thought she might break completely. The others, too, were holding their breath, waiting for something—anything—that could give them hope. But all they had were those words, that simple goodbye, and the aching reality of the danger they had just escaped.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Shiloh whispered, barely able to speak, “We have to keep going. We can’t turn back. We owe it to him to keep going.”

Michelle nodded, her eyes distant but resolute.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “We’ll keep going. For him.”

And so, with the weight of their loss settling in, they continued their journey through the stars, holding onto what little hope they had left—hope that one day, they would find a way to make it right, to honor the sacrifice Micah had made for them all.

—

The world around Micah seemed to implode in an instant, a blinding flash of light followed by an overwhelming pressure that crushed everything in its wake. The ship shuddered violently, its systems blinking red, alarms blaring in his ears as the shockwave of the explosion tore through the hull. For a moment, Micah felt weightless, suspended in time, as if everything around him had stopped moving. His breath caught in his throat, and his chest tightened as the pain of what he had just done—the decision he had made—settled like a stone in his gut.

For a split second, he wondered if he’d been too late, if his actions were futile, if he’d been wrong to think he could protect them all. His thoughts scrambled, racing through every possible outcome, his hand still hovering over the console, ready to make the final confirmation, but unable to take the step, as if the enormity of the moment had paralyzed him.

Then the ship lurched again, snapping him back to the present. The comms flickered to life, static crackling through the speakers. He could barely make out the words, but there was one that cut through the confusion: 

“Micah!”

It was Michelle’s voice. His heart clenched painfully at the sound of her name, at the desperation in her tone. I’m sorry, Michelle. I wish… I wish I could be there with you.

For the briefest moment, he thought he might be able to hear her one last time, but then everything went dark. The consoles in front of him blinked out, the screens fading to black as the ship was consumed by the explosion.

He didn’t know how long it was before the silence returned. It was a thick, suffocating kind of silence, the kind that stretched out endlessly, like a void. He could feel the cold creeping into his bones, and the faint taste of smoke lingered in his mouth. He tried to move, to breathe, but his body felt like it was made of lead. His mind was foggy, distant, unable to focus on anything except the sensation of weightlessness, as though the world had gone numb.

And yet, despite the disorienting darkness, he held onto one thing. Michelle.

I’ll always come back to you.

The words were a lifeline, a final echo of the love he felt for her, and in that moment, they were all he had left. He tried to reach for the comms, tried to send another message, but his hand faltered. His vision blurred again, and he found himself drifting. He felt as if he were suspended in a dream, detached from everything around him, his body no longer his own. 

I’m not going to lose you, too.

Her words. Her promise. He could still feel the warmth of her hand in his, the softness of her voice. And for a moment, Micah allowed himself to believe—just for a moment—that maybe, just maybe, she would find a way to pull him back. But deep down, he knew the truth.

He had made his choice.

And now, there was nothing left but the silence.

—

The ship’s engines hummed quietly as it came to a gentle stop in the Agency’s docking bay. The usual hum of activity in the bay had quieted, a hush falling over the space as everyone awaited the arrival of the team. A group had gathered in the spacious hangar, ready to greet the returning ship. Shiloh’s sister Mary stood near the front, her arms crossed, the worry evident on her face. Britney, her sister-in-law, was next to her, her posture stiff as though bracing for something she couldn’t name. David, her husband, stood slightly behind them, his face tight, unsure of what he would be walking into. 

Lorenzo and Alex, two of the techs who had been helping the team with their mission, were busy in the background, their eyes scanning the bay’s monitors, checking the ship’s diagnostics. But no one seemed to speak—no one dared break the stillness that lingered in the air. 

As the airlocks hissed open, the ramp descended with a soft clank, revealing the solemn group of travelers. 

Shiloh, Elijah, Judah, Josiah, and Michelle emerged first, their faces clouded with exhaustion and grief, the weight of the journey clearly taking its toll on them. They moved slowly, each step measured and heavy, the loss of Micah still a fresh wound.

Mary’s eyes immediately locked onto her sister, her face a mixture of concern and helplessness. Britney’s gaze darted between the group, her smile faltering as she saw the grim faces of her family. 

David gave them a nod, but the atmosphere made it clear that no words would come easy. No one spoke, the air thick with the tension of unspoken grief, fear, and the uncertainty that came with every mission. 

“Shiloh,” Mary called out, her voice quiet but full of worry. “Is everything...?”

Shiloh glanced at her sister, then turned away, the words stuck in her throat. She couldn’t say it—not yet. She didn’t want to speak the truth out loud, to admit what they had lost. It hung over them, a shadow too heavy to lift. 

Instead, Josiah answered, his voice rough from the emotional toll, “We couldn’t save him.” He didn’t have to say more. The words spoke for themselves. The silence that followed was deafening.

Elijah placed a comforting hand on his sister’s shoulder, his eyes dark and distant as he looked toward the others. He too couldn’t bring himself to say anything, the loss of his brother too recent, too raw. 

Lorenzo and Alex exchanged quick, silent glances, their eyes filled with sympathy. They were a part of the team, a part of the mission, and they knew how hard this loss hit, even if they didn’t show it outwardly.

Then, Michelle stepped forward, her face pale and drawn, her eyes hollow. She had been silent, but now, her voice barely a whisper, she spoke.

“We couldn’t stop it,” she said, each word feeling like it cut through her chest. “Micah... Micah made the choice. He stayed behind to make sure we got out. He... he saved us.” 

Her voice cracked on the last word, and for a moment, it felt like everything stopped. Everyone who had been standing silently now seemed to hold their breath, the weight of Michelle’s confession sinking into the group. 

“Why did he have to do that?” Shiloh whispered, her voice tight as her tears finally began to slip down her face. “Why did he think it had to be him? Why not any of us?”

Elijah put his arm around Shiloh, pulling her close, but his eyes were distant, lost in thought. Judah clenched his fists at his sides, trying to push down the grief and anger that threatened to boil over.

Britney moved closer to Shiloh, her arms opening to pull her into a hug, though Shiloh barely reacted, her face set in a hard, unreadable expression. 

David stepped up to Michelle, his face full of compassion. “We’re all here for you. You’re not alone in this.”

But Michelle’s eyes were unfocused as she looked toward the ship, the docking bay. “He’s gone,” she whispered. “And I can’t... I can’t fix this.”

The group stood in the quiet, the reality of the loss sinking in. There was nothing to say. No words could ever fill the hollow space left behind by Micah’s sacrifice.

Chapter Text

Micah’s world went dark as the explosion rocked the ship. His body was thrown, his mind blanking out from the sheer force of it. The last thing he felt was a crushing weight, his breath knocked out of him, and then... nothing. 

For what seemed like an eternity, there was no sound, no movement—just the suffocating darkness that wrapped itself around him. His thoughts, though fragmented, kept drifting to the same place: Michelle. 

“I’m not going to lose you, too.”

Her words rang in his mind like a faint echo, one that refused to fade away. He could feel the desperation in her voice, the raw emotion that had woven itself into every syllable. And despite the overwhelming weight of his decision, he had hoped, even in the last moments before everything went dark, that somehow, someway, she would find a way to save him.

But now, as the nothingness enveloped him, Micah thought he had come to terms with his fate. He thought that this was the end—his final choice, the final sacrifice to ensure his family’s safety. It was a choice he had made, and he had made peace with it.

At least, he thought he had.

Then, slowly, the darkness began to lift. His vision returned in fragments—blurred shapes, flashes of light, and the sound of distant beeping. A soft thrum of machinery. Pain, sharp and searing, shot through his body, and he gasped, sucking in a breath he hadn’t realized he needed. His chest heaved, and for a moment, he thought he might pass out again.

But the world around him was far too real, far too tangible for him to fall back into that dark void. His fingers twitched, and he reached out, feeling the cold, jagged metal beneath his fingertips. The wreckage of the ship. 

He tried to move, but pain shot up his side. Something was wrong—his body wasn’t responding the way it should. The debris around him was suffocating, heavy. He was trapped.

His head was swimming, his thoughts scattered and unfocused, but one thing remained clear: he wasn’t dead. Not yet.

The faint memory of Michelle’s face flashed in his mind. Her eyes, wide with fear, her voice full of desperation. 

Please, she had begged. Please don’t do this.

A wave of guilt flooded him. He had promised her he wouldn’t leave her. He had promised he would make it out. But now... now he was here, alone, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he had.

He struggled to breathe through the pain, trying to gather his strength. His heart raced as he thought of his family, his team, the people he had left behind. He had made that choice to save them. But now he needed to make another decision. Get out. He had to get out of here. He couldn’t let his sacrifice mean nothing.

The cold, harsh reality of his situation hit him. His body was battered, bruised, and trapped, but as the wreckage around him shifted slightly with his movements, he managed to free one arm. He groaned with the effort, the strain making his head spin, but he wasn’t about to give up now.

With a final, determined grunt, he pulled himself free from the debris enough to sit up, his vision still blurry but steadying as he focused on the dim lights overhead. The air was thick with dust, and the sounds of distant alarms were still echoing faintly, but nothing seemed imminent. 

The ship’s systems must have shut down, but he had no idea what had happened to the rest of the crew. Were they safe? Were they gone? He didn't know. 

But one thing was clear: he was alive. And he would fight to stay that way.

With shaking hands, he reached for his communicator, praying it would work despite the damage. His fingers fumbled over the buttons as he tried to reach out, hoping against hope that someone, anyone, was listening. 

“Shiloh... Michelle…” he muttered, his voice hoarse, barely a whisper against the silence of the wreckage.

The darkness seemed to close in on him again as he passed out, his mind clinging to the thought of Michelle. I’m sorry, he thought, one last time before everything went quiet again. Please... don’t give up on me. 

Micah’s body protested as he pushed himself up from the wreckage, his muscles screaming in protest, but the sharp, cold panic of his situation drove him forward. His breaths were shallow, ragged, but he focused on staying calm. Focus. Focus on moving. You need to get out of here.

His arms shook with the effort, but he forced himself to stand, surveying the wreckage around him. The ship was in pieces—torn apart in the explosion—but as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he noticed something that made his heart skip a beat.

Among the twisted metal and debris, there were several disabled robots. They were in bad shape—damaged, limbs bent at unnatural angles, their systems powered down—but they were intact enough for him to see the potential. Micah’s mind raced, fragments of the engineering lessons Josiah had drilled into him flashing to the forefront of his thoughts.

Plating. Reinforced alloy... Josiah had shown him how to use materials in a pinch, how to repurpose things when necessary. His brother’s voice echoed in his head: In an emergency, use what you have. Build. Repurpose. Adapt.

Micah staggered toward the robots, his heart pounding in his chest, but adrenaline was pushing him forward. His body felt heavy, each step more laborious than the last, but the robots were close enough. He reached out, his fingers trembling as he inspected the damaged machines. He wasn’t sure how much time he had, but he had to act quickly. 

The first thing he noticed was the heavy, metal plating on one of the robots’ chests. It was sleek and durable—perfect for armor. His hands moved over the surface, careful but determined. He could use this for protection, maybe even as a brace for some of his injuries. He needed to make himself less of an easy target, or at least prepare himself for any further danger.

He pulled at the plating, prying it free from the wrecked body of the robot with a grunt of exertion. It came away with a loud screech of metal on metal, but it was exactly what he needed. His mind worked rapidly, already thinking of how to secure it to his body. He couldn’t afford to waste time on anything that wasn’t crucial.

As he continued to pull apart the robots, Micah’s mind spun with Josiah’s teachings. He cut through wires with his knife—improvised tools from the wreckage—careful not to damage anything that could be useful. He crafted crude bindings to attach the plating to his torso, knowing the makeshift armor would at least offer him a small amount of protection. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than nothing.

His head was still spinning from the blast, his body weak, but his hands were steady. He used one of the robot’s severed limbs as a brace for his left leg, which had been taking the worst of the damage. The metal was rigid enough to support him, and though it wasn’t a clean fix, it would allow him to move more easily. 

His body ached, but Micah couldn’t afford to slow down. He had no idea how much time had passed since the explosion, and the wreckage around him was a ticking clock. The longer he stayed here, the less likely anyone would come looking for him. The sooner he could get to safety, the sooner he could contact Shiloh, or anyone who might still be out there.

With his makeshift armor and leg brace, Micah finally managed to get to his feet. He stumbled, but his determination pushed him forward. Each step was painful, but he ignored it. He couldn’t stop now. There was too much at stake.

The ship’s wreckage was vast and quiet, the occasional faint hum of dying systems barely audible in the background. He couldn’t hear any signs of life—no distant voices, no rushing footsteps. He could only hear his own ragged breaths and the soft clink of metal as he moved.

He didn’t know where he was going, but his instincts screamed at him to keep moving. He needed to find something—anything—that could lead him to the outside, to safety. His eyes scanned the wreckage, focusing on the faintly glowing emergency exit sign at the far end of the compartment.

There.

With a renewed surge of energy, he forced himself toward the exit, gritting his teeth against the pain and exhaustion. His mind was still spinning, trying to process everything. He had survived. He had made it out of the wreckage, but he wasn’t safe yet. He had to get to a comm system. He had to reach Shiloh, or Michelle, or anyone who could help him.

The plating was heavy on his chest, his movements awkward, but he pressed forward, his determination to survive propelling him with each painful step.

As he neared the exit, he allowed himself a small breath of relief. He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t alone.

But he knew that, despite everything he’d just survived, there was still a long way to go before he could truly say he was safe.

Hold on, he thought, his heart pounding. Just hold on.

As Micah neared the exit, the faint hum of the ship’s emergency systems now fully penetrated his senses. His muscles burned with exhaustion, but the growing weight of time pressing on him pushed him forward. His thoughts were a haze—his body still felt like it belonged to someone else—but the only thing that mattered was moving, surviving.

His eyes scanned the wreckage, still hunting for anything that could be useful. That’s when he saw it—partially buried under a chunk of metal, just out of sight, but unmistakable.

A blaster.

One of the robots nearby had its arm twisted at an awkward angle, but the blaster in its hand appeared largely undamaged, tucked against its side. Micah’s heartbeat quickened as he realized how much he needed it. The reality of being in a wreckage, with enemies potentially still close by, hit him again. The need to arm himself, to be ready for anything, flared in his chest.

With a grunt of effort, he bent down, ignoring the pain in his side, and pried the blaster free. It was heavier than he expected, but it felt solid in his grip. The weapon still looked functional—thankfully, despite the chaos. He flicked a switch on the side, testing the charge, and the familiar hum of its power surge made his pulse spike in a momentary rush of relief.

Micah quickly slung the blaster over his shoulder, making sure it was secure. His gaze shifted to the exit again, and he took a deep breath. He was almost there.

He stood for a moment, still in the wreckage, just listening. The silence was suffocating, the kind that gnawed at your soul, but he couldn’t afford to linger too long. His hands still trembled with the aftermath of the explosion, but he was forcing himself to ignore the pain in his limbs.

Once more, he started toward the exit, his body ached with every step, but his mind remained fixed on one thing—getting out. Get to the outside, find help. That’s all that matters. Get to the others. And then, maybe... maybe I’ll be able to breathe.

With the blaster at his side, and the makeshift armor securing his body, Micah took a steadying breath, moving quickly toward freedom, away from the wreckage that had almost claimed him.

The blaster felt oddly comforting in his grip, like a reminder that he wasn’t entirely powerless, even in the face of all the chaos and fear that had engulfed him.

A quick, desperate glance over his shoulder told him that there was nothing left of the ship that would help him. He had to focus now on survival, on getting back to his family. Whatever it took, he would find a way.

Micah finally emerged from the wreckage, stepping out onto the plateau of the docks. His eyes squinted against the harsh contrast of the brightly lit docking bay and the cool, starry expanse that stretched out above him. The night sky seemed endless—a canvas of blackness dotted with shimmering stars, floating ships gliding lazily across the vast void, their outlines sharp against the darkness. Asteroids hovered in place, suspended by some unseen force. It all felt surreal, like he had been transported into another world entirely.

Below, the citadel sprawled like a labyrinth of interconnected levels, towering buildings rising from the ground, their lights flickering like distant constellations. The docks themselves were surrounded by gleaming metal platforms and clusters of ships, some already departing, others in various stages of maintenance. Micah’s gaze swept over the scene—empty, desolate, yet somehow beautiful in its isolation.

He felt small against it all. Alone. Vulnerable.

But he didn’t have time to dwell on it. The blaster in his hand was a stark reminder of the peril still present in the unknown expanse around him. His thoughts raced back to his family—his team. They’ll be looking for me. They’ll be worried. The thought sent a pang through his chest, the weight of everything that had happened crashing over him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was already too late to make it back to them.

His eyes darted around, scanning the surroundings for any sign of movement, any hint that he wasn’t completely alone. For a brief moment, he felt like he was standing on the edge of an abyss, both figuratively and literally. The sheer vastness of space loomed over him, and a shiver ran through his body, his pulse quickening.

Focus. Survive. Get back to them.

He took a deep breath and steadied his shaking hands. The night was eerily quiet, save for the hum of the floating ships and the faint sounds of movement from within the citadel. As much as he wanted to just collapse and let himself be consumed by exhaustion, he knew he had to keep going.

His mind cycled through the tools and tactics Daniel had taught him. Use the blaster if you need it. Stay hidden. Move fast.

Stepping forward with a surge of determination, Micah started toward the edge of the plateau, eyes fixed on the dark expanse below. The citadel’s maze of docks stretched out endlessly beneath him, the shadows of ships and machinery blending together in an intricate network of opportunity and danger. But somewhere out there, beyond the labyrinth of towering structures, his team would be searching.

They were his only focus now.

The vast emptiness of space stretched out in front of him, but Micah’s heart beat steady as he moved toward the unknown, the echoes of Michelle’s voice still ringing in his mind. I’m not going to lose you, too.

He gripped the blaster tighter as he began his descent into the sprawling citadel below. He didn’t know how much time he had, or what dangers lay ahead, but one thing was certain: he was going to make it back to them. He would survive, for them.

Micah’s heart pounded as he maneuvered through the maze of darkened platforms, moving with calculated stealth, careful to avoid the dim lights that flickered from the docks and the occasional patrol of robots or alien dock masters. His breathing was shallow, his steps light, each movement deliberate as he slipped through narrow alleys between towering crates and cargo ships. 

The feeling of being hunted pressed down on him, but he pushed it aside, focusing on the immediate task at hand. His body ached, every muscle protesting against the strain of moving on so little rest, but survival instincts sharpened his senses. He had no choice but to press on.

Eventually, he came to a storage unit, a small, inconspicuous structure tucked away in a shadowed corner of the dock. The unit was secured with an advanced lock system, but nothing Micah couldn't handle with his knowledge of tech—especially after everything he’d learned from Josiah over the years. A soft, metallic click sounded as he bypassed the security measures and slowly, cautiously, pushed open the door.

Inside, the dim light from his blaster illuminated the room in short, jagged bursts. It was a cramped storage unit, mostly filled with crates, some of them marked with various alien symbols and logos he didn’t recognize. The place smelled faintly of oil and metal, with the added scent of something a little more…earthy, like it hadn’t been disturbed in weeks, maybe longer.

His eyes darted across the space, scanning for anything that could help him. It didn’t take long before he spotted the discarded pack near the far wall. His pulse quickened as he approached, the hope of finding something useful flaring in his chest.

He crouched beside the pack, heart sinking when he saw it was empty, the contents having long since been removed. Still, his eyes were drawn to the scattered supplies around it—rations, several sealed water packs, and the distinct shape of a small blaster, lying haphazardly in the corner. It looked like it had been tossed aside, probably looted by trespassers or other scavengers. He didn’t care; he needed whatever he could get.

His hands moved quickly, scooping up the rations and water first. He bit open one of the packs without hesitation, gulping the water down in desperate swallows, the cool liquid reviving his parched throat. After a long, satisfying drink, he set the water aside and reached for the blaster. It was compact, easy to conceal, and though its power didn’t compare to the one he had earlier, it was still a weapon, and that was all that mattered. 

He slid it into the holster—a small, strapped piece of armor that had clearly been left behind as well. He tightened the straps, securing it around his leg before rising to his feet. The small blaster felt reassuring against his thigh, and he could almost imagine how much easier this would’ve been if he had more time to prepare. But that was a luxury he didn’t have.

Micah stood still for a moment, listening to the sounds outside—distant footsteps, the low hum of machinery. He couldn’t stay here long, but at least now, with rations in hand, water, and another weapon, he had a better chance of making it through whatever lay ahead.

He grabbed a few more water packs and shoved them into the bag, slinging it over his shoulder, his eyes darting one last time across the storage unit to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. Satisfied, he headed back to the door, listening carefully for any signs of movement in the corridor outside.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

With renewed determination, Micah stepped back into the shadows, ready to continue his journey. His team was out there, somewhere. They were waiting for him. And he wasn’t going to let them down.

Micah moved quickly from storage unit to storage unit, his movements becoming more methodical as he scavenged through the darkened corridors of the docks. Each room held more discarded supplies, more items that could keep him alive a little longer. He had no idea how long he would need to survive here, but he knew he couldn't risk standing still for too long. The clock was ticking, and every second counted.

The once quiet and hesitant scavenger was slowly transforming into someone more hardened, someone whose instincts and determination kept him moving forward, each new item he gathered adding to his arsenal, his will to survive.

In one unit, he found a few weapons—more blasters, a couple of small knives, and what appeared to be a stun grenade. He stashed the items into his bag quickly, adding them to his growing stockpile. The larger blaster he still kept slung across his back—it had become a symbol of his fight, something that grounded him to the mission.

His mind raced through options, thinking about every bit of technology, every bit of scrap he could use to get out of this situation. He needed to be prepared for anything, especially now that he was on his own. 

Then, as he rifled through another crate in a smaller unit, his eyes landed on something that made him pause—a hooded shawl, dark green in color, and frayed at the edges. It looked worn, like it had seen better days, but in this moment, it was exactly what he needed. The torn fabric could help conceal his face, offering a much-needed layer of anonymity as he moved through the docks. The last thing he needed was to be recognized, and the shawl’s deep color would help him blend into the shadows, even more so if he kept his hood pulled low over his face.

He grabbed it, pulling it over his head and tying the fabric loosely at his neck, hoping the shadows would obscure his features enough to avoid unwanted attention. 

The shawl felt heavier than it looked, like a weight he could lean into, reminding him of the dangers that surrounded him. But it also provided comfort. In this cold, harsh world, it was another step in the right direction. It was a signal of adaptation—a reminder that he was still fighting, still willing to change everything about himself to survive.

His pack was already getting heavy, but he filled it with more rations, water, and other supplies—pieces of scrap that might be useful later. There were wires, small power cells, and some extra clothing he might be able to use to repair his gear. His survival instincts had taken over completely. He wasn’t just a man trying to escape—he was preparing for the long haul.

With each unit he raided, the weight of the pack grew heavier, but so did his resolve. He kept his steps light, always listening for signs of life—distant voices, the hum of machinery. He couldn’t afford to let his guard down. Not now. 

He knew that every piece he collected might come in handy, even if it seemed insignificant at first glance. A small knife could be the difference between life and death. A spare blaster might be the one thing that tipped the odds in his favor when the time came. And with every item, he was slowly rearming himself, building up his strength for what lay ahead.

When the pack was as full as he could manage, Micah adjusted the larger blaster across his back once again, securing it tightly. He tested the weight of his bag, made sure the shawl was still in place, and stepped into the shadows once more. 

His pulse was steady now. He wasn’t running from anything. Not anymore. He was preparing for something much larger—something he wasn’t ready to face, but something he couldn’t avoid. There were people who needed him. His team. His family. Michelle.

And he was going to find a way back to them.

After hours of navigating the docks, Micah finally found a secluded spot tucked away in the cliffs near the edge of the dockyard—a small, hidden cave shielded by the jagged rock face. It was dark, isolated, and far enough from the main area to remain unnoticed. For now, it would serve him well as a temporary refuge. He needed to rest, gather his strength, and figure out his next move.

The first task was warmth. As he entered the cave, he assessed his surroundings, looking for anything that could help him survive the coming night. The chill of the air cut through his tattered clothes, and he knew he couldn’t afford to freeze. His thoughts flickered back to the supplies he'd scavenged—there had to be something in his pack that could provide a little heat. He quickly located a power cell and some copper wiring.

Micah’s hands worked quickly, driven by urgency and familiarity with these makeshift repairs. He had always had a knack for engineering, and it was a skill that served him well in this moment. With precise movements, he hotwired the power cell, connecting the copper wires to the terminals. Sparks flew, and after a few tense seconds, the small contraption hummed to life, providing a weak but steady heat source. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to take the edge off the biting cold.

With the heat settled, Micah turned to his next concern: keeping his identity hidden. He didn’t know how long he’d be stuck here, and it was crucial to blend in as much as possible. From the spare shirts in his pack, he tore off a strip of cloth and fashioned it into a simple face mask. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do for now, obscuring his features just enough to keep him from drawing attention.

Satisfied with his makeshift preparations, Micah finally allowed himself to relax. He took one last glance around the cave, his sharp eyes scanning for any signs of movement, any danger. When he was certain he was alone, he reached into his pack and pulled out a ration pack. 

He carefully opened it, the smell of preserved food filling the air—though it was nothing compared to a home-cooked meal, it was sustenance. With a sigh, Micah pulled down his face mask just enough to take a bite, savoring the taste of the ration. His body craved the nourishment, but his mind couldn’t help but linger on Michelle. Every bite felt like a small piece of the world he’d left behind. 

He ate slowly, savoring what little he had. It wasn’t much, but it would keep him going. Each bite, each sip of water from his stash, was a reminder of his mission. A reminder of the people waiting for him. And of the people he’d left behind.

After he finished, he wiped his mouth and took one last look at the cave’s entrance before settling down. His pack became his pillow as he laid flat on the cold stone floor, staring up at the rocky ceiling above. The dim light from the power cell flickered softly in the darkness, casting long shadows along the walls. Micah’s eyes began to grow heavy as exhaustion from the long ordeal finally began to settle in.

Despite the overwhelming weight of the situation, his mind drifted to his family—his team. His last thoughts before sleep overtook him were of Michelle, of the promise he made to her. He would find a way back. He would survive. No matter what it took.

With the cold air nipping at his skin and the faint warmth from his makeshift heat source keeping him comfortable, Micah let the darkness take him.

—

The exhaustion finally took hold, and as Micah closed his eyes, sleep claimed him in an instant. His mind drifted away from the cold, the wreckage, and the unfamiliar terrain. Instead, he found himself in a warm, peaceful place—a memory from before everything had gone wrong. 

The scene unfolded as if it had happened only yesterday. Micah was back at the Agency, but the walls of their underground facility were replaced with the vibrant, sun-dappled landscape of Ataria. The sky was a perfect shade of blue, with the sun casting a golden glow over the lush, rolling hills. The air was fresh, filled with the sweet scent of flowers that seemed to bloom with every step. It was a place of peace, a stark contrast to the chaos they had all been living through for so long.

Micah stood before Michelle, a mischievous grin on his face as he took her hand in his. She blinked up at him, clearly puzzled, as he led her out of the familiar confines of the Agency and into the open, vibrant world outside. He could hear the soft rustle of leaves, the distant chirp of birds, and the comforting sound of the wind as it gently swept through the trees.

“Where are we going?” Michelle asked, her voice a mix of curiosity and uncertainty. She hadn’t been above ground in what felt like forever, and the brightness of the sun made her squint at first. 

Micah’s smile only grew. “I thought we could use a little escape.”

She looked at him, a question in her eyes, but before she could ask anything more, Micah gently pulled her closer. His hand rested lightly on her waist, and before she could even react, he led her into a slow, effortless dance beneath the wide, open sky.

The moment felt as though time itself had stopped. Michelle, initially stiff in his arms, relaxed as she realized what he was doing. Her hands settled comfortably on his shoulders, her breath soft as they moved together, their feet shuffling lightly through the soft grass. She looked up at him, a smile breaking across her face, her eyes lighting up in surprise and joy.

“This is... I didn’t expect this,” she said softly, her voice carrying the hint of wonder he had always loved.

Micah smiled back, his heart swelling with affection as he looked down at her. “Sometimes, the unexpected is the best part.”

The music of the world around them seemed to fade as they danced—there was no need for anything else. Just the two of them, moving together in that perfect, serene moment. The world beyond them—beyond the Agency, beyond the conflict, beyond the chaos—seemed to disappear entirely. It was just Micah and Michelle, alone in a beautiful, peaceful memory.

Her gaze softened as she rested her head gently against his chest, and he held her a little tighter, his hand moving up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. The world could fall apart around them, but in this instant, none of that mattered.

“You’re incredible, Micah,” she murmured, her voice warm, her words sincere.

Micah’s heart skipped at the sound of her voice, and he whispered back, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

As the soft rhythm of the dance continued, it was as though the weight of everything was lifted—just for that brief, shining moment. They were free. They were together. 

But even as the dream held him in its gentle embrace, a part of Micah knew the dream couldn't last. Reality was waiting for him. But still, as the dream of Michelle in his arms continued, he felt his heart beat just a little stronger.

Chapter Text

Micah's eyes snapped open, the remnants of the dream lingering like a bittersweet aftertaste. For a moment, he simply lay still, letting the weight of his situation come crashing back. The wreckage, the cold, the uncertainty—it was all real again. The warmth of his dream, of Michelle's smile and the softness of her voice, was already slipping away like smoke. 

He sat up slowly, stretching stiff muscles and wincing at the dull ache in his body. The cave was still dark, the faint hum of the power cell the only sound keeping him company. He rubbed his face, trying to shake off the last remnants of sleep. There was no time to waste. He couldn't afford to stay in one place for too long. 

After quickly checking his weapons, he unwrapped the remaining ration pack, the food tasteless, but essential. He ate quickly, as much as he could stomach, before putting the empty wrappers back into his pack. There were no luxuries here—just survival.

He began to gather his things, carefully packing up the heater, making sure it would work for another night if he needed it. The cold had a bitter bite on this Raelo, sharper than he'd expected, and he'd learned the hard way the importance of keeping warm. As much as he hated to leave the relative safety of the cave, he knew he needed to keep moving.

Before he finished packing up completely, he took a moment to put on the extra layers of clothing he'd found in one of the storage units. The cold, raw air outside the cave was starting to seep through. He found a long-sleeved shirt, patched in places, but sturdy enough to get him through the day. A thicker pair of pants followed, tucked into a pair of worn boots that felt sturdy enough to hold up in this new environment. He adjusted the fabric around his neck, preparing to wrap a strip of cloth over his face.

Next, he grabbed his hooded shawl, pulling it over his head. The dark green fabric blended well with the surroundings, and he hoped it would keep him concealed, at least for a while. His face was already partially masked by the cloth, but he added the final layer for good measure. It wasn't perfect, but it would have to do. He couldn’t afford to draw attention to himself.

With his pack slung across his back, and both blasters holstered at his sides, he was ready. His mind was already focused on the task ahead. He would find a way off this Raelo, no matter what it took. He couldn't stay here forever. The others—his team—his family—were depending on him, even if they didn’t know it. He would find a way back to them, or at least send word, somehow.

The lower city was his best bet for now. Mercenaries and wanderers often blended into the crowds there, and with the right mix of grit and subtlety, he could slip in unnoticed. It was the best place to gather supplies, and more importantly, to learn what was going on. Rumors, connections, whatever he could find that would help him figure out a way off-world. He didn’t trust the local authorities or anyone who might be in charge here—they weren’t interested in helping someone like him. The underworld, however, was a different story.

Micah stood, adjusted his pack, and stepped out into the cold morning air. The stars still dotted the sky, but the early light was already beginning to creep over the horizon. The city below sprawled out like a labyrinth, dark and massive, stretching out into the distance. He would have to be cautious—no one would be particularly thrilled to see a lone, heavily-armed stranger in their midst. But the streets would be crowded, and he could get lost in the crowd, gather what he needed, and disappear again.

With one last glance at the cave he had called home for the night, he set his course toward the lower city. He knew the risks, but there was no other choice. Survival was everything now. And if it meant stepping into the heart of the unknown, then so be it.

One foot in front of the other. And keep moving.

As Micah moved, the weight of the pack slowly began to feel more familiar. At first, the straps dug into his shoulders, and he could feel the shift in balance with every step, but after a few minutes of walking, his body adjusted. The strain faded into the background, becoming part of his natural rhythm, as if his muscles knew what they had to do. The pack, now filled with water, rations, and the tools he’d scavenged, was lighter than it had seemed initially. But even the lightness wasn’t the most welcome change. It was the feeling of preparedness, the knowledge that he had what he needed to survive another day, that buoyed him.

The reinforced brace on his leg was a more constant presence. The metal joints from the robot scraps creaked and groaned with every step, but they held strong. With each motion, the plating shifted slightly, flexing and bending in sync with his leg. Micah had never been a heavy hitter—he wasn’t built for power—but his body, under pressure, had learned to adapt. The brace gave his leg a sense of stability he hadn’t expected, making it feel like a part of him. 

He tested it with a few long strides, walking a little faster, then slower. Each step felt more solid, more reliable. The joints moved with him, absorbing some of the impact, making his movements smoother. There was still a slight limp to his walk, but it wasn’t nearly as painful as before. The last thing he needed was to be slowed down. Every second counted.

His mind wandered back to the thought of Michelle, and the guilt he’d been carrying, but he pushed it away. There was no room for self-doubt now. He couldn’t afford to think like that. Survival—surviving to finish what he’d started, to get back to the others—was what mattered.

As the lower city came into view, its towering buildings and strange, unfamiliar streets loomed ahead. The narrow alleyways, dark corners, and neon lights of the lower levels were a far cry from the sterile environment of the agency. The sounds were different too—people shouting, machines whirring, the hiss of distant doors sliding open and closed. He could feel the pulse of the place, chaotic and unpredictable. It felt like a maze of opportunities and dangers in equal measure. And for now, Micah was just another face in the crowd, blending in as best as he could.

He tightened his grip on the blaster at his side, adjusting the holster, just in case. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention, but he was prepared to defend himself if necessary. His gaze flicked to the horizon, scanning the crowds ahead as he approached a corner, trying to stay aware of everything. 

Moving quickly, but without drawing attention, he passed a few locals, their faces a blur as he kept his head down. They paid him no mind, which suited him fine. If he could find a place to lay low for a while, maybe he could figure out his next move.

But for now, he needed to keep pushing forward. The last thing he wanted was to stand still for too long. He had to find out where the nearest transport hub was. Someone had to know where he could find a ship. Someone had to know something that would lead him to the answers he needed. 

His brace shifted once more as he continued walking, the quiet clicking of the metal joints accompanying each stride. He wasn’t entirely sure how he was going to get out of this place—but he would find a way. There was always a way.

Micah kept his head low as he maneuvered through the busy streets, his mind scanning for anything useful. The steady rhythm of his footsteps echoed in his ears as the noise of the lower city hummed around him—shouts, the clinking of machines, distant music pulsing from hidden speakers. He needed information, and the best place to find that was somewhere that didn't care who he was or where he'd come from.

His eyes locked on a narrow, dimly lit tavern tucked between two buildings, its neon sign buzzing faintly in the low light. The heavy scent of alcohol and smoke leaked from the door every time it opened, adding to the thick, industrial atmosphere of the lower city. The kind of place where people kept their heads down and their mouths shut—exactly where he needed to be.

Taking a deep breath, Micah pushed through the creaking door. The smell hit him immediately: stale beer, fried food, and the sharp tang of various chemicals in the air. The tavern was dark, the only light coming from flickering bulbs above the bar and a few scattered tables. There was a low murmur of conversation, punctuated by the clinking of glass and the soft thud of someone slamming their hand against a table. 

He slid past a group of rowdy patrons near the entrance, trying not to draw any attention as he moved deeper into the dimly lit space. The bartender, a burly figure with tattoos covering both arms, gave him a passing glance but didn’t seem interested in engaging. Micah made his way to an empty corner booth, the shadows offering him a bit of cover. 

The place was just like any other tavern in a lower city—seedy, underbelly of society—but that’s what made it perfect. If he was going to find out anything about transportation, smuggling routes, or who could help him get off-world, this was the place to start.

He slid into the booth, keeping his pack close. His fingers absently brushed the edge of his blaster, making sure it was easily accessible. The whole point of staying low was to blend in, but if things went south, he would need a quick escape. 

However, there was one problem.

Micah’s eyes drifted down to his pockets, which were as empty as they had been since the crash. No local currency. No credits. Not a single chip. The only thing he had was the spare blaster at his side, the tools from the robot parts, and the minimal supplies he’d scrounged.

A quick glance around the tavern confirmed what he already suspected: no one here would trade information for nothing. The bartender wasn’t giving away drinks, and the patrons weren’t going to offer free advice unless there was something in it for them.

Micah let out a quiet sigh, his mind working through the next step. He could try to get by without paying, maybe scrounge up enough intel to get to the next place. Or, he could try something else—find a way to make himself useful, barter for information the only way he could.

The small blaster at his side felt heavier suddenly, a reminder of just how much he’d already risked. But he’d been in worse situations before. This wasn’t the first time he’d had to trade with nothing but grit and a bit of luck.

He sat back in the booth, observing. If anyone here was going to have the answers, he just had to wait for the right moment. The city had a way of telling you when it was time to make your move.

For now, he just needed to be patient.

The noise of the tavern buzzed around him, but his thoughts drifted. His eyes scanned the room, assessing every face, every movement, yet his mind kept returning to the same place, the same person.

He absentmindedly reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, his fingers brushing over the worn edges of something he hadn’t thought about in a while. He pulled it out, the familiar crinkle of paper against his fingers sending a jolt through his chest. It was a picture—folded and well-worn, edges soft from years of handling.

He opened it carefully, as though the simple action might break something fragile within him. The picture was faded now, but the memory of that moment was as sharp as ever. 

It was Michelle.

Her smile was radiant in the photo, her eyes sparkling with that familiar warmth, the one that always seemed to light up any room she was in. They had taken it on Ataria, the day he’d surprised her by taking her above ground. She had been caught off guard by the sudden openness of the lush landscape, the vast skies stretching far above them. 

He remembered how she had laughed when the sunlight hit her face, how her eyes had glowed in the natural light. It had been a good day. A peaceful one, full of hope. She’d never expected him to take her out there, away from the harsh concrete and underground walls of their home, but he had. And she had loved it.

But it wasn’t just the landscape he remembered—it was the way she had looked at him when he pulled her into that slow dance. There hadn’t been any music, no band or orchestra to accompany them. Just the sounds of the world around them, the wind in their hair and the warmth of the sun on their skin. But she had smiled, that smile, and danced with him anyway. 

He had spun her carefully, holding her close as they moved in that slow, intimate rhythm. It felt like everything in the world had melted away in that moment—like they were the only two people in the universe. And she had trusted him, completely. 

The weight of her absence hit him again, like a fist to the gut. He hadn’t been able to protect her, not like he’d promised. And now here he was, on this godforsaken Raelo, lost and alone, with no way to fix any of it.

The picture was still in his hand, and he stared at it, his throat tight. Her face, smiling, happy, carefree... It felt like a lifetime ago. Like someone else had been living that life. He had failed her, and now he was fighting just to stay alive. Not for himself, but for her—for them. 

A slow, painful breath escaped his lips as he pressed the photo back into his jacket, tucking it in close to his chest like a small, fragile lifeline. The image of her smile stayed with him, etched into his memory, even as the weight of reality continued to press down on him.

He had a job to do. And he wasn’t going to fail her again. Not like this.

Whatever it took, he’d make sure they both had a future to return to. He’d find a way off this planet, he’d get back to her—he wouldn’t stop. Not now.

Not ever.

Micah had barely finished tucking the picture of Michelle back into his jacket when the creak of the tavern door sounded, followed by the soft shuffle of boots. The atmosphere in the room seemed to change, a subtle shift that made him look up instinctively.

A figure stood at the edge of his table, blocking out some of the dim light. The person was tall, a rugged-looking man with a scruffy beard and a glint of something calculating in his eyes. He gave Micah a quick once-over, taking in the way Micah sat, solitary, his face cloaked in shadows beneath his hood.

“You’re a quiet one,” the man said with a smirk. “Guess that makes two of us.”

Micah didn’t respond immediately, but his fingers tightened on the edge of his table, his posture stiffening slightly. This wasn’t uncommon. In places like this, people were always looking for something—something to offer, to trade, or sometimes, just an opportunity. And Micah wasn’t exactly in a position to turn anyone away.

The man leaned closer, dropping a glass of something dark and amber in front of him. “Figured you might need a drink. It’s not the finest stuff, but it'll do the trick. Been a long day for you, huh?”

Micah’s gaze lingered on the drink for a moment, the cool surface of the glass gleaming faintly in the low light. He was well aware of the risks of accepting anything here, especially from someone who seemed to be sizing him up. But something about the man’s demeanor suggested a certain casualness, as if he was just looking for conversation or trying to test the waters.

Micah didn’t immediately take the glass. He studied the drink as if it could tell him something about the man. He hadn’t drunk in a long time—not since those few foolish times, on a whim and pressured. His family, his upbringing—those things still lingered at the back of his mind. He didn’t have to say it, but he didn’t drink. 

Instead of accepting the drink, he gave the man a steady, nonchalant look, his hand resting lightly near the glass without touching it. “I’m not interested,” Micah said, his voice calm but firm, his eyes not leaving the stranger’s face.

The man chuckled softly, clearly not put off by the refusal. He took a step back, eyes narrowing slightly as he appraised Micah. “Fair enough. Not everyone’s into that sort of thing.”

There was a long, quiet moment between them, the kind where both parties considered whether or not to continue the exchange. But Micah wasn’t in the mood for small talk, and he certainly wasn’t about to get sidetracked by a drink, especially with his mind preoccupied by more important things.

After a beat, the man shrugged, setting the glass down on the table with a little more force than necessary. “Suit yourself. But you’re gonna need to find a way to get by around here—most folks aren't as... picky about their vices as you seem to be.”

Micah kept his eyes locked on him, his lips pressed together, unwilling to acknowledge the comment fully. He didn’t need to defend his choices or explain himself. His actions spoke for him, and if this man was trying to read something into him, it was just noise to Micah. He wasn’t here to make friends. 

The stranger paused, clearly considering something before nodding slowly, as if deciding it wasn’t worth pushing further. “Alright, then. I’ll leave you to it. But, if you change your mind, I’m usually around. Look for the guy who doesn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

With that, the man turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd of patrons, leaving the glass of alcohol behind. Micah waited a moment, just to ensure he wasn’t being baited, then leaned forward and pushed the drink slightly to the side, out of his direct view. 

His fingers brushed against the worn edges of the picture in his jacket pocket once more as he exhaled, steeling himself for whatever was next. If this place held any answers, it was only a matter of finding them—and not letting distractions like this take him off course. His mind was set on one thing and one thing only: finding a way out.

Micah sat back, his eyes scanning the tavern as the noise around him rose and fell, the chatter of the other patrons blending with the faint hum of distant machinery from the docks outside. The drink was still untouched in front of him, but now there was a new sense of discomfort gnawing at his gut. He could feel the weight of too many eyes on him. Every glance, every sideways stare, made him feel more and more like an outsider, like he was standing out in all the wrong ways. 

The man who had offered him the drink lingered near the bar now, talking to a few others, but it wasn’t him that bothered Micah. It was the way the others in the room occasionally looked his way, eyes lingering a little too long, whispers passing between them in hushed tones. He wasn’t sure if they were sizing him up, figuring out if he was a local, or just curious about the newcomer in their midst. But whatever it was, it made his skin crawl. 

He wasn’t about to let himself be drawn into something more dangerous than it had to be. It had been one mistake to come here, and he’d already overstayed his welcome. As much as he hated to admit it, he wasn’t blending in as well as he thought he would. The more time he spent here, the more obvious it became that he didn’t belong.

Micah stood up abruptly, his movement smooth but purposeful. The noise in the tavern seemed to fade into the background as he pushed past a couple of patrons, one of whom gave him a brief, questioning look before going back to their drink. He didn’t stop to make conversation, just kept his head low and his steps quick as he made his way to the exit.

The door creaked as he pulled it open, the cold night air hitting him instantly, sharp and biting. The transition from the warmth of the tavern to the chill of the outside was jarring, but it helped clear his head. He took a deep breath and adjusted his hood, pulling it lower to shield his face. The stars above twinkled in the vast sky, with ships and asteroids floating above the citadel in the distance. The docks stretched endlessly before him, their stark, industrial feel reminding him why he was here—why he couldn’t afford to be distracted.

With a quick glance around, he started walking, heading toward the outskirts of the dock area where he’d seen some old scrap heaps earlier. His mind was set now: he needed resources. Money. He couldn’t afford to stay in one place too long, but he had to make the most of his time on this Raelo.

As he passed by the quiet alleyways and forgotten storage units, his eyes scanned every discarded piece of metal, every discarded container. Anything that could be of use. Maybe something to sell—something to get a little more money, a little more leverage. Something that would help him get off this Raelo.

He rounded a corner and spotted a small pile of scrap near a forgotten loading dock. There were some old robot parts, some damaged tech, and discarded bits of machinery. Micah’s fingers twitched in anticipation. This was the kind of thing he needed. His mind immediately began calculating the potential value, already assessing which parts could be repurposed for his own gear and which he could sell.

He quickly began pulling pieces apart, his movements sharp and practiced. His hands were steady, even as the metal pieces clanged against one another. He found a small stash of salvageable tech—some wiring, a few rechargeable batteries, and a couple of blaster components. Perfect. He grabbed everything that might be useful, quickly stuffing it into his pack, feeling the weight settle comfortably against his back. 

As he worked, he kept his senses alert, listening for any footsteps or sounds that indicated someone was nearby. He couldn’t afford to get caught looting someone else’s territory. His survival instincts were still sharp, even if his options were running low. This wasn’t the time to relax. The harder he worked, the more he felt that ever-present urgency pushing him. He wasn’t just scavenging; he was trying to build a lifeline—one small piece at a time.

After a few minutes, he’d gathered enough to make the detour worthwhile. He glanced around one last time, his instincts prickling. Satisfied, he slung his pack over his shoulder, adjusting the blasters on his hips. 

Time to move on. He had what he needed for now.

Micah turned back toward the main street, trying his best to look like he belonged, keeping his pace steady as he melted into the flow of pedestrians. His eyes constantly scanning for any signs of trouble, his mind already focused on the next step of his plan.

One thing was certain: he couldn’t stay here forever. But every piece of scrap, every bit of tech he gathered, brought him one step closer to finding a way off this Raelo—and finding a way to get back to Michelle.

Micah approached the open shop with caution, his mind racing as his eyes scanned the exterior. The neon sign flickered above the entrance, displaying in bold letters: Scrap for Credits—Buy, Sell, Trade. It was one of those places that could either be a lifesaver or a trap. He’d seen enough shady businesses to know that some places like this would take advantage of anyone desperate enough to walk through the door. But the sign had caught his attention—he needed credits, and he needed them fast. It might be a risk worth taking.

He paused just outside the entrance, his fingers brushing the edge of his pack, checking the blasters at his side, making sure everything was in place. Then, with a deep breath, he stepped inside.

The bell above the door jingled as he entered, and the dimly lit interior revealed shelves stacked with a mishmash of old, rusted tech and scattered piles of scrap. The air smelled faintly of oil and metal, and there was an underlying scent of something older, like dust that hadn't been disturbed for years. The shopkeeper, an older man with graying hair and a weary expression, glanced up from behind a counter cluttered with various parts and tools. He wasn’t looking at Micah with any particular suspicion yet, but his eyes held a sharpness that suggested he’d seen all sorts of people pass through his door.

“Can I help you?” the man asked gruffly, his voice hoarse as he wiped his hands on a rag, not bothering to stand up.

Micah gave a small, tight nod, eyeing the various items for sale on the shelves. There were tools, broken gadgets, and strange alien technology that he couldn’t even begin to identify. A few blasters and power cells were tucked into glass cases, their price tags high enough to suggest they were either rare or simply overpriced.

“I’ve got some scrap,” Micah said, his voice steady but guarded. “Stuff I’d like to trade. I need credits.”

The shopkeeper eyed him for a long moment, his gaze flicking down to the pack on Micah's back, then back to his face. The scrutiny was uncomfortable, but Micah held his ground. His fingers itched to reach into his pack, but he resisted the impulse. He had to be smart about this. 

The man gave a grunt of acknowledgement and motioned to the counter. “Show me what you got. If it’s worth anything, I’ll trade you for some credits.”

Micah nodded and carefully unzipped his pack, laying out the parts he’d scavenged in a neat pile on the counter. Broken wires, some robot plating, a few small battery cells, and a few blaster components. Nothing too impressive, but useful in the right hands. The man examined the pile of scrap with a practiced eye, picking through it slowly, occasionally muttering under his breath. Micah couldn’t tell whether he was pleased with the items or just indifferent.

After a moment, the man looked up at Micah, his expression unreadable.

“This’ll do,” he said, finally. “I’ll give you a hundred credits for all of it.”

Micah didn’t hesitate. It wasn’t a fortune, but it was something. Enough to keep him moving. He nodded. “Deal.”

The shopkeeper reached under the counter and pulled out a handful of credits, counting them, adding a few more, before passing them across the counter. 100 credits. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to get by for now.

“Anything else I can help you with?” the man asked, looking up from the tablet.

Micah shook his head, quickly slinging his pack back over his shoulder. “No. I’ll be on my way.”

He didn’t trust the man enough to stick around any longer. The exchange was swift, and that was all he needed. He turned to leave, but as his hand grasped the door handle, the shopkeeper’s voice called after him.

“Watch your back out there, kid,” he said gruffly. “Not everyone here is friendly.”

Micah glanced back, unsure whether it was just a warning or if the man knew something more. Either way, it only served to heighten the tension that had been building inside him. His instincts screamed at him to leave, so he did. Stepping back into the cool air of the alley, he pushed the door open and let it swing shut behind him with a soft thud.

Now, with a few extra credits in his pocket and a bit more of a buffer between him and whatever trouble lay ahead, Micah’s next move was clear. He had to keep moving, keep looking for a way off this Raelo. The city was vast, and the universe even bigger. But wherever he went, whatever it took, he couldn’t shake the image of Michelle from his mind. It was the only thing that kept him going. He had to get back to her.

With that thought anchoring him, Micah slipped into the night, disappearing into the shadows of the city once more, ready to face whatever challenges came his way next.

Micah’s pace quickened as he navigated the narrow alleyways of the lower city. The credits in his pocket felt like both a blessing and a burden; they gave him the means to survive, but they also marked him as a potential target. His nerves were taut, and his eyes darted around, constantly scanning for any signs of danger.

As he turned a corner onto a wider street, the scene before him made his heart race. A group of well-dressed thugs—members of some local gang—were gathered in the middle of the road, shouting at each other. From their hand gestures and the harsh words being exchanged, it was clear there was an argument escalating fast. Micah's instincts flared. He didn’t need to stick around to see how things would play out.

The last thing he needed was to get involved in another fight, especially when his resources were so limited. His pack was weighted down, but he didn’t have much to protect himself with besides his blasters, and he wasn’t about to waste ammo on something he could avoid.

He stepped to the side, ducking into a shadowed alcove beside an old building, heart pounding. His breath was shallow as he peered around the corner. The gang had formed a loose circle, but the tension in the air was palpable. Someone from the group pulled out a blade, and another followed suit, flicking out a vibro-knife. There were shouts now, threatening, belligerent. They were on the edge of violence, and it wouldn’t take much for it to erupt.

Micah’s fingers tightened around the strap of his pack, his mind racing through possible exits. He cursed under his breath as the crowd began to move toward the alley he’d intended to take. His only way out was to backtrack and take another route—but doing so would mean retracing his steps through the street where the gang confrontation was escalating. 

He could hear the rise in volume as one of the thugs threw a punch, followed by the crack of something breaking. The air was thick with hostility. If he was spotted, even for a second, it would be game over. Micah wasn’t a stranger to street brawls, but he wasn’t in the mood to get caught up in this mess—not when every move he made needed to be calculated.

Taking a steadying breath, Micah pulled the hood of his jacket low and started to move as quietly as possible, keeping close to the buildings and out of sight. He felt his pulse racing, but his steps were careful and deliberate. His instincts told him to keep his head down and keep moving. No one needed to know he was there.

Just as he was nearing the next alley, a sudden shout rang out, followed by a scuffle of feet and another punch. The thugs were getting riled up, and from the sound of it, there was about to be an all-out brawl. 

Micah’s heart skipped a beat. He wasn’t out of the woods yet.

He swerved left, just as the first thug’s gaze darted in his direction. Micah had barely enough time to duck behind a rusted barrel, pressing his back to the cold metal as the gang members charged past him in a blur, none of them noticing him in their frenzy. His pulse thundered in his ears as he held his breath, feeling the heat of the chaos as the group collided in the street. 

He waited until the sounds of the altercation grew fainter, and only then did he allow himself to exhale. The risk was too great now. He couldn’t afford to stand by and risk getting involved in this.

When he finally gathered the courage to peek around the corner, the scene was still tense, but the gang had scattered, some of them heading into nearby alleyways while others stayed behind to catch their breath. Micah moved quickly, slipping into the adjacent alley with the cover of shadows. He took the long way around, his hand still clutching his blasters, ready for anything.

By the time he emerged from the maze of streets and onto a quieter road, his nerves were fried. His chest heaved as he leaned against the side of a building, trying to collect his thoughts. The narrow escape had rattled him more than he wanted to admit, but he knew better than to let his guard down. This city had its fair share of dangers, and he wasn’t about to become another casualty.

The credits in his pocket still felt like a reminder that he needed to keep moving—keep searching for a way off this Raelo, find a way to reconnect with Michelle. But the odds seemed to be stacking up against him at every turn.

Micah’s legs ached from all the maneuvering, and the weight of his pack had started to feel more like a burden than a lifeline. After narrowly escaping the gang fight, he knew he needed a moment to breathe, to eat, and to think. He moved through the quieter side streets, staying well away from the main thoroughfares where people were still bustling, unaware of the close calls he had just narrowly avoided.

He eventually found a small, tucked-away courtyard between two buildings, hidden behind a rusted, low fence. It was overgrown with vines and littered with old crates, but it was far enough from the chaotic streets to give him a sense of peace, for now. Micah slipped through a gap in the fence and found a corner where he could settle down. 

The air here was cooler, but the shadows cast by the buildings provided some relief from the harshness of the sun. He took a moment to let himself relax before setting his pack down. The chill in the air bit at his exposed skin, but he was too exhausted to care. He pulled off his hood, allowing his face to breathe, and then he unstrapped the pack to retrieve the rations he'd salvaged.

It was a simple meal—dried fruit, some rehydrated protein cubes, and a water flask. Not much to go on, but it was more than he’d had in a while. His stomach growled in protest, but he didn’t mind. He wasn’t in the mood to rush through it. Instead, he opened the pack slowly, savoring the smell of the rehydrated food as it mixed with the air. He didn’t know the next time he'd get the chance to sit down and eat something like this.

Micah took a deep breath, sitting back against a pile of crates, and began to eat. His movements were slow, deliberate, as he chewed and swallowed, every bite filling the hollow in his chest. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was, not just from the physical exertion but from the emotional toll of the past days. The memory of Michelle’s voice still lingered in his mind. 

“I’m not going to lose you, too.”

He swallowed hard and closed his eyes for a moment. His heart ached at the thought of her—of all the things he had left behind. There were so many things left unsaid, but he had to focus. If he was going to find a way back, he needed to keep moving forward, keep his mind sharp. The image of Michelle’s face, her worry, her love—those memories would keep him going. He had to believe she was out there, that somehow, they would be together again.

With a soft sigh, Micah pulled his face mask back into place and settled the rations aside. He couldn’t afford to linger too long; the longer he stayed in one spot, the more dangerous it became. But for a few minutes, he allowed himself to just breathe and eat, letting the quiet of the courtyard settle around him.

He finished what he could, then packed up the rest of his rations and secured his gear. As he slung his pack back over his shoulder, he stood up, brushing off the dirt from his clothes, and prepared himself for the next leg of his journey. There was still so much left to do, and so many unknowns ahead, but one thing was certain: he wasn’t giving up. 

Not now. Not ever.

As he made his way back toward the edge of the alley, the thought of Michelle stayed with him. He couldn't shake the feeling that he would see her again—that somehow, no matter how impossible it seemed, they would find a way back to each other.

Micah wiped his hands on his pants, securing his pack and adjusting his hood before making a final glance around the alleyway. The Undercity was vast, and he'd ventured deep into its winding streets. It was time to turn back.

The perpetual darkness of the sky above—the two moons casting an eerie, dim glow across the terrain—made it difficult to gauge time, but he'd learned to rely on the movements of the moons to give him some sense of day and night. The smaller moon was high in the sky now, its faint light barely breaking through the thick haze of clouds that hung over the city. The larger one, closer and more ominous, had just begun to dip below the horizon, signaling the end of the day—or what passed for it in this desolate place.

Micah adjusted his pack one more time, feeling the weight of the items inside. He had gathered as much as he could from the shops and storage units, but the journey back would be long. He couldn’t risk staying out here for too long without being spotted or worse. He had to make his way back to the cave, back to where he felt some semblance of safety, even if it was temporary.

Taking a deep breath, Micah turned in the direction he had come from, moving through the maze of streets with a purposeful stride. His mind replayed the feeling of Michelle’s hand in his, her words, the warmth of her presence. The memory gave him strength, urging him forward. He couldn’t stop now. He had to get back.

His reinforced leg, supported by the brace and robot scrap, still felt stiff, but it was holding up. With each step, it grew easier to walk. His pack, now with the added weight of his looted supplies, was a little heavier, but he’d grown accustomed to it. He could handle it.

The streets grew quieter as he moved further from the hustle and bustle of the lower city. The occasional distant shout or the hum of machinery was the only sound, but for the most part, it was eerily silent. The further he went, the more desolate it became. Abandoned buildings loomed on either side of him, and the occasional flicker of a broken light cast a brief glow across the debris-filled streets.

Micah pushed forward, focusing on the path ahead, the sounds of his boots echoing in the stillness. He had to keep going. There was no other choice.

As he walked, his thoughts wandered. He had no idea how he was going to get off this Raelo or how he was going to find a way back to Michelle. The situation was bleak, but the fire in his chest—the desire to survive, to be with her again—burned brighter than the cold emptiness around him.

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours as he walked deeper into the Undercity. The moons were now both visible in the sky, the larger one casting an eerie, silver light across the path ahead. His eyes squinted against the dim light, the shadows playing tricks on him as he continued.

His legs were growing tired, but he pressed on. The cave wasn’t far now. He could make it.

Micah’s pace quickened as the streets grew more unfamiliar, the winding pathways of the Undercity confusing in their design. The remnants of old signs and abandoned vehicles littered the area, the quiet punctuated only by the distant sounds of the city.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he arrived at the edge of the docks, where the cave lay hidden beneath the cliffs. The familiar sight of the rock walls greeted him, and he exhaled in relief. He was almost there.

His breath was labored now, and the exhaustion from the day's journey weighed heavily on him. But the thought of resting in the relative safety of his cave, even if only for a brief moment, kept him moving forward.

The wind picked up as he reached the entrance, and he stepped inside, grateful for the darkness that enveloped him. Micah dropped his pack to the ground and collapsed against the wall, finally allowing himself to relax, even if just for a moment.

The cave was cold, but it was his, and it was safe—at least for now. He pulled out his rations and sat down, pulling the lid off one of the water flasks before taking a long drink. The sound of the wind howling outside echoed in the small space, but within the cave, Micah finally allowed himself to close his eyes, resting for a moment before planning his next steps.

He had no idea what tomorrow would bring, or how he was going to get back to Michelle. But for now, all he could do was rest, recover, and survive.

And then, he would find a way to make it home.

Micah sat up quickly, his body still sore from the long journey but his mind sharp, focused. The quiet of the cave was broken only by the sound of his movements as he began to take stock of his supplies.

His pack, a patchwork of items scavenged from the Undercity, lay at his feet. He opened it, the contents spilling out onto the cold stone floor. His inventory was modest—several sticks of rations, a water flask, a few spare shirts and pants, his larger blaster slung over his back, a smaller blaster tucked in his leg holster, and a jumble of scraps that could be useful later. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do for now. 

First, he examined the leg brace. The metal joints had held up during his journey, but he could tell the stress of the movement had worn them slightly. He needed it to be sturdier if he was going to keep up the pace, especially as he ventured further into the unknown. Using some of the copper wire from his earlier haul, he reinforced the joints, securing the plates and adding extra layers of metal to give it more stability. When he was satisfied with the result, he moved to his armor.

The chestplate was a little dented from the explosion, but it was functional, and that was what mattered. He pulled it off and examined the shoulder plating he had picked up at the scrap yard earlier. It was bulky, mismatched, and clearly designed for someone far bigger than him, but it would help provide some protection. He adjusted the straps and made quick work of fastening the shoulder armor into place. It wasn’t perfect, but it was more than adequate for the situation.

Next, Micah turned his attention to his blasters. He’d taken a few mods from the shopkeeper without paying, and now was the time to use them. The larger blaster needed a new power cell—one that would give it more punch—and the smaller one needed a more efficient targeting system. Micah worked quickly, his hands steady as he swapped out parts, recalibrated the settings, and made sure the mods fit. When he was finished, he held both weapons in his hands, testing their weight and balance. They were better now—stronger, faster, and more reliable.

With his weapons and armor upgraded, he moved on to the clothing. The air was colder here than it had been on Ataria, and while the cave provided some shelter, it wouldn’t protect him against the harsh winds that could cut through even the thickest jacket. He layered his spare shirts beneath his usual outfit, using the fabric from a torn shirt as an extra thermal layer. He adjusted his cloak and hood, securing his face mask tightly around his neck to block out the chill. 

His hands moved to his pack again, quickly checking to make sure he had everything he needed for the journey ahead. More water. More rations. A few scraps of cloth. His eyes lingered on the photo of Michelle, tucked carefully in the top pocket. He pulled it out briefly, looking at her face—her smile—and held it there for a long moment before tucking it back safely into his jacket.

Micah let out a deep breath, standing up and testing his footing. He moved over to the small corner of the cave where he'd set up his heater earlier. It was quiet now, the only sound the distant hum of the cave's stone walls and the slight rustle of his movements. He was ready—ready to go, ready to move, but something held him back.

He let his shoulders sag, then started to remove his armor. The chestplate came off first, followed by the shoulder pieces, which he laid out carefully beside him. As much as he wanted to be out there, hunting for supplies and figuring out his next move, there was something about the cold, quiet cave that made him pause.

He reached for his heater and pulled it close. The chill in the air had begun to seep in despite the extra layers of clothes he’d put on, and he knew he needed to stay warm if he was going to make it through the night—or whatever passed for night on this Raelo. He fumbled around in his pack for an extra power cell and hooked it into the heater, twisting the connections with a practiced hand.

The small device hummed to life, and Micah watched as the soft glow of its heating element began to shine. It was far from perfect, but it was enough to stave off the cold for a while longer. He adjusted the power setting, ensuring it wouldn't drain too quickly, and placed it by his feet, the warmth seeping into his tired bones.

After a few moments, Micah sat back against the cave wall, closing his eyes and pulling his knees to his chest. He wasn't ready to face the chaos of the Undercity just yet. The sound of the heater was oddly comforting as it whirred, its soft heat enveloping him. He settled back against the cold stone floor, shifting until he found a position that felt almost restful.

His thoughts drifted back to Michelle—the warmth of her smile, the way her hand felt in his, the last words she’d said to him. He let the image of her linger in his mind, a beacon of light in this bleak, empty place. Maybe he hadn’t been ready to leave her, but the world had forced his hand.

The heater hummed on.

Micah closed his eyes, letting exhaustion sweep over him. He wasn’t sure what tomorrow would bring, or if he'd even make it through the night, but for now, he could rest.

He was alive, and that was enough—for now.

Chapter Text

It had been three days since they'd returned to the agency without Micah. Three days since they'd come back empty-handed, leaving a void that felt too large to fill.

Michelle stood in the middle of the bustling operations room, her gaze unfocused as she watched the team move around, each member trying to continue as though nothing had changed. But it was impossible.

Nothing could be the same anymore. Micah had been their anchor, the one who held them all together, and now he was gone. Every corner of the agency reminded her of him—his tools in the tech lab, the space he’d claimed for himself in their living quarters, even the small, unspoken presence he always carried with him.

She hadn’t allowed herself to fully break down. Not yet. She couldn’t. Not in front of the others. But every night, alone in her quarters, the grief surged like a tidal wave, pulling her under, suffocating her. The image of his face, the warmth in his eyes, his voice so full of conviction, was burned into her mind.

I’m sorry, Michelle. I wish... I wish I could be there with you.

The words echoed through her mind like a broken record, and the guilt, sharp and biting, wouldn't let her escape. She should have done something. She should have stopped him from making that choice. But Micah—stubborn, selfless, brave Micah—had made his decision, and in his eyes, it had been the only one that mattered.

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the desk she stood by, the wood digging into her palm. She wasn’t sure if she was trying to hold herself together or hold herself back from storming out of the room and doing something reckless. If she could just find him... if she could just know he was still out there somewhere, maybe she could make sense of it all. But the cold truth was that they didn’t even know where to begin looking.

A voice broke through her thoughts. It was Shiloh, walking up to her with her usual, composed expression, though her eyes betrayed the exhaustion he carried. “Michelle,” she said, her tone gentle but firm, “We need to make a decision about our next steps. We can’t keep waiting.”

Her breath caught in her throat, the words weighing heavily. She knew he was right. They couldn’t just sit in limbo, clinging to the hope that Micah might somehow return. But every fiber of her being screamed at her to hold on, to wait, to believe.

“I know,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I know.”

Shiloh gave her a long, searching look, as though she was trying to read something in her face. But she didn’t press her further, understanding that there were battles even he couldn’t fight for her. Instead, she clapped her gently on the shoulder. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

She managed a tight, humorless smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “I hope so,” she replied softly, the weight of the words heavy on her chest.

As Shiloh turned away, heading back to the command table, Michelle’s eyes lingered on the empty space where Micah’s things once were. The weight of the silence in the room was almost suffocating. She wanted—needed—to believe he was still alive, still out there. But with every passing hour, the certainty that she might never see him again gnawed at her, and she wondered how much longer she could keep pretending everything was fine.

I’m not going to lose you, too.

Her mind echoed with her last few words to him, but even that small bit of hope felt like it was slipping further from her grasp, buried beneath the uncertainty of everything they’d lost.

She exhaled slowly, her hand resting over her heart as she turned away, walking back toward the quiet of her quarters. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was running out of time to find him.

—

That night, Michelle found herself back in her quarters, a quiet stillness hanging in the air. The space felt too large without him. The bed that they had once shared, where the two of them had slept so close, the warmth of his body beside hers, now felt cold and empty. Every corner of the room reminded her of him—the spare jacket he’d left behind, the mess of wires and gadgets he’d half-started, the small trinkets he’d picked up on their travels.

She stood at the edge of the bed, her fingers brushing the covers where he would have been, as though trying to feel him again. It was a desperate, fleeting gesture, but it was all she had.

The silence felt louder now, echoing in her mind with every breath she took. She sank down onto the edge of the bed, pulling her knees up to her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around her. 

Her thoughts went back to their last moments together. His smile, his reassuring words, the way his hand had lingered on hers, even in the face of the impossible. She could still remember the sound of his voice, soft but steady as he’d said, “I’m sorry, Michelle. I wish... I wish I could be there with you.” And she couldn’t shake the image of his face, the one she’d seen in her mind over and over again—the same expression of determination, even as he walked away, knowing what was at stake.

She exhaled shakily, her eyes filling with tears she refused to let fall. There was still a part of her, a stubborn part, that couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe he was really gone. That somehow, there was still a chance he'd come back. That he was still out there.

But as the night stretched on, that part of her began to weaken, and the quiet truth settled deeper in her chest: He was gone, and there was nothing she could do about it.

She closed her eyes, trying to imagine the warmth of his arms around her, holding her close the way he always had. She missed him more than she had ever imagined was possible. She missed the way his presence filled up the spaces in her life. His quiet assurance that no matter what, they would always be a team. And now, she was left with nothing but memories.

Sighing, she reached for her pillow, pressing it close to her face as if it could bring him back. But it didn’t. It never would.

The room, dark and still, seemed to close in around her. She lay down, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of everything—trying to force the world to make sense, to bring him back to her. But the more she tried, the more the sadness overtook her, filling the empty spaces where his presence used to be.

In the silence of the night, her mind wandered to the dream she’d had a few nights ago, the one where they were together again—alive, laughing, free. It had felt so real, and she had woken up with the warmth of his touch still lingering, only to face the harsh reality that it was all just a dream.

As the minutes passed, Michelle’s exhaustion finally took hold. She curled into a ball, hugging her knees to her chest, the blankets pulled up to her chin. But even though sleep came, it was restless. A constant pull between the memories of him and the stark reality that he wasn’t there to hold her, to soothe her.

And yet, as she drifted off into a troubled slumber, a small part of her held on to the hope. The hope that somehow, someday, Micah would return. Because, no matter how dark it got, no matter how much it hurt, she couldn’t stop believing in him.

—

The next morning, Michelle woke with the same tightness in her chest that had consumed her the night before. The light from the small window of her room barely pierced the dark, and for a few moments, she allowed herself to lie there, unmoving. The world felt distant, as if she were watching it through a veil. The usual urgency to get up, to face the day, was absent. Instead, she remained still, letting the silence wash over her.

She knew she needed to get up, to move, to keep going. But the weight of the last few days pressed heavily on her shoulders. The lingering scent of Micah’s presence in the room, the absence of his voice calling out to her, of his hands reaching for hers—everything felt suffocating. His absence was everywhere.

Her fingers clutched at the blankets around her, but she didn’t make a move to sit up. The minutes dragged on, stretching longer than they ever should have. She wanted to be strong, to hold herself together for the sake of the team, for the agency, but at that moment, she couldn’t find the strength.

The thought of facing everyone without him by her side—the way she had to explain what happened, how they all had to keep moving forward without Micah—it was all too much. It felt like a lie, like pretending everything was fine when inside, she was breaking.

Her eyes wandered to the picture she had tucked into the side of her nightstand. The one of her and Micah, smiling, carefree. She’d taken it during one of their rare moments of peace, before everything changed. The picture now felt like a cruel reminder of how little time they had together, of everything that was left unsaid between them.

After a long while, Michelle finally shifted. She rolled over and sat up, staring at the floor for a few moments as if trying to summon the energy to stand. But it wasn’t easy. It never was anymore.

With a heavy sigh, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, her knees a little weaker than she expected. Her hands rested on the edge of the dresser, grounding herself for a moment. The room was quiet, but the silence was deafening.

She knew the others would be waiting, probably already in the briefing room, discussing their next move. They’d probably be worried about her. They hadn’t seen her like this before. But how could she explain it to them? How could she make them understand that her world had shifted completely, and she didn’t know how to move forward?

But as much as she wanted to stay in bed, to let the world keep turning without her, she knew she couldn’t. The others needed her. They all had their own grief to deal with, but she couldn’t afford to let hers consume her any longer.

Michelle walked toward the door, pausing for a moment, her hand resting on the frame. She let out a deep breath, steadying herself. The face she showed to the world—stoic, controlled—was the face she would wear today. Because no one else could see how much it hurt, how much she missed him.

Not yet.

With one final glance at the empty bed, she pushed the door open and stepped into the hallway, ready to face another day without him. But inside, she wasn’t sure how long she could keep pretending.

Chapter Text

A few days had passed since Micah first made his way into the Undercity, and while the isolation was grating, it also gave him something he hadn’t realized he needed: a routine. He’d found a rhythm—collecting scraps from various wreckages, scavenging items from abandoned shops, and selling them to the merchant who ran a modest shop hidden away in a back alley. The old man had been suspicious at first, but Micah had kept his distance, careful with his words, and after a few small transactions, the merchant had slowly warmed up to him.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep him going. He’d stockpiled a bit of currency, enough to buy some basic supplies—extra clothes, small gadgets that might prove useful, and, on occasion, a ration pack when his own stash ran low. The process was simple: go out, collect, sell, repeat. But the monotony did little to dull the nagging thoughts in the back of his mind.

Still, he was getting better at the whole “surviving” thing, and that was all that mattered. The life of a scavenger wasn’t glamorous, but Micah knew how to adapt. The armor he’d cobbled together was far from perfect, but it provided the protection he needed, especially with the frequent gang skirmishes that occasionally erupted in the streets. His leg brace, too, had held up, reinforced and adjusted over time, making it easier for him to move with relative speed. He’d learned to move with precision—careful, deliberate steps, so he wouldn’t draw attention, blending into the shadows when necessary.

Today, he was back in the same shop. The merchant gave him a nod as Micah approached the counter, his pack full of metal bits, wires, and other odds and ends he’d scavenged over the last couple of days. The man eyed the contents of the bag before reaching for the credits.

“You’re getting better at this,” the merchant said gruffly, his voice less skeptical than it had been the first time.

Micah managed a small, tired smile. “Just trying to make it, same as you.”

The merchant handed him a small pile of credits. It wasn’t a fortune, but it was enough to keep him going for a while longer. Micah tucked the credits into his jacket pocket and turned to leave, but the merchant’s voice stopped him.

“Careful out there,” he called. “The gangs are getting more restless. Not a place for someone like you to be wandering around alone. If you ever want a little more... work, come back. I might have something for you.”

Micah paused, considering the offer. He didn’t like the idea of getting too entangled with anyone in this city, especially not the kind of work the merchant might be hinting at, but his options were limited. And the thought of being able to move off-world sooner—maybe even finding a way back to the agency, to Michelle—pushed him forward.

“Thanks,” Micah said, giving the merchant a polite nod. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

With that, he left the shop, stepping back into the busy streets. The Undercity was bustling as always—people moving about, vendors shouting their wares, the distant hum of machinery echoing from the depths of the cavernous city. Micah moved with purpose, his mind still focused on the goal ahead. He needed to gather more intel, find out how to get off this Raelo, and, somehow, figure out how to survive long enough to make it back home.

But even as he walked through the crowded streets, the weight of his own thoughts gnawed at him. The more time passed, the more Micah found himself reflecting on what he left behind. Michelle’s face haunted him in the quiet moments, the memory of her soft voice and the way she had always been there, even when he didn’t deserve it.

His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden shout, a quick movement in the crowd. He tensed, his hand instinctively reaching for his blaster before he saw the two figures tussling in an alley up ahead. He hesitated, but only for a moment. This was the Undercity—fights were common, and if he didn’t get involved, he could avoid trouble.

His hand tightened around the strap of his pack, his gaze flickering toward the shadows. Today wasn’t the day to get distracted. He had a mission, and nothing was going to stop him from finding a way back to her.

Micah’s instincts had told him to keep walking, to ignore the chaos ahead and move quickly, but in the crowded alley, the tension escalated too quickly. Two gangs—one bickering over turf, the other over stolen supplies—clashed in front of him. The shouting, the sounds of fists colliding, and the blaster fire sent a ripple of unease down his spine. His hand hovered over his blaster, ready to defend himself, but he hesitated. If he got caught up in the fight, it would attract attention. And Micah couldn’t afford that. 

But it was too late.

A man charged toward him, swinging a pipe, and Micah ducked just in time, the pipe grazing the edge of his shoulder. In the instant it took to react, another figure grabbed him from behind, slamming him against the cold stone of a nearby building. He gasped, pain shooting through his chest as his pack was jarred loose.

Before he could reach for his blaster, a boot to the stomach knocked the wind out of him. He staggered, fighting to stay on his feet, but his vision blurred. It was all too familiar—like the countless scraps he'd fought in back home, but this time, there was no family, no backup.

Just when he thought he’d been completely overwhelmed, a loud shout rang out from the direction of the nearby tavern. A few men—large, confident, and visibly armed—stepped into the fray. 

Micah barely registered the move before the first punch landed. The man who threw it sent one gang member flying, his body slamming into a metal trash can with a sickening crunch. The others hesitated, and within seconds, the rest of the gang was on the run, scattering like cockroaches caught in the light. The men from the tavern had whipped them into submission without breaking a sweat.

Micah staggered to his knees, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He tried to push himself up, but his body felt heavy, bruised. Just as he was about to make another attempt, a hand extended toward him, steady and firm.

“Here, let me help you,” the voice said, with an unmistakable kindness.

Gripping the hand, Micah let himself be pulled up. He expected a stranger—another thug from the Undercity—but when he looked up to thank him, his words caught in his throat.

It was the man who’d offered him a drink earlier.

The man’s eyes met his, and there was an instant of recognition. But there was something different now—this man, who Micah had pegged as just another rough and tumble type, looked younger than he’d expected. Mid-30s at most, maybe even younger, with a sharp jawline and dark hair that had hints of grey. He wasn’t the grizzled, older tavern regular Micah had assumed him to be. The lines of his face weren’t aged with time, but with the experiences of someone who had seen too much.

“Are you alright?” the man asked, concern in his voice as he studied Micah. “You look like you've been through hell.”

Micah blinked, processing the realization. His chest tightened. The familiarity of the voice, the way the man moved, the fact that he’d offered him a drink all came rushing back at once.

“I… I’m fine. Thanks for the help,” Micah muttered, still trying to get his bearings. He found himself instinctively reaching for his pack and the blasters slung across his back.

The man, however, wasn’t done. His gaze softened. “That was a close call. You sure you’re alright?”

Micah nodded, his pulse pounding in his ears. “I… I’m good. Just a little shaken, that’s all.”

The man studied him for a moment longer, before his eyes flicked to the weapons on Micah’s belt. A flicker of something unreadable passed over his face, but he didn’t comment on it.

“You don’t look like you belong in a mess like this,” the man said, his tone lighter now, as though they were exchanging nothing more than casual pleasantries. “You need a place to lay low for a bit?”

Micah hesitated. He wasn’t sure he wanted to get involved with more strangers, especially in a place like this. But there was something about the man—something familiar, something that drew him in.

And the streets of the Undercity weren’t exactly the safest place to stay alone for long.

“Yeah,” Micah said slowly, “I could use a place to lay low.”

The man’s expression softened again, a brief smile tugging at his lips. “Alright. Come on, then. We’ve got a small place nearby. You can catch your breath.”

As they started walking, the man fell into step beside him, his presence more at ease now. Micah, despite his wary nature, found himself walking alongside him, the weight of his situation creeping back into his thoughts. His mind still buzzed with the image of Michelle’s face—the thought of her waiting for him back at the agency.

The man glanced over at him, his curiosity evident. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

Micah hesitated before shaking his head. “Nah. Just passing through.”

The man nodded. “Well, you’re lucky we showed up when we did. Can’t be too careful in this part of the city. People don’t last long if they aren’t smart.”

As they walked, Micah couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t just a random encounter. There was something familiar in the way the man spoke, the way he held himself—like he’d seen too much, just like Micah. Maybe they weren’t so different after all. 

And yet, even though the man had helped him out of the gang mess, Micah couldn’t help but feel that there was more to this stranger than he was letting on.

As they moved through the Undercity, the sounds of the chaotic streets—shouting, the occasional clash of weapons, and the rumble of distant traffic—faded behind them. Micah, wary and alert, kept his hand close to his blaster, his mind racing. The quiet confidence of the man who helped him felt reassuring at first, but now, as they descended further into the twisting, maze-like alleyways, doubt crept in. 

He had no idea where they were going. The city was full of traps, especially for someone like him. No one ever helped anyone without expecting something in return, and Micah wasn’t ready to trust anyone—not yet. The unease in his chest grew as the silence between them stretched. The man's companions, a group of two others, moved with practiced ease, their eyes scanning the surroundings as they led him further into the Undercity.

Micah's hand rested lightly on the grip of his blaster as they made a sharp turn into an alley, and then another. The streets grew narrower, the lighting dimmer, and the buildings felt more imposing. It didn’t take long for him to realize that the alleyways they’d taken were unfamiliar—too many turns, too many dead ends. It all felt off. 

This could be a trap, Micah thought, his pulse quickening.

He wasn’t sure what was going to happen next. The group might be planning to ambush him, take his stuff, or worse. But if they wanted to kill me, they’d have done it already. Still, the uncertainty gnawed at him, and he resisted the impulse to pull away, to make a run for it. He couldn’t afford to be careless now.

As they reached what seemed to be the final turn, Micah’s instincts screamed. The walls of the alleyway pressed in tighter, and just as he was about to take a step back, the man in the lead glanced back at him.

“Hold tight,” he said simply, his voice low. 

Before Micah could react, the man pressed a hidden switch in the wall, and with a grinding sound, part of the structure shifted. A concealed door swung open, revealing an entrance that was far more expansive than Micah had expected. The light from inside leaked out, revealing the cool blue glow of overhead lights in a large, open space.

Micah blinked, his thoughts racing.

“Come on,” the man urged, motioning for him to follow inside.

They stepped through the door, and Micah followed reluctantly. His eyes quickly adjusted to the dim lighting, and what he saw shocked him.

What he’d thought would be some small, hidden lair was actually a large, well-maintained warehouse. The walls were lined with crates, machines, and various tech—nothing fancy, but it looked like it was well-stocked. A handful of men, all around the man’s age, worked in the far corners, assembling various equipment and running diagnostics on old machinery. The space was alive with the hum of technology.

The man who’d helped him reached over and shut the door behind them, cutting off any chance of retreat. Micah’s muscles tensed, his hand twitching toward his blaster. But he stopped himself.

There was no immediate threat. The men here were busy with their own work, barely acknowledging his presence. Their clothes were simple—worn, but functional. It was clear that they weren’t out for trouble, not like the gangs Micah had run into earlier. But that didn’t mean they were entirely harmless either.

“Make yourself at home,” the man said, his tone casual, as if this were all part of the plan. “You’re safe here.”

Micah didn’t answer immediately. He glanced around, looking for any sign of danger, but all he saw were the people working—no obvious weapons, no aggressive posturing. The air in the warehouse was thick with the smell of oil and metal. The floor beneath his boots was littered with tools, parts, and discarded tech.

The youngest of the group, the one who’d helped him up earlier, looked over from the corner where he was tinkering with a damaged piece of equipment. His eyes flicked between Micah and the man who had led him here, and then back again. There was a curiosity in his expression, but he didn’t speak.

The man in front of Micah stepped forward, clasping his hands behind his back. “I’ll be honest,” he said, his voice steady. “We’re a small group of mercenaries, traders, and tech scavengers. We deal in scraps, repairs, and sometimes… tougher jobs. The city’s got a lot of people looking to get ahead, and it doesn’t always go smoothly. We can use all the help we can get. If you're looking for work, you're welcome to join.”

Micah stood still, processing the offer. The man’s words made sense, but they didn’t explain much. What were they really after? And what did they want with someone like him?

“What do you want from me?” Micah asked, his voice guarded. “You don’t just help people without expecting something in return.”

The man’s lips quirked in a half-smile. “You’ve got it figured out, huh? Look, you’re not a charity case. But there’s more going on in this city than you think, and I’m guessing you’ve got a little experience in survival. Might be useful to us. And in return? Well, you get a place to lay low, supplies, and if you stick around long enough, we can make sure you get what you need to get off this rock.”

Micah didn’t say anything for a long moment, still processing. He had his reservations, but the idea of staying in one place, away from the constant threat of being hunted down, appealed to him. It was safer than wandering the streets of the Undercity alone.

He looked over at the others, still working quietly in the corners of the warehouse. They didn’t seem to be bothered by his presence.

Micah stood there, his mind racing as he weighed his options. Every instinct urged him to keep moving, to avoid the snare of trusting strangers in the Undercity. But then an image of his family—his brothers, his sister, and Michelle—flashed in his mind, igniting a spark of resolve. For them, he thought. I have to do this.

With a deep, steadying breath, he finally spoke. “Alright, I’ll take the deal,” he said, his voice low and resolute. In response, the man before him extended his hand. Their palms met in a firm, cautious grip. It was only in that moment, as their hands clasped together, that Micah realized he didn’t know the man’s name at all.

After a brief pause—an almost palpable hesitation—the stranger broke the silence. “I—uh—my name’s Zander,” he offered, his tone careful, as if testing the waters of trust.

Micah’s eyes narrowed slightly in acknowledgement as he slowly released the handshake. A moment passed before he cleared his throat and, with equal hesitation, replied, “I’m Micah.”

They stood there for a beat, each processing the exchange in the quiet hum of the warehouse. Micah’s decision, though fraught with uncertainty, was now set in motion. The anonymous man—now known as Zander—nodded once, as if sealing their unspoken pact.

Zander continued, “Welcome to the team. I think you’ll fit right in.”

Micah glanced around at the other men quietly working in the corners of the sizeable warehouse. They didn’t seem to mind his presence. The offer wasn’t without risk, but Micah’s thoughts returned to his family and the promise he’d made to himself—to survive, to keep moving forward for them all.

After a long moment of silence, Micah exhaled slowly. “I’ll think about it,” he said, the weight of his decision mingling with the uncertainty of this new alliance.

Zander’s gaze remained steady. “Take your time, but not too long. This city isn’t kind to those who dawdle.”

Micah’s eyes drifted to his pack and the scattered scraps on the table. He was still processing everything, but the Undercity’s relentless dangers made the safety of a steady place increasingly appealing. With a resigned nod, he accepted that, for now, staying put was the lesser evil.

And so, with names finally exchanged—a quiet handshake sealing their tentative alliance—Micah’s fate took a new turn. Though the promise of shelter and opportunity in this hidden warehouse was uncertain, it was a chance to survive, to regroup, and maybe one day, to find a way back to the people who meant everything to him.

Zander waved him toward a table piled with tech parts. “Start with sorting these. If you’re good with the basics, we’ll get you a more... interesting job.” 

Micah didn’t need any more encouragement. He walked toward the table and set down his pack. As he began to sift through the scattered parts, his mind was still on Michelle. He couldn’t shake the feeling that she was still out there, waiting for him. I’ll get back to you, he promised silently, even as he focused on the work in front of him. One way or another. I’ll get back to you. 

But for now, Micah knew he had to survive. And this was his best shot.

Micah set to work, his fingers moving through the scattered tech parts with practiced precision. Despite the foreign environment, his hands remembered the motions. He’d fixed machines, tinkered with gadgets, and repaired electronics in the past—skills he'd learned over the years, mostly out of necessity. But it felt different here. Every piece he picked up, every wire he untangled, seemed to remind him that he was far from home.

His thoughts kept drifting back to Michelle, the sound of her voice, the warmth of her smile before he left. He couldn't shake the image of her worried eyes, her voice calling after him, telling him she wasn’t going to lose him too. It gnawed at him, that feeling of unfinished business.

Still, he pushed the thoughts down and focused on the work in front of him. Each task—small and menial though it was—felt like a step toward regaining control. A chance to make sure that when the time came, he’d be ready for whatever came next. To be ready for her.

His fingers worked steadily, sorting parts into various piles—wires, broken chips, usable components, things he could sell, things he could repair. As he worked, he took in his surroundings. The others in the warehouse were focused on their own tasks, none of them acknowledging his presence more than necessary. It was almost calming, the silence of labor, but it reminded him that he wasn’t truly alone. The whole Undercity, as grim as it was, felt alive in a way that made him feel like an outsider in the quiet hum of this space.

Zander, seemingly satisfied with the progress, called from across the room. “You’re quick with that. Good. That’ll do for today.”

Micah looked up, meeting Zander's gaze. The man gave him a short nod, his expression unreadable.

Micah nodded back, his thoughts still tangled between the work, the people around him, and, most persistently, the feeling that he needed to keep moving forward. “Thanks,” Micah replied simply, packing up the last of the sorted pieces.

Zander seemed to watch him for a moment before speaking again. “If you're good with that, we’ll get you into the field soon. There’s always work for someone like you. But for now, you can crash here. We keep a place for new people.”

Micah glanced around at the others working, the low murmur of voices in the warehouse. He didn’t feel like he belonged yet, but he wasn’t exactly in a position to argue. He was just grateful for the relative safety of the place, even if it wasn’t permanent.

“Sounds good,” Micah said, his voice barely above a whisper. Then, looking at Zander with a moment of uncertainty, he added, “Do you think... Do you think I’ll ever get out of here? Find my way back?”

Zander met his gaze evenly. “Doesn’t matter how long it takes,” he said, his tone flat but steady. “You survive long enough, you can go wherever you want. This city doesn’t get the best of you if you know how to play it.”

Micah’s chest tightened at those words, but a sense of clarity washed over him. He didn’t have the answers, not yet. But he would survive. He would fight his way out of here, and when the time came, he would find his way back to the ones he loved.

As he settled into a corner of the warehouse for the night, staring up at the dimly lit ceiling, the weight of the day settled over him. He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but he knew one thing for sure—he wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.

He would get back to all of them. To Michelle.

One way or another.

The warehouse was quieter now, the bustle of activity slowing as the workers began to wind down for the night. Micah sat against the cool wall in the corner, his legs stretched out in front of him. The low hum of the power systems in the building was oddly comforting, a steady rhythm to match the pulse of his thoughts.

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to clear his mind, but Michelle’s face was there, vivid in his memory. He couldn’t stop thinking about her, about the life they had before all of this, before everything had been turned upside down. He had promised her he would come back. And he would—he had to. The thought of her waiting for him, worried, scared... it gave him the fuel to keep pushing forward.

The room around him was dim, lit only by the low glow of a few overhead lights, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. A couple of other men were scattered around the warehouse, their own spaces claimed for the night. Some were already asleep, others quietly tinkering with the tech parts they’d salvaged.

He’d tried to sleep earlier, but his mind kept racing. He had no idea what tomorrow would bring. Would he get a job from Zander? Would they send him out on a mission or a job for the Undercity’s lower ranks? The thought of doing something dangerous didn't sit well with him, but it was the reality of his situation now. And besides, as long as it paid enough for supplies, he would take whatever was offered.

The weight of his blasters against his side was a constant reminder of his readiness. He had to stay sharp. It was a strange, harsh way to live, but survival was survival. His new life here in the Undercity was temporary, but it was his best shot at staying off the radar.

He shifted slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position, and finally drifted off into a light sleep, one eye half open, his instincts alert for any sounds around him.

—

The next morning, Micah was up before the others, eager to get started, despite the unrest still lingering in his chest. He knew he needed to make himself useful if he wanted to prove himself to Zander and the rest of the crew. He couldn’t afford to look weak—not here.

After a quick breakfast of his remaining rations, he made his way to the workbench, where Zander had left him to sort the parts yesterday.

“You’re up early,” Zander remarked as he walked past, his voice flat but approving.

“Thought I’d get a head start,” Micah replied, keeping his tone neutral. He didn’t want to seem too eager, but he needed to show he wasn’t a burden.

Zander gave him a brief look over, then nodded. “Good. We have a job for you today. Nothing big, just some basic repairs on a transport. Think you can handle it?”

Micah nodded, a surge of determination filling him. “I’ll do what I can.”

Zander’s lips twitched up at the corners, an almost imperceptible smile. “That’s the spirit. We’ll need the transport fixed by tonight, or we’ll be short for a big shipment tomorrow. So don’t slack off.”

Micah nodded again, moving quickly to gather his things.

As he made his way outside with Zander and a few of the others, the Undercity greeted him with its usual grit—steel structures towering overhead, cables and pipes crisscrossing in every direction. The air was thick with the smell of oil and exhaust, a constant reminder of the industrial sprawl around him.

Zander led the way to a nearby docking area, where a battered transport ship sat, its hull dented and scarred from years of use. Micah felt his stomach tighten. Fixing things was what he was good at—but this was different. This wasn’t a simple repair job in a quiet workshop. This was a job in the Undercity, where time was money and anything could go wrong.

Zander looked at him expectantly. “You’re up. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Micah exhaled slowly, steeling himself as he approached the ship. He wasn’t about to mess this up. Not now. Not when he had so much at stake. He bent down to inspect the damaged parts of the ship’s engine, mentally running through the steps it would take to fix it.

He would survive this. He had to. For his family. For Michelle. 

Micah set to work, his hands moving with a practiced efficiency as he inspected the engine and the damaged components. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts—mostly about Michelle, his family, and the promise he’d made to return. But beneath that, there was a steady undercurrent of determination. This was survival. This was what he needed to do to keep moving forward.

Zander and the others stood a few feet away, watching him work. Every now and then, one of the men would mutter something under their breath, but Micah ignored them. He focused on the task at hand, blocking out everything except the ship in front of him and the sounds of the Undercity buzzing around him.

As he worked, the day passed in a blur. Micah didn’t mind. His hands knew what they were doing. He tightened screws, swapped out damaged parts, recalibrated the engine’s core systems. The physical labor helped clear his mind, and he found a certain peace in it. This was a kind of quiet he could cling to.

By the time the sun began to dip below the skyline, Micah stood back, wiping his hands on his jacket, feeling the satisfaction of a job well done. The ship’s engine was humming softly, its previously sputtering core now purring like a well-oiled machine.

Zander came over, inspecting the work with a critical eye. He stood there for a moment, silently running his hands over the various components, before giving a satisfied grunt.

“Not bad,” he said. “We’ll take it for a test run tonight. If it holds up, you’ve earned your keep.”

Micah nodded, trying to keep his expression neutral. “Glad I could help.”

Zander clapped him on the back, the gesture surprisingly warm. “You’ll fit in fine here, Micah. Just don’t get any ideas about leaving too soon, alright?”

Micah nodded again, his chest tightening with the unspoken implication. He was still a stranger here, still on borrowed time. But for now, this was as close to safety as he could get.

As Zander turned to give the orders for the test run, Micah lingered a moment, letting his gaze drift to the skyline. The Undercity stretched out before him, dark and imposing, but also full of life, full of potential. And somewhere out there—maybe just beyond the horizon—was Michelle, waiting for him.

He’d made a promise. And he wouldn’t break it.

With one last glance at the bustling crowd around him, Micah turned and followed Zander, ready to prove his worth, one step at a time. He didn’t know what the future held, but for now, this was enough.

He could survive here.

And he could keep fighting.

For her.

—

A week later, Micah had settled into a routine in the Undercity warehouse. His work with Zander and the crew had become more involved. At first, it had been basic repairs—small jobs that were easy enough to handle. But soon, his skill with tech had caught their attention, and he was trusted with more complex tasks. He worked on ships, weapons, and even some of the city’s underground tech that the gang used to get by. He’d learned more in the past week than he had in months, absorbing everything he could while keeping his head low.

Zander had kept his word—Micah had earned his place here. But despite the progress, the promise he’d made to Michelle still weighed heavily on him. Every time he had a spare moment, he found himself thinking of her. He remembered the warmth of her smile, the way she’d laugh when they’d joke around, the soft touch of her hand. He missed her more than he cared to admit, but he refused to give up hope.

Even if it was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

The gang had become something of a strange family to him, but it wasn’t the same. He didn’t belong here the way he belonged with her, with his brothers. He knew that deep down. But for now, he kept his head down and kept working. The Undercity was dangerous, and every step he took closer to survival was one step closer to being able to escape, to find his way back home.

As he finished a repair job late one evening, Zander called him over.

“Got a new job for you, Micah,” he said, leaning against the doorway of the dimly lit workshop. “Big payday. But it’s risky.”

Micah wiped his hands on his pants and stood up, ready to listen. “What kind of job?”

Zander’s eyes glinted with the thrill of something dangerous. “There’s a high-profile client looking for someone to pull off a heist. We’re talking a high-stakes operation. Big money. It could set you up for life, if you’re up for it.”

Zander’s eyes glinted with the thrill of something dangerous. “There’s a high-profile client looking for someone to pull off a heist. We’re talking a high-stakes operation. Big money. It could set you up for life, if you’re up for it.”

Micah hesitated. He didn’t have the luxury of rushing into something like this, but the promise of enough credits to get him off-world was tempting. It could be the way out—the fast track to escape.

“What’s the catch?” he asked, already suspecting the danger.

Zander grinned. “You’ll need to move fast and be discreet. There are a lot of eyes on this job. But if you pull it off, you’ll have everything you need to go wherever you want. Think of it as your ticket out.”

Micah considered the offer, his heart beating a little faster. This was the kind of opportunity he couldn’t afford to ignore. It was risky, but if it worked, it could be the key to getting back to Michelle.

He exhaled slowly. “I’m in.”

Zander clapped him on the shoulder. “Good. We leave tomorrow night. Get ready.”

As the conversation ended and Zander walked away, Micah found himself alone with his thoughts again. The idea of a dangerous job didn’t scare him—not after everything he’d already been through. What scared him was the thought of not getting out at all. He had to do this.

But even as he prepared for what was to come, his mind kept drifting back to Michelle. The quiet promise he’d made to return to her echoed in his mind, and it was all he could do to focus on the task at hand.

He wasn’t done yet. He couldn’t be.

Tomorrow, he’d take the job. But he’d also make it his mission to find a way back to her, no matter the cost. He had nothing to lose anymore except the hope of one day seeing her again.

And that hope—was something he wasn’t ready to give up on.

Chapter Text

The atmosphere in the warehouse was tense, but there was a calm focus in the air as Zander paced around the small table at the center of the room. Micah watched him closely, the weight of the job settling on his shoulders. The flickering light of a single overhead lamp cast long shadows across the concrete floor, illuminating the table covered in blueprints, tech specs, and tools strewn about.

Zander’s voice was steady, low, but authoritative as he went over the plan once again. His team gathered around, listening intently. Micah stood slightly apart from the group, trying to make himself blend in, but it wasn’t easy—this was his first real job with them, and every movement he made felt like it could betray his nerves.

“This is the target,” Zander said, pointing to a diagram on the table. “A private research facility. The security is tight, but nothing we can’t handle. They’ve got a vault with a high-value prototype inside—top tech, something that'll fetch us a nice chunk of credits.”

Micah nodded silently, trying to ignore the sudden churn in his stomach. This wasn’t a small-time job. It wasn’t scavenging scraps for change. This was real, and things could go sideways fast.

Zander’s gaze shifted toward him. “Micah, you’re on tech. You’ll be handling the security systems, getting us in without setting off alarms. If you mess up, we’ll be trapped.”

Micah’s pulse quickened. “Understood,” he said, keeping his voice even.

“Good. I don’t need to remind anyone,” Zander continued, “but the moment we’re in, we move fast. No hesitation. We get the prototype, and we get out clean. In and out in under ten minutes.”

Micah swallowed, nodding again. His role was vital. They were counting on him to keep the facility’s security at bay, to make sure they didn’t get caught before they could get what they came for.

Zander looked around the group one last time. “Any questions?”

No one spoke. Zander gave a quick nod of approval and then moved to the door, gesturing for everyone to follow.

As the team filed out into the night, Micah stayed in the back, trying to shake off the dread creeping up his spine. He’d done this before—broken into places, hacked systems, disabled security—but this wasn’t just about getting in. It was about getting out. And that, in his mind, was the trickier part.

As he stepped out into the dark streets of the Undercity, the weight of the task ahead pressed harder on him. He could feel Zander’s eyes on him, but worse—he felt his own doubts mounting.

I can do this. I have to.

The city was eerily quiet as the team made their way through the narrow streets of the Undercity. The hum of neon lights cast a faint glow across the grimy, industrial landscape, reflecting off the metal surfaces of the towering buildings that loomed above them. The air was thick with the scent of oil and rust, the faint vibrations of distant machinery vibrating through the ground beneath their feet.

Micah kept his head down, trying to blend in with the others as they moved with practiced precision, their footsteps quick and quiet. Zander led the way, always in control, the unspoken leader of this ragtag crew. Micah’s heart raced in his chest as he followed, his mind rehearsing the plan again and again.

As they neared the facility, Micah could hear the faint crackle of security cameras whirring into place, their mechanical movements as cold and detached as the building itself. The research center was heavily guarded, and there were automated defenses at nearly every corner. Micah’s job was to make sure none of that stood in their way.

They huddled together at the base of a towering security fence, the sharp smell of metal and electricity hanging in the air. Zander turned to the group.

“You know the drill. Micah, you’re up. Get us in.”

Micah nodded, his stomach twisting in knots. He pulled out his toolkit, the familiar weight of the devices grounding him slightly. It was almost like breathing—he’d done this so many times, cracking codes, overriding systems—but this time, the pressure felt different. The stakes were higher.

His hands were steady as he attached the interface to the facility’s main power grid, the small device clicking into place with a soft snick. He glanced at Zander, who gave him a subtle nod of encouragement, and then shifted his focus back to the task at hand.

The digital readout on his wrist flickered as the device began to hack into the facility’s security network. Codes flashed across the screen, too fast for most to catch, but Micah’s eyes were trained to read them. He worked quickly, his mind sharp, moving like a machine, fingers flying over the keys as he bypassed firewall after firewall.

Seconds felt like minutes. The tension in the air was palpable. He could feel Zander’s eyes boring into his back, his team's impatience rising with every passing second.

Finally, a soft beep echoed through the night as the main gate’s security system shut down. A small grin tugged at the corner of Micah’s lips. The system was his.

“It’s done,” he whispered, pulling the interface out and stashing it back in his bag. He waved the team forward.

Zander stepped forward, his voice low but firm. “Move out.”

They slipped through the gate, the sound of their footsteps muffled by the thick underbrush surrounding the facility. Micah kept his eyes peeled, scanning the area for any sign of motion. He felt the familiar pull of adrenaline, the rush of being on the edge of danger. His pulse thrummed in his ears, and he focused on keeping his breathing steady.

The building loomed ahead, its cold concrete walls rising up like a fortress. The team was efficient, moving in silence, slipping through the shadows as they approached the entrance. Zander signaled to Micah to take point on the tech side.

Micah moved forward, eyes on the small device in his hand as he plugged it into the keypad near the entrance. His fingers danced over the small screen, deactivating the locks one by one.

Then came the soft click as the final door opened, and they were in.

The dim interior of the research facility was starkly quiet, the only sounds the soft hum of computers and the occasional clink of metal on metal as the team moved further into the heart of the building. Micah’s nerves were on edge, his heart still pounding in his chest as they slipped past security stations and down narrow hallways.

Zander led, as always, his movements smooth and controlled, his eyes scanning every corner of the facility with an experienced, practiced gaze. The rest of the team followed in silence, their steps synchronized as they made their way deeper into the facility.

Micah glanced over at Zander, who gave him a small nod. "We’re close," he murmured, though there was no sign of the high-tech vault they were after. "Keep your eyes open. Once we’re inside, we grab what we need, and we get out. Fast."

Micah nodded, trying to focus on the task at hand, trying to ignore the nagging feeling in his gut. Everything was going too smoothly.

They reached a heavy steel door, its surface gleaming under the harsh overhead lights. Zander paused, studying the door before turning back to Micah.

“Time to work, Micah,” Zander said, his voice low but filled with quiet authority. “Can you override this?”

Micah nodded, his mind already in the zone as he moved forward, pulling out his interface tool once again. His fingers brushed against the cool surface of the device, and he slid it into the slot. It clicked softly, and his wrist device immediately began scanning, trying to connect with the facility’s security grid.

But something wasn’t right.

His pulse quickened, sweat starting to bead at his brow as the device froze on the screen. It wasn’t the usual firewall or security protocols. There was a secondary level of encryption, something more advanced. His fingers flew across the keys, but the program kept locking him out, each failed attempt raising the stakes.

Zander’s impatience began to show as he crossed his arms and watched, his eyes narrowed. “Micah. What’s taking so long?”

“I—I’m trying. There’s a higher-level encryption,” Micah muttered, panic starting to rise in his chest. His fingers fumbled as he worked, trying to bypass the additional security layers.

The beeping on the screen grew more insistent, and he could feel the weight of the others’ gaze on him. Each second was stretching into eternity.

“Micah—hurry,” Zander urged, the tone of his voice growing more impatient.

“I—I’m almost there!” Micah snapped, trying to keep the panic at bay. He was usually fast with this sort of thing, but something about the security in this place was more sophisticated than anything he’d faced before. His hands were shaking as he adjusted his settings, working through the system’s failsafes.

Suddenly, the door buzzed, the red warning light flashing above them, signaling that they’d been detected. The door jerked open just slightly, and an alarm blared through the building, its sound deafening in the otherwise quiet halls.

Zander cursed, his eyes flashing with anger.

Micah stood frozen for a moment, the reality of his mistake crashing down on him. He’d messed up. And now, they were exposed.

“Move, now!” Zander barked, grabbing Micah by the arm and pulling him away from the door. The team scattered in different directions as footsteps echoed through the halls—guards were coming.

Micah’s heart hammered in his chest as he followed Zander, panic gripping him. He wasn’t fast enough. His brain couldn’t focus on the right thing, and he wasn’t able to keep up.

They rounded a corner, but as they made their way down the next hallway, Micah stumbled. His leg, still reinforced from his earlier repairs, wasn’t giving him the stability he needed. The brace ground against his muscles, the metal joints not bending quite as smoothly as they should have. He caught himself, but it slowed him down—just enough for a guard to catch sight of him.

“Go!” Zander shouted, looking over his shoulder as the sound of gunfire erupted from the end of the hall.

Micah’s mind was spinning. He couldn’t afford to screw up anymore. He had to keep up. But the pain in his leg flared, and he couldn’t move as fast as he needed to. Zander pushed ahead, and Micah felt the weight of his failure drag him down.

They made it back to the exit, barely, with the sound of alarms echoing behind them. Micah could hear the team breathing heavily, the rush of adrenaline still thick in the air.

Zander was the first to step into the alleyway outside, followed by the others. Micah’s chest tightened as he finally made it out, his leg buckling under him as he stumbled to a stop. The others were already regrouping, looking shaken but mostly unharmed.

But Zander’s gaze was ice-cold as he turned to Micah.

“You screwed up,” he said quietly, his voice colder than Micah had ever heard it. “We don’t have time for screw-ups, Micah. You’re not one of us yet. You want to make it here, you need to pull your weight. And you didn’t.”

Micah could feel the sting of Zander’s words like a slap. He stood there, silent, his fists clenched at his sides. The shame, the frustration, all of it boiled up inside him. He was already beating himself up for messing up the heist. He couldn’t fix what he’d done. He knew it. And Zander didn’t have to tell him.

“I—I know,” Micah said, his voice tight. “I messed up. It was me.”

Zander gave him a long look before turning away, signaling the rest of the crew to move. “You better figure it out. Next time, it’ll cost you more than your pride.”

Micah felt a lump rise in his throat as he watched the others disappear into the shadows, the guilt of his failure pressing down on him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t good enough. That he wasn’t strong enough for this.

He sat down in the alley, his head in his hands, mentally berating himself.

I failed. I failed them. I failed him. I couldn’t even keep up.

—

The night air was cold as Micah sat in the alley, the events of the heist replaying in his mind over and over again. His hands were still trembling from the adrenaline, but it was the weight of Zander’s scolding that lingered more than anything. It gnawed at him, the words echoing in his mind: You screwed up.

He could still hear the crackle of the alarm, the pounding footsteps of guards. And the way Zander had looked at him—like he was a liability. It stung more than any of the physical wounds he’d gotten.

Get it together, Micah thought, wiping his face with the back of his hand. You’re here for a reason. You have to keep going.

But as much as he told himself to shake it off, he couldn’t. Not this time. The failure felt bigger. The team had barely made it out alive, and that was on him. His mind flashed to his brothers, to Michelle.

He closed his eyes, trying to find something to steady himself. But every time he thought of them, it only made the pressure grow heavier.

As the team regrouped farther down the alley, Zander called over his shoulder, "Micah, you're with me." His tone was clipped, the previous anger still present in his voice, but there was something else too. Maybe frustration, or maybe just the simple fact that Micah’s screw-up had affected them all.

He pushed himself to his feet, legs shaky, but he followed Zander’s lead anyway, trying to ignore the bitter taste of failure still on his tongue.

The warehouse wasn’t far from where they’d hidden out after the heist. When they arrived, Zander led Micah to the back, where the team had begun to settle in. But Micah was distant—his eyes were glassy, his mind still reeling.

“Sit,” Zander commanded, his voice much softer than before, though it still held that underlying tension. “We need to talk.”

Micah sat on one of the crates, his fingers twitching, unable to look Zander in the eye. “I know I messed up. I don’t need you to remind me.”

Zander’s gaze softened, just a fraction, but it was enough for Micah to notice. “It’s not about reminding you,” Zander said quietly. “It’s about making sure it doesn’t happen again. You think I don’t know what it’s like to fail? To feel like you’re the reason the job goes south? We’ve all been there.”

Micah clenched his fists, trying to hold back the rising frustration that boiled in his chest. “I can’t... I can’t just shake it off, Zander. I’m not... I’m not like you. I don’t have your strength. I can’t pull my weight like you and the others.”

Zander’s eyes hardened, but there was an understanding there that Micah wasn’t expecting. “I don’t care about strength, Micah. Strength is overrated. What matters is what you do when you mess up. You learn from it. You fix what went wrong, and you keep going. Nobody here started out perfect. Nobody.”

“I’m not perfect,” Micah muttered under his breath, looking down at his hands. “And I never will be.”

For a long moment, Zander was quiet. Then, he let out a breath, shaking his head. “No. But that’s what we’re all trying to be. Not perfect. Just... better. You want to be part of this crew? You need to stop thinking you’re not good enough. We’re not here to pick apart every failure you have. We’re here to make sure you learn from it. So stop thinking you can’t do it.”

Micah met his eyes then, finally feeling something stir in his chest. It wasn’t confidence, not yet, but it was something close to hope. “I... I’ll get it right next time.”

Zander finally nodded, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I know you will. And you know what? You’ll probably screw up again, and that’s okay. Just don’t let it take you down. Got it?”

Micah nodded, still feeling the weight of his failure, but also something else. Maybe it was the faintest bit of trust from Zander, or maybe it was the fact that despite everything, he wasn’t being written off. Not yet.

“Yeah. Got it.”

Zander clapped him on the shoulder, a firm gesture that felt oddly comforting. “Good. Now go get some rest. You’ll need it.”

Micah stood, stretching stiffly, and started walking toward the small corner where the others had already settled. As he sat down, his body still tense from the night’s events, he let out a long breath, trying to push aside the frustration and guilt.

It wasn’t over yet. It couldn’t be. Not when there was still a chance to get back to Michelle.

The weight of the team’s trust, even if it was fragile, pushed him to keep going. He didn’t know if he could be what they needed, but he would darn well try.

—

The next morning, the warehouse was alive with the usual hustle, but there was a certain tension in the air, like the aftermath of a storm that hadn’t quite passed. As Micah made his way toward the center, a few of the other guys exchanged glances, some whispering among themselves, but nobody said anything outright. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that their eyes were on him, calculating, measuring.

Zander appeared from the back, a quiet authority in his step as he approached Micah. His eyes were steady, but there was something in the way he held himself that told Micah the conversation from the night before hadn't been forgotten.

“Come with me,” Zander said simply, leading him away from the others and toward a section of the warehouse Micah hadn’t noticed before.

They passed a few empty tables and some half-finished tech projects before reaching a door that led to a small, but impressive training area. It was a mix of gym equipment and combat training tools, ranging from simple weights to more advanced training dummies and punching bags. There were even ropes hanging from the ceiling, and a section with battle simulators.

Micah blinked, his breath catching for a moment. He’d never been big on working out. Exercise had always felt like a pointless effort. It was always about just getting through, about surviving, about being smart and quick, rather than strong.

But today, things felt different. Today, the need for strength—real strength—had never been clearer.

Zander turned to him, crossing his arms. “You want to be part of this team? You need to get stronger. So, knock yourself out. The equipment’s here for a reason.”

Micah swallowed hard, the weight of his failure still lingering in his chest, but he nodded. “Yeah. I get it.”

Zander studied him for a moment, then gave a sharp nod, stepping back. “I’ll leave you to it. Do what you need.”

As Zander left him alone, Micah hesitated for only a split second. This was different. This wasn’t some random workout; it was something he was doing for a reason. He wasn’t doing it for himself, at least not entirely. He was doing it because he knew he couldn’t keep going like this. He wasn’t strong enough. Not physically. He needed to be.

He pulled off his hood and face mask, and then stripped off his jacket, hoodie, and shirt, leaving only the tank top that clung to his form. Micah stared at the training area for a moment, uncertainty creeping into his bones. It all looked so simple in theory—weights, dummies, and punching bags. But he had no idea where to start.

The weights seemed like the easiest place to begin. He picked up a set of dumbbells and awkwardly tried to lift them, a grunt escaping his lips as he struggled to curl them. His arms were weak, much weaker than he’d realized. He could feel the burn in his muscles almost immediately, and a wave of frustration hit him.

Why was this so hard?

He pushed through, determined, and with each movement, his frustration grew. He gritted his teeth, lifting the weights again and again, until his arms started to shake. The burn was intense, but it felt... necessary. Every strain, every pull, it felt like it was forging something stronger inside him, even if it was only a little bit at a time.

When the weights became too much, he moved to the punching bag. His fists, wrapped in makeshift cloth, hit the bag hard. The force behind each punch was weak, uncoordinated. His strikes didn’t have the power he knew they should. They lacked control. But he kept going, each punch making him feel a bit more alive. A bit more capable.

The battle simulators stood there like a mocking reminder that he didn’t belong yet, but he was already thinking about how he might make use of them. Zander had said he could use everything in the room. And Micah would. He had to.

Sweat started to bead on his forehead as he worked out, each muscle straining as his body screamed for rest. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. His mind kept racing, constantly replaying the events of the heist, how he’d failed. He couldn’t let that be who he was.

After a long while, his body begged him for a break. He stumbled to a nearby bench and sat down, breathing hard, his chest heaving as exhaustion crept in. For a moment, he let his gaze drift over the room, feeling the weight of it all settle on him.

Zander had told him to get stronger. But Micah knew he had more to do than just build muscle. He had to build the confidence to go with it.

For once, he allowed himself a moment of self-reflection. He had no idea if he could ever truly fit in with this crew. But if he didn’t at least try, if he didn’t push himself to be better, then what was he doing here at all?

He got back up after a moment of rest, determined to push himself further. There was more to do.

And this time, he wouldn’t back down.

—

Over the next few days, Micah fell into a routine, one that became his constant companion. At first, it felt like a grind—monotonous, even grueling—but gradually, it became comforting in its predictability. Each day followed the same pattern, and, despite his initial resistance, Micah began to feel a sense of purpose again.

He’d wake up early, before the others, and make his way to the corner of the warehouse where his pack and belongings were stashed. The thin light from the overhead windows barely illuminated the space, but he didn’t need much to get himself moving. He’d eat a quick meal of ration bars, trying to keep his energy up, knowing it would be a long day ahead.

The others would trickle in one by one, offering a brief nod as they went about their own morning routines, but nobody spoke much. The silence was comfortable—familiar. Micah had always been used to solitude, but here, in the company of others, it was different. He felt like an outsider, though he knew that wasn’t entirely the case. They respected the effort, even if they didn’t fully trust him yet.

After eating, he would head to the training area. He wasn’t a natural at lifting weights or punching bags, but he worked at it every day. He kept pushing his limits, knowing that strength wasn’t just about muscles—it was about endurance, about persistence. Each day, the weights became a little easier to lift, the punching bag a little less resistant to his strikes. His body was sore at first, but eventually, the soreness faded, replaced with a growing sense of achievement. Every drop of sweat, every aching muscle, meant something.

By midday, the others would start filtering out, heading for jobs or scavenging expeditions. Micah, still a little stiff from his workout, would join them in basic scrap jobs—taking inventory, sifting through piles of metal and tech, salvaging whatever they could sell. There were times when the work felt thankless, but it kept him sharp, and the steady stream of credits was just enough to give him a sense of security.

The routine wasn’t glamorous, but it was a kind of stability he hadn’t known in a bit.

Afterward, he’d grab another meal. The food was bland, but it filled the gap, and in the Undercity, that was all that mattered. He’d find a quiet spot to rest, and when the food had settled, he’d start thinking about the next step. Scavenging wasn’t enough; he wanted more. He needed more. More credits. More resources. More chances to prove that he was worth something here.

And so, he scavenged. He’d head out into the Undercity, the familiar streets and alleyways where danger lurked around every corner. It was risky, but it was also necessary. Micah found himself growing bolder with each foray, finding new places to raid and new ways to stay undetected. He had a knack for it—quiet, patient, able to slip through the cracks of the Undercity unnoticed.

But even as he scavenged, a part of him was always thinking about Michelle. He couldn’t help it. She was still out there. He knew it in his bones.

The routine would always bring him back to the warehouse at night. By the time the sun—or whatever passed for the sun on this Raelo—started to dip beneath the horizon, he’d be back, settling into his corner with the rest of the crew. They didn’t talk much after their long days, but there was comfort in the silence.

He’d eat again, refuel his body, and then work out once more. It was becoming almost automatic now—his body moving through the motions, pushing against the burn until it was just another part of the routine. And then, after all the work was done, he’d collapse into bed, exhaustion seeping into his bones.

Sleep came easily these days, but it wasn’t always peaceful.

At times, he’d dream of Michelle. Of her face, her laughter, of the moments they had shared before everything went wrong. He’d wake up in a cold sweat, his heart pounding, but each morning, the routine was still there—waiting for him to begin again.

Micah didn’t know what the future held, but for now, this was enough. For now, he had the routine. And he would keep pushing himself, day after day, until he could finally get back to Michelle. Until he could finally make things right.

—

As the days passed, Zander’s attitude toward Micah slowly began to shift. At first, the older man had been cautious, unsure about the new guy’s commitment. But with each passing day, as Micah stuck to his routine—training hard, working the scrap jobs, and steadily earning his place in the warehouse—Zander’s wariness began to ease. The younger man was proving himself, little by little, showing not just the raw skills but the quiet determination Zander had respected in others over the years.

One evening, a week or so after Micah had really settled into the groove, Zander approached him after a long day’s work. The others were winding down, chatting or preparing for the night, but Zander’s serious demeanor was unmistakable as he caught Micah’s eye.

“Hey, Micah,” he called, his voice gruff but no longer cold. “You busy?”

Micah looked up from the pile of scrap he’d been sorting, wiping the sweat from his forehead. It had been a long day, but it seemed like it wasn’t over yet. “Not at the moment. What’s up?”

Zander gestured for him to follow, leading him to the back of the warehouse, where the noise of the others faded into the background. “I’ve got a job that needs someone with a bit more finesse. It’s a bit more high-risk than usual. I’ve been watching you, kid. You’ve got the skills. But this one's different. You up for it?”

Micah’s pulse quickened at the mention of a bigger job. He’d been waiting for a chance to prove himself more than just a grunt doing the basic tasks. This was it—the kind of job that could make a real difference in his standing here. But he kept his voice steady as he nodded. “Yeah. What do I need to know?”

Zander paused for a moment, sizing him up, before he spoke again. “It’s a retrieval. High-value tech. The kind that’s locked up tight. I’ll be guiding you through it, but you’ll need to move quick and clean. You’ve got the gear for it, and I’ve seen you handle yourself. But this one… it’s gotta be smooth. Mess up, and it could get ugly.”

Micah felt a twinge of nervousness at the implications, but he held his ground. “I’m ready.”

Zander gave a sharp nod, the first real sign of trust Micah had seen from him in a while. “Good. Don’t screw this up. We’re moving in at midnight. Be ready.”

With that, Zander turned and walked off, leaving Micah standing in the silence of the warehouse. His mind raced, but he didn’t let his anxiety show. This was his chance—one that he couldn’t afford to miss.

—

The night of the heist arrived, and Micah’s heart raced with anticipation. This was his chance to prove himself—to show Zander, and the rest of the crew, that he was more than just someone to do the grunt work. He’d trained hard, worked diligently, and now he was ready.

Zander found him just before midnight, his voice low and steady. “Let’s go.”

They moved through the Undercity’s winding alleys and streets with practiced ease, Zander leading the way and Micah staying close behind. The job was delicate, requiring both finesse and precision, and the two of them worked seamlessly together, avoiding the patrols and slipping past security with little more than shadows to mark their presence. Micah stayed sharp, focused, every step in sync with Zander’s.

The target was a high-security tech vault. Inside was valuable equipment, things worth more credits than Micah had ever imagined. But Zander had scouted the place and planned everything out in advance, and now it was just a matter of following through.

As they reached the perimeter, Zander gave him a quick glance. “Stay low, keep quiet. We’re almost there.”

Micah nodded, heart beating steadily in his chest. He felt a surge of confidence—everything was lining up perfectly. His leg, which had caused him so many problems in the past, felt stronger now. The brace on it held firm, allowing him to move with the precision he needed.

They bypassed the first level of security with ease, using the codes Zander had acquired earlier. The sensors blinked green as they passed, and Micah couldn’t help but feel a thrill run through him. He was part of something bigger now—a team that got things done.

They reached the vault door. Zander’s eyes scanned the control panel before he turned to Micah. “You’ve got this.”

Micah didn’t hesitate. He worked quickly, connecting the right wires, fiddling with the security lock, and bypassing the encryption. He could hear the faint hum of the system trying to fight back, but he’d studied it long enough to know the patterns. After a tense few seconds, there was a satisfying click, and the door slid open.

Inside, the tech they were after gleamed in the low light—a collection of highly valuable components, worth a fortune on the black market. It was the kind of job that could change everything for the crew, and they had it all in their hands.

“We’re done,” Zander said, his voice almost surprised as he surveyed the haul. “That was too easy.”

Micah didn’t speak, just focused on packing the equipment securely into the bag. There were no distractions. No mistakes.

They made their way out of the facility just as smoothly as they’d entered, retracing their steps with a kind of precision that felt almost effortless. Every turn, every corner, every step was calculated. It was almost as if they’d done this a hundred times before—except, for Micah, it was the first time in a long while that everything was going right.

When they were back in the safety of the Undercity’s shadows, Zander turned to him, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Not bad, kid. Not bad at all.”

Micah couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride. This was what he had been working for—the acknowledgment. Zander trusted him now. He’d proven himself.

By the time they returned to the warehouse, the team was still finishing up with the last of their work. Micah and Zander walked in, the bag of tech between them, and the crew immediately turned to them.

“Everything go smoothly?” one of them asked.

Zander shot a quick look at Micah. “Perfectly,” he said, with a nod. He clapped Micah on the shoulder, a rare display of approval. “This one did well. Real well.”

Micah felt his heart swell, but he didn’t let it show too much. He had done his job, and done it well. He knew there was still a long way to go, but tonight was a win.

And that win, as small as it seemed in the grand scheme of things, was enough to prove that he belonged.

It was a smooth job. There were no mistakes, no setbacks, no surprises. Just a clean, successful heist, and Micah’s place in the crew was more solidified than ever.

For the first time since he’d arrived in the Undercity, he felt like he might actually have a future here.

Chapter Text

It had been almost a month since they’d returned to the agency, without Micah. The absence weighed on Michelle every day. She kept herself busy—too busy—but no amount of work could drown out the constant ache in her chest.

The mornings were the hardest. She would wake up in her room, the silence in the bed next to hers deafening. Every time she opened her eyes, she expected to see him there, lying next to her, just like he used to be. But he wasn’t.

She’d tried calling him once or twice, but the signals were down, or the network was too unstable, or—more likely—he didn’t want to be found. She didn’t blame him for that. But it didn’t make the longing go away.

She could still see his face, his voice echoing in her mind. She missed his presence, his quiet strength. She missed his laugh, the way he would hold her hand when they walked together. Even his teasing banter, the way he would mock her with a grin, sometimes making her blush.

At the agency, everyone had been focused on getting back to work, and there was always something to do. There were always cases, always operations. But none of it felt the same without Micah.

Her days blurred together, a routine that she had slipped into to cope. She would wake up, go through her training or assist with the team’s tasks, then report back to the others. At night, she would stay in the command center, staring at the same screens, hoping for any news of him. There never was.

Her mind kept going back to the last conversation they’d had before he’d left. How she hadn’t fought him more. How she hadn’t convinced him to stay. He had said he was doing it for her, to keep her safe. She didn’t want to be safe if it meant losing him.

She tried to focus on the present, on her duties to the agency, but a part of her—her heart—was always with him. She couldn't stop thinking about what he was doing, where he was. Was he safe? Was he even still alive? Did he ever think about her the way she thought about him?

Sometimes, she would catch herself wishing she could somehow find him. But the more she thought about it, the more it felt like an impossible task. He had disappeared so thoroughly, so completely, that finding him felt like chasing a shadow.

One night, as she was going over mission details in her room, she stood up and went to the small window, staring out at the stars. The darkness of the sky felt endless, and she couldn't help but wonder if he was out there, somewhere, looking up at the same sky.

“I’ll find you,” she whispered to the night. “I’ll bring you back.”

But even as she said it, doubts crept in. She wasn’t sure if that was even possible. Still, she refused to give up. She couldn’t. Micah needed her. And she needed him, more than she could admit to anyone, including herself.

She rubbed her face, trying to push back the frustration and sadness, but it was always there. That empty space that he’d left behind, and the uncertainty about what was happening to him, gnawed at her every day.

“Just come back,” she muttered under her breath, more to herself than anyone else. “Please, just come back.”

She knew she couldn’t keep living in this limbo forever. Sooner or later, she would have to find a way to move forward—whether or not Micah was there to walk with her. But for now, she clung to the hope that one day, she would.

—

Days continued to pass, each one feeling heavier than the last. Michelle didn’t know how much longer she could keep up this routine, this constant balancing act of pretending everything was fine when a part of her was still out there with him. With every task she completed, every briefing she attended, she couldn’t help but feel like a fraction of herself was missing.

The agency had kept busy, yes, but there was always a lingering undercurrent of concern for Micah. Despite the professionalism that everyone maintained, the lack of his presence was painfully obvious. No one spoke about it outright, but Michelle could tell that the others noticed. Even Shiloh, for all her strength and resolve, carried a kind of weight on her shoulders—like he was waiting for Micah’s return, too.

But still, there were no answers. No clues. And every night, Michelle would find herself in the same spot, staring out at the stars, hoping for something—anything—that might signal he was still out there, still alive.

It was the mornings that were the hardest. When she would wake up alone, with the quiet of the agency around her, and the cold emptiness of his absence pressing down on her chest. She couldn’t help but replay their last moments together, wishing she had held on longer, told him to stay, fought harder. There were too many words left unsaid, too many goodbyes that had never been spoken.

It was one of those mornings when the door to her room opened, and she looked up to find Shiloh standing there, holding a steaming mug of coffee. Michelle hadn’t realized how long she’d been staring at the floor, lost in her thoughts.

“Here,” Shiloh said softly, setting the mug down on the table next to Michelle. “I thought you might need this.”

“Thanks,” Michelle replied, her voice distant, though she didn’t pick up the coffee. She just stared at it, her mind elsewhere.

Shiloh took a seat across from her, her eyes searching Michelle’s face for a moment before speaking. “How are you holding up?”

The question was so simple, but it felt loaded. How could she explain that she felt like she was walking through life with a part of her torn away? How could she admit that the weight of the unknown, the not knowing what had happened to him, was eating her from the inside out?

“I’m fine,” Michelle said, her words automatic, a well-worn response that had become second nature. She didn’t want to talk about it. Not now. Not when she wasn’t sure she could find the right words.

Shiloh didn’t seem convinced, but she didn’t push further. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, taking a long sip from her own cup. “You know,” she said quietly, “it’s okay to not be fine, Michelle. You don’t have to carry everything on your own.”

Michelle stayed silent, her fingers tightening around the edge of the mug. Shiloh’s words were kind, but they didn’t change the truth. She was alone in this, just like Micah had been alone when he left. She had to handle it. She had to be strong for him, for herself, even if every part of her wanted to break.

“I just want him back,” Michelle murmured, barely above a whisper. The words escaped before she could stop them, and once they were out, she felt exposed. It wasn’t just that she wanted him back—it was that she needed him. She had tried to tell herself she could move on, but the truth was, everything felt wrong without him.

“I know,” Shiloh said softly, her tone sympathetic. “But you’re not alone in this, Michelle. We’re all in this together. Whatever you need, we’re here.”

Michelle nodded, though she didn’t feel comforted. She wasn’t sure if anyone could make her feel better right now, not until she found Micah. Until she knew that he was okay.

After a long silence, Shiloh stood up, her footsteps soft on the floor as she headed for the door. “We’ve got a briefing in a few hours,” she said, looking back over her shoulder. “We’ll need you. So take care of yourself, alright?”

Michelle forced a smile, but it felt weak, as though it was more for Jocelyn than for herself. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

As the door closed behind Shiloh, Michelle let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She sat there in the quiet for a moment longer, before finally lifting the coffee to her lips and taking a long drink. The warmth of it spread through her, but it did little to ease the cold emptiness she felt.

She didn’t want to accept that this could be it—that maybe Micah was lost to her forever—but a part of her was starting to prepare for that. A part of her was starting to believe that she might never see him again.

She couldn’t keep waiting forever. She couldn’t keep living in the past, hoping for something that might never come.

But even as she thought it, there was another part of her—small, but persistent—that refused to give up. Micah wouldn’t want her to give up. He would want her to keep fighting, to keep pushing forward.

So she wiped away the last of her tears, straightened her back, and took another sip of her coffee. She wasn’t giving up. Not yet.

—

Micah’s routine had become a familiar, rhythmic part of his life now. Wake up early, go through a brief but efficient morning routine, eat with the others in the warehouse, and then get to work. It was almost comforting in its predictability—each day felt like a small victory. He was starting to feel stronger, more capable, and maybe even a little more at home, though he knew better than to relax too much. The Undercity still had its dangers, and Zander’s group wasn’t without its own tensions.

Zander had been warming up to him more and more over the past week. At first, the man had kept his distance, watching Micah’s every move, but as time passed, the trust between them started to build. Zander seemed to see something in him—some promise of usefulness that Micah was only starting to tap into. He began giving him more responsibility and, strangely enough, started joining him on his workouts in the makeshift training area.

Micah still wasn’t used to working out in any real sense. Back when he was part of the agency, physical training had always felt like a chore, something to get through. But here, in the relative safety of the warehouse, with a new sense of urgency driving him, he started pushing himself harder. He had to. He wasn’t strong enough yet, but he would be. He had to be.

One morning, as Micah finished off his breakfast, Zander walked in, nodding toward the training area with a slight grin. “You’ve been putting in a lot of time lately. You up for a challenge?”

Micah glanced up, wiping crumbs from his mouth, unsure what Zander meant by that. “Challenge?”

Zander shrugged, already moving toward the weight bench. “You’re getting better. Let’s see if you can keep up.”

It was an unusual offer, and Micah hesitated for only a moment before standing up. If Zander was willing to invest time in training him, he couldn’t back down. “Alright, I’m in.”

Zander gave a sharp nod and got to work. It was clear he had experience, his movements smooth and practiced, the kind of precision that came from years of working with his body. Micah followed Zander’s lead, trying to match his pace, but it wasn’t long before his muscles started to protest. The workout was grueling, but he refused to slow down. Not after everything he’d been through.

As the hours passed, the sweat on Micah’s brow began to feel more like a badge of honor than a burden. He could feel his strength improving, his body pushing through the limits he had once thought were impossible. Zander kept pushing him, watching carefully, making adjustments to his form where necessary, but mostly staying silent, letting Micah find his rhythm.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they both dropped down onto the mat, gasping for air. Micah’s arms were sore, his chest heaving, but there was a satisfaction there—a feeling of accomplishment that he hadn’t had in a long time. Zander wiped the sweat off his brow, glancing at Micah with something resembling approval.

“You’ve got some fight in you, kid,” Zander said, his voice gruff but not unkind.

Micah managed a breathless grin. “I’m not a kid,” he said, though the words didn’t feel as sharp as they had the first time he’d said them to Zander. There was a certain camaraderie that had developed between them over the past few days, and he found that he didn’t mind it as much as he had before.

Zander raised an eyebrow. “You’re not? Well, you’ve got a lot of growing up to do, but I guess you’re getting there.”

Micah chuckled, wiping his forehead. “Yeah, guess so.”

Zander stood up and stretched, giving Micah a sidelong glance. “We’ll keep at it. Can’t let you slack off.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Micah said, his voice steadier now. It felt good to finally be doing something productive, something that would help him survive in this harsh place. And maybe, just maybe, it would help him get closer to finding Michelle.

The days passed, each one feeling like another step toward some semblance of normalcy. As Zander warmed up to him more, Micah found himself starting to trust the others, too. They weren’t a perfect team, but they were functional. They worked together to survive. And for the first time since he’d gotten stuck in this world, Micah felt like he was part of something—something bigger than just a lone scavenger.

Still, there was a nagging feeling in the back of his mind, a constant reminder of the people he had left behind. His brothers. His sister. Michelle. He hadn’t forgotten them, not for a single moment. Each time he closed his eyes, he saw her face—her eyes, the way she had looked at him the last time they’d parted. He knew he couldn’t let her down.

He would make it back to her. One way or another.

—

A few days later, Zander and Micah found themselves back in the heart of the Undercity. The air was thick with the scent of oil, rust, and the distant hum of machinery, a constant reminder of the chaotic world that stretched out beneath the surface of the planet. The streets were more crowded than usual, a mix of scavengers, mercenaries, and the occasional desperate merchant. People moved with purpose, eyes darting, avoiding eye contact unless necessary. It was a place where trust was a rare commodity.

Zander and Micah had come to meet a potential client at one of the seedy taverns that dotted the city’s lower levels. The deal was simple enough: repair work on some damaged tech. Nothing too fancy, but it could pay well enough to get them by for the next couple of weeks. Micah had learned to keep his expectations low in this place, where promises were as easily broken as the machines they worked on.

As they walked into the dimly lit tavern, the low murmur of conversation hushed for a moment, but it quickly returned to its usual rhythm. The air was thick with smoke and the sharp tang of alcohol. People clustered around tables, engaged in quiet conversations, some laughing too loudly, others watching the room with wary eyes.

Micah scanned the room as they made their way to the bar. Zander had already nodded at a man sitting in the corner, signaling that he’d spotted their contact. Micah felt the weight of the stares as he moved, his fully geared-up frame drawing more than a few eyes. His armor—comprising a mixture of salvaged pieces, some sleek, others bulky—made him look out of place in the shabby surroundings. It was something he’d grown used to in the past few weeks: the suspicion, the curiosity, the feeling of being watched.

But this time, the stares were different. People weren’t just glancing at him out of the corner of their eyes. There was something in their gaze—a mix of recognition and wariness, like they knew something about him that he didn’t.

Micah tried to shake off the unease, focusing instead on the task at hand. He was here for business, not to make friends. But as Zander signaled for him to sit and wait while he spoke to the contact, Micah couldn’t help but feel the eyes on him grow heavier.

He took a seat near the bar, keeping his posture casual, though every instinct told him to stay alert. He noticed a few people in the crowd glancing over at him, then quickly looking away when their eyes met his. It was the kind of look that felt like it was more than just idle curiosity. There was a tension to it, as though they were unsure whether to approach him or not.

Micah shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his fingers tapping restlessly on the edge of the table. He could feel his heart rate pick up, an unshakable feeling settling in his gut. He had been a part of enough shady deals and under-the-table transactions to recognize when something was off. And right now, something about this whole situation didn’t sit right with him.

Zander was deep in conversation with the client now, his back to Micah, oblivious to the shifting atmosphere around him. Micah glanced around again, but this time he noticed something more specific—there was a man standing near the door, eyeing him from across the room. His face was partially obscured by a hood, but Micah could make out the gleam of a weapon tucked underneath his jacket. His posture was stiff, almost too controlled. He was waiting for something.

A woman at the bar, seated near a group of rowdy patrons, was also glancing his way, her eyes narrowing as if calculating something. The bartender, an older man with graying hair and a weathered face, shot him an almost imperceptible glance as he wiped down a mug, his gaze lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

It was becoming clear to Micah that they weren’t just staring out of curiosity. No, this felt different. They were waiting. Watching. And whatever was happening, it didn’t feel like a coincidence.

He let his gaze slide back to Zander, who was still engaged in the conversation with the client. Micah could see the man nodding, listening intently, though he hadn’t yet exchanged any actual terms.

But Micah couldn’t shake the feeling that something was about to go wrong.

The tension in the room thickened, and Micah’s hand instinctively moved toward the blasters at his side. He kept his movements subtle, careful not to draw attention to himself, but the cool metal of his weapons was reassuring against his palm. He had to be ready. He couldn’t afford to let his guard down—not here, not now.

The man by the door shifted slightly, and for the briefest moment, their eyes locked. Micah held his gaze for just a second too long before quickly looking away. The man didn’t move, but his expression darkened ever so slightly.

It wasn’t just paranoia. Something was definitely off.

Micah couldn’t shake the feeling that they knew more about him than they were letting on. But what? Why would anyone be interested in him here, in the Under City, of all places?

Suddenly, Zander turned back toward him, catching his eye. There was no immediate sign of danger, no alarmed reaction. But Micah had learned to read Zander’s face by now. And what he saw wasn’t the usual guarded expression. There was something more... calculating there, as if Zander had picked up on something he hadn’t shared yet.

The hairs on the back of Micah’s neck stood up. He straightened in his seat, his muscles tensing instinctively.

Zander gave him a subtle nod. A signal to stand by.

Micah didn’t move, but his hand stayed close to the blasters at his side, ready for whatever was coming. He was sure of one thing: this wasn’t just a simple meet-up anymore.

Micah’s fingers brushed the handles of his blasters as he waited. His senses were on edge, cataloging every sound and shift in the dim tavern. The low hum of voices, the clink of glasses, and the occasional raucous laugh created a backdrop to the tension that gripped his gut.

Zander glanced back at the client, who was gesturing subtly with his hands. Whatever they were discussing was nearing its conclusion, but Micah couldn’t shake the feeling that their little meeting was attracting too much attention.

Then Zander did something that confirmed it: he gave Micah a sharp, almost imperceptible nod and motioned with two fingers for him to come over.

Micah's instincts screamed caution, but he obeyed without hesitation, standing from his seat and making his way toward the corner booth. The movement caught the attention of several patrons who had been quietly watching from various points in the tavern. Micah felt their gazes follow him, sharp and calculating.

Zander's eyes flicked subtly to Micah’s left, and Micah caught it immediately—a silent warning.

There was movement from a table near the wall. A group of three rough-looking men, all scarred and grim-faced, stood up. Their gazes were locked onto the client, and their expressions left no doubt about their intentions.

Micah’s pulse quickened. He slid into position beside Zander, his back to the wall.

The lead thug—a burly man with a thick beard and a gleaming scar running down his cheek—took a step forward, a menacing grin curling on his lips. “Looks like you’re making deals on our turf, old man,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. "That's gonna cost you."

Zander leaned back in his seat, unfazed. “Didn’t know this place was exclusive,” he drawled. “But if you're gonna charge me for air, at least offer a receipt.”

The thug’s grin faltered, turning into a scowl. His companions tensed, their hands hovering near concealed weapons. The entire room seemed to shift, the atmosphere growing heavier as conversations faded into hushed whispers.

Micah's fingers itched to draw his blasters, but he held back. He had to follow Zander’s lead—no sudden moves unless it became absolutely necessary.

“I suggest you and your friends sit back down,” Zander continued coolly. “This is a private meeting, and we’re just about done here.”

The thug sneered. “Oh, we’ll be done when we say we’re done.”

Without warning, one of the thugs lunged forward, his hand shooting toward the client.

Micah moved on instinct. He grabbed the thug’s arm, twisting it sharply and shoving him back. The man stumbled, but his companions were already moving, drawing blades from their belts.

Zander was on his feet in an instant, shoving the client behind him. “Micah, handle it!” he barked.

Micah didn’t need to be told twice. He drew one of his blasters, the hum of the energy weapon cutting through the noise. The other patrons scrambled out of the way, knocking over chairs and tables in their haste to avoid the fight.

The thug with the scar came at Micah, swinging a crude but deadly-looking blade. Micah ducked under the attack, delivering a swift kick to the man’s knee. The thug grunted in pain but didn’t go down.

Behind him, Zander was grappling with one of the other thugs, using brute force to keep the man at bay. The client was huddled near the wall, his face pale but alert.

Micah fired a warning shot at the floor, the blast sending sparks flying. “Back off!” he warned.

The scarred thug hesitated, his eyes flicking between Micah and Zander. For a moment, it looked like they might retreat.

But then the tavern door slammed open, and more reinforcements poured in—four more thugs, all heavily armed.

Micah’s stomach dropped. “Zander, we’ve got a problem!”

Zander threw his opponent to the ground and glanced toward the door, his expression grim. “Looks like we’re gonna have to cut this meeting short.” He grabbed the client by the arm. “Move!”

Micah covered their retreat, firing at the approaching thugs to keep them at bay. The blaster bolts scorched the walls and shattered glasses, adding to the chaos.

They barreled toward the back of the tavern, knocking over chairs and tables as they went. A narrow hallway loomed ahead, leading to a back exit.

“Micah, cover the door!” Zander ordered as he pushed the client through the hallway.

Micah fired another round, forcing the thugs to take cover. “Go! I’ll catch up!”

He backed into the hallway, firing one last shot before turning and sprinting after Zander and the client. The exit loomed ahead, a rusted metal door barely hanging on its hinges.

They burst through it, emerging into the grimy alleyway outside. The stench of oil and decay filled the air, but Micah didn’t care. They were out, and for now, they were alive.

Zander didn’t slow down. “Come on, we need to lose them.”

Micah followed without hesitation, adrenaline still coursing through his veins. They ducked through narrow alleys and twisted pathways, the sounds of pursuit fading behind them.

When they finally stopped, panting and drenched in sweat, Zander leaned against a wall, his eyes sharp and assessing. “Well, that was fun,” he muttered.

Micah managed a shaky laugh. “Next time, maybe pick a friendlier tavern?”

Zander smirked. “Noted.” He clapped Micah on the shoulder. “Nice work back there. You kept your cool.”

Micah’s chest swelled slightly at the praise, but he shrugged it off. “Just doing my job.”

Zander’s expression softened. “Yeah, well... you did it well. Come on, let’s get back to the warehouse before we run into more trouble.”

Micah nodded, his thoughts still racing. The encounter had been close—too close—but they’d made it out.

And for now, that was enough.

The narrow alleyways twisted and turned as Zander led Micah and their client back toward the outskirts of the city’s underworld. The flickering lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting distorted shadows along the grimy walls. Micah's pulse gradually slowed, but his hand remained close to his blasters, still on edge.

The client, pale and visibly shaken, stumbled slightly but kept pace. Zander glanced over his shoulder, his expression sharp. “You good?” he asked curtly.

The man nodded, though his face was taut with anxiety. “I didn’t expect... that kind of reception.”

“Yeah, well,” Zander muttered, “welcome to the neighborhood.”

Micah huffed a quiet laugh despite himself, but his grip tightened on the handle of his blaster. They were close to the warehouse now, but the sense of danger still lingered like a thick fog.

When they finally reached the entrance—a concealed sliding door camouflaged by rusted scrap and debris—Zander punched in a code on the keypad. The door hissed open, revealing the familiar expanse of the warehouse interior.

They stepped inside, and the tension in Micah's shoulders eased slightly. The dim lighting and organized chaos of the space felt strangely comforting after the chaos of the tavern. A few of the other crew members glanced up from their work, their expressions a mix of curiosity and concern.

Zander guided the client to a table near the back, where a few chairs and scattered tech components formed a makeshift meeting area. “Sit,” he instructed. “We’ll debrief in a minute.”

The client obeyed without protest, sinking into the chair with a weary sigh.

Zander turned to Micah, his eyes flickering with a rare hint of approval. “You handled yourself well back there,” he admitted, though his tone remained gruff. “Quick thinking with that shot. Saved us some time.”

Micah shrugged, trying to play it off, but he couldn’t hide the faint flush of pride that crept up his neck. “Just did what I had to.”

Zander’s lips quirked into a faint smirk. “Good. Keep doing that.”

Before Micah could respond, one of the crew members—Vix, a wiry woman with a knack for repairs—approached, her brow furrowed. “You guys look like you went ten rounds with a scrap compactor. What happened?”

“Just a minor disagreement at the tavern,” Zander said dryly. “Nothing we couldn’t handle.”

“Minor disagreement?” Micah echoed incredulously. “Pretty sure they wanted to carve us up for spare parts.”

Vix snorted. “Sounds about right.” Her gaze flicked to Micah. “You alright?”

“I’m good,” Micah assured her. “Just... glad to be back in one piece.”

Zander clapped him on the back. “Get some rest. You’ve earned it.”

Micah hesitated. “What about the client?”

“I’ll handle him,” Zander said. “You did your part.”

Reluctantly, Micah nodded. His muscles ached, and the adrenaline crash was hitting him hard. As he made his way toward his corner of the warehouse, he couldn’t help but replay the events in his mind. The danger, the rush, the satisfaction of holding his own—it was all a blur of chaos and triumph.

He sank onto his makeshift cot, leaning back against the wall. His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Michelle. Would she even recognize him now? He'd changed so much in just a few short weeks. The streets had toughened him, forced him to grow in ways he hadn’t expected.

One way or another, he was going to find a way back to her. But for now, he had a place here—a role, a purpose.

And he wasn’t going to waste it.

—

Meanwhile, Zander returned to the client, his expression serious. “Now, let’s talk about what you're really here for,” he said, his voice low and commanding.

The client swallowed nervously, but there was a spark of determination in his eyes. “I think we can help each other,” he said.

Zander's gaze flicked to the others in the warehouse, then back to the client. “We’ll see about that.”

—

The hours passed in a haze of repairs, quiet conversation, and the occasional burst of laughter from the crew across the warehouse. Micah, after a brief rest, couldn't sit idle for long. He found himself back at the workbench, fine-tuning one of his blasters. The focus kept his mind steady, pushing away the echoes of the skirmish earlier.

Zander's conversation with the client had wrapped up, though whatever deal was struck remained between them for now. Micah didn't press for details—he knew Zander would tell him if it was important.

Later in the evening, Zander wandered over, a cup of something steaming in his hand. He leaned casually against the workbench, watching Micah’s precise movements.

“Still working?” Zander asked.

Micah shrugged. “Needed something to do.”

Zander sipped from his cup, his expression thoughtful. “You’re fitting in better than I thought you would.”

Micah paused, setting down his tools. “You expected me to flake?”

Zander’s smirk was faint but genuine. “Nah. Just figured you’d get fed up with this place or take off looking for greener pastures.”

Micah glanced around the warehouse. It wasn’t exactly a paradise, but it was stable—a far cry from the chaos he’d been used to. And there was something strangely satisfying about contributing to the crew's success, even if he hadn’t fully realized it until now.

“Not much greener pastures around here,” Micah said. “And you guys aren’t so bad.”

Zander chuckled. “High praise from you.”

A comfortable silence settled between them until Zander shifted his weight. “Look, about earlier... you did good. I don’t always say it, but you’re pulling your weight. Just keep your head straight, and you’ll be fine.”

Micah nodded. “Thanks.”

Zander pushed off the workbench. “And next time, I'll make sure they buy the first round instead of throwing fists.”

Micah snorted. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Zander left him to his work, and Micah returned to his blaster. The weight of Zander’s words lingered, though, and it made him realize just how much things had changed. He was no longer just surviving—he was becoming part of something, even if it wasn’t what he’d originally planned.

As the warehouse settled into a quiet rhythm for the night, Micah finished his repairs and cleaned up his workspace. His thoughts drifted to Michelle again, her face etched into his mind like a beacon pulling him forward.

One day, he promised himself. One day, I’ll find my way back to you.

But for now, he had a job to do. And he wasn’t going to let anyone down.

—

That night, as Micah lay on the cot he’d claimed in a quieter corner of the warehouse, sleep came quicker than usual. His muscles ached from the day’s work, but it was a good ache, a reminder that he was stronger than when he’d first arrived.

As he drifted off, his mind slipped into a dream—a memory, vivid and warm.

It was a quiet afternoon back at the agency. The air hummed with the subtle sounds of machinery and distant chatter from the crew. Michelle and Micah were in one of the side training rooms. He’d been trying to show her a new takedown maneuver, but it had devolved into playful chaos within minutes.

“You’re doing it wrong,” Michelle had teased, her voice laced with laughter as she dodged his half-hearted grab. “Come on, I thought you were supposed to be the expert.”

“I am,” Micah shot back, grinning as he lunged again. “You’re just slippery.”

“Or maybe you’re just slow.”

The words had barely left her mouth before he swept her legs out from under her—gently, of course. She yelped as she fell backward, but he caught her, both of them tumbling to the mat in a heap. They landed with him half-pinning her, his arms braced on either side of her shoulders.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Their laughter faded into breathless silence, and Micah found himself staring down at her, heart racing. Her hair was splayed across the mat, her eyes bright with mischief.

“You cheated,” she accused, though her voice was softer now.

“I adapted,” he corrected, grinning. “Big difference.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled. “Sure, whatever you say, hotshot.”

He couldn’t help it—he laughed. And in that moment, with her lying beneath him, grinning despite herself, the weight of the world had felt a little lighter. There was no war, no endless missions, no uncertainty. Just them.

As the memory faded, Micah’s dream lingered in that warmth. He dreamt of more moments like that—her teasing smile, the sound of her laughter, the way she'd nudge his shoulder when he said something particularly dumb. Happy memories, small but precious.

Every night, it was like this. Dreams of her. Mostly good ones.

When he stirred awake in the early hours of the morning, the ache in his chest was as familiar as the ache in his muscles. He sat up, running a hand through his hair and exhaling deeply.

“I’ll get back to you,” he whispered into the dark.

And as he stood, preparing for another day, he carried that promise with him—etched into his bones as firmly as every dream of her.

Chapter Text

The dream clung to Micah like a second skin as he got up from the cot. His thoughts were hazy, filled with the warmth of Michelle’s laughter and the memory of her playful accusations. For a fleeting moment, he'd forgotten where he was—forgotten the cold, metallic air of this Raelo and the grim necessity of his routine.

He shook his head, trying to clear it as he pulled on his gear. The ache in his chest was sharper than usual, and it lingered as he stuffed down his rations for breakfast with the rest of the crew. Zander gave him a nod, but Micah barely registered it.

His hands moved on autopilot—chewing, swallowing, cleaning up—but his mind was thousands of miles away, back at the agency, back with her.

What he wouldn’t give just to kiss her one more time.

The thought slammed into him, raw and undeniable. Her lips had always been soft but firm with purpose, just like the way she lived her life. He remembered the way she'd pull him closer with a hand on his jacket, grounding him when the world felt too chaotic. And the way she'd smirk against his mouth when she thought she had the upper hand.

He pushed away the rush of longing. He didn’t have time for this. He couldn’t afford to be distracted—not here, not now.

But even as he headed to the training area, the weight of her memory pressed against his resolve. The clang of metal and the steady thrum of machinery echoed around the warehouse, but it all faded into the background. All he could think about was her—her fierce determination, her biting wit, the way she'd softened when it was just the two of them.

Micah stripped off his jacket, hoodie, and shirt, leaving only the sweat-worn thermal beneath. The chill of the air bit at his skin, but he welcomed it. He needed to burn off this feeling, this gnawing ache that wouldn’t let him go.

He hit the weights hard, his muscles straining as he lifted and pushed. His breathing grew labored, sweat slicking his skin. Each movement was a desperate attempt to drown out the longing that clung to him.

But it wasn’t enough. No matter how hard he pushed, no matter how much weight he piled on, the ache in his chest wouldn't relent.

“I miss you,” he whispered under his breath, the words barely audible even to himself.

The admission cut through him, sharp and bitter. He missed her more than he’d allowed himself to admit. And it wasn’t just about the kisses, the physical closeness—it was her presence, the way she steadied him without even trying.

He gritted his teeth, forcing himself through another set. His arms shook, and his legs threatened to give out, but he didn't stop. Not until his muscles screamed in protest.

When he finally collapsed onto the bench, gasping for breath, his body was exhausted—but his heart was still heavy.

Micah rubbed a hand over his face, trying to pull himself together. He couldn't lose focus. He had to survive this. And maybe, if he was lucky, he'd find his way back to her.

But that was a distant dream, and right now, dreams wouldn’t keep him alive.

“You’ll be okay,” he told himself, even if he didn’t quite believe it.

He stood up, grabbing his towel and wiping the sweat from his face. As he headed to the showers, he clenched his fists, determination hardening in his chest.

He’d find his way back to her. One way or another.

Micah stepped into the shower, the scalding water biting at his skin. He leaned his head against the cool metal wall, letting the water cascade down his back. The ache in his muscles was dulled by the heat, but the ache in his chest remained.

Michelle. Her name echoed in his mind, tangled with memories he couldn't seem to shake. Her voice, sharp and teasing. The way her eyes softened when she let her guard down. The warmth of her hand in his.

He closed his eyes, the water masking the sting behind them. Every night, she invaded his dreams, and every day, she lingered just beneath his thoughts. It was as though she’d become a part of him, impossible to separate or ignore.

Micah clenched his jaw, frustration simmering beneath the surface. He hated feeling like this—like he was torn between two worlds. He knew he had to focus on surviving, but how could he when everything in him was screaming to get back to her?

The water cooled, snapping him out of his thoughts. He turned it off and stood there for a moment, his breath steadying. He had to pull himself together. There was no room for weakness here.

After drying off and pulling on fresh clothes, Micah headed back to his corner of the warehouse. Zander was at one of the workbenches, tinkering with a blaster that had seen better days. He glanced up as Micah passed.

“You’re pushing yourself pretty hard,” Zander remarked, his voice casual but laced with curiosity.

Micah shrugged, not bothering to slow down. “Gotta keep up.”

Zander’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before he nodded. “Fair enough. Just don't burn yourself out. We’ve got a big job coming up.”

Micah paused, turning to face him. “When?”

“Tomorrow night,” Zander said, setting down the blaster. “Should be simple enough, but we need everyone sharp. You in?”

There was a challenge in his tone, as though testing Micah’s resolve. Micah met his gaze without hesitation.

“I’m in,” he said firmly.

Zander’s lips curved into a faint grin. “Good. Get some rest tonight—you’ll need it.”

Micah nodded and continued to his spot. The others were scattered around the warehouse, some working on repairs, others playing cards. The atmosphere was relaxed, but Micah couldn't shake the tension coiling in his chest.

Tomorrow night. Another job, another chance to prove himself. He knew Zander was warming up to him, trusting him more with each success. But there was still a long way to go.

Micah sat down on his cot, pulling out his pack. He did a quick inventory check, making sure his gear was in order. Blasters charged, knife secured, extra rations packed. His movements were efficient, methodical—a habit born out of necessity.

As Micah zipped up his pack, his gaze drifted down to his leg brace. The dark metal plating was scratched and dented from weeks of wear and combat. It had served him well, keeping his knee stable and functional despite the rough terrain and physical demands of the undercity. But it wasn’t enough—not anymore.

He leaned forward, unlatching the brace with a series of sharp clicks. The tension around his knee released, and he stretched his leg, wincing slightly at the ache that lingered. The brace had held up, but it needed reinforcement—more strength, more durability if he was going to keep pushing himself this hard.

Micah rummaged through his pack, pulling out a set of small tools and spare parts he’d scavenged from various jobs. There were a few power cells, along with pressure valves and reinforced plating. He laid them out in neat rows, his mind already mapping out a plan.

He started by stripping down the brace, removing the worn components and cleaning the frame. The warehouse around him faded into the background as he focused on the task at hand. Each adjustment was precise, each modification deliberate. He replaced the tension springs with more durable ones and added reinforced joints to improve flexibility.

The power cells caught his attention next. Micah hesitated, turning one over in his hand. An idea formed—a wild, ambitious idea that made his heart race.

What if he could augment his other leg too? Not because it was injured, but as a way to push beyond his natural limits. With the right configuration, he could create a system that enhanced his speed and agility, allowing him to run faster and jump higher if needed.

The thought was enticing. Out here, strength and adaptability were everything. And if he was going to survive—and find his way back to Michelle—he needed every advantage he could get.

Micah set to work, sketching a rough blueprint on a scrap of metal with a marker. He mapped out the placement of the power cells, the wiring for the pressure systems, and the reinforcement points for the plating. It was complex, but he thrived on challenges like this.

Piece by piece, he assembled the new brace, meticulously attaching the power cells and integrating the pressure systems. He tested the fit on his other leg, adjusting the straps until it was snug but comfortable. The weight was noticeable but not cumbersome.

With a deep breath, Micah activated the power cells. A soft hum filled the air as the system came online. He felt the subtle vibration through his leg, the pressure systems calibrating to his movements.

He stood up cautiously, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. The reinforced brace held steady, the power-assisted systems responding smoothly. Micah took a tentative step, then another. The movement was fluid, almost effortless.

A grin tugged at his lips. It worked.

He took a few more steps, testing the range of motion. Then, without thinking, he sprinted across the warehouse. The augmented brace propelled him forward, each step faster and more powerful than the last. He skidded to a halt, breathless but exhilarated.

Zander glanced up from his workbench, eyebrows raised. “You building yourself into a dang cyborg now?” he called, amusement in his voice.

Micah smirked, wiping sweat from his brow. “Just leveling the playing field.”

Zander shook his head, muttering something under his breath, but there was a hint of approval in his expression.

Micah returned to his corner, heart still racing. The brace was a game-changer. It wasn’t perfect—there would be kinks to work out—but it was a step forward.

And right now, every step counted.

Micah sat back down on his cot, the hum of the warehouse fading into the background as his adrenaline settled. The new brace was a win, but it wasn’t enough. Not if he wanted to keep surviving and, one day, get back to his family— and Michelle.

He glanced at the scattered pile of scraps he'd collected from various jobs and scavenges. Old wiring, cracked screens, shattered plating, and malfunctioning components. Most would have been tossed aside by anyone else, but Micah saw potential in every piece.

He grabbed a busted drone core first, turning it over in his hands. The outer shell was scorched, but the internal circuits seemed mostly intact. If he could get it functional again, he might have a portable surveillance device—a way to scout ahead without exposing himself.

Micah unscrewed the casing and carefully pried it open. Sparks flickered as he rewired the fried circuits, his hands moving with practiced precision. After what felt like an hour, the drone emitted a weak whir. It hovered shakily for a second before crashing back to the table.

“Close,” Micah muttered, gritting his teeth. “Not good enough, though.”

He adjusted the power output and stabilized the rotors. This time, when he activated it, the drone lifted smoothly into the air. Micah guided it in a slow arc around the warehouse, dodging low-hanging pipes and scattered equipment.

A triumphant grin spread across his face. “That’s more like it.”

He powered down the drone and set it aside, turning his attention to the next item: a heavily damaged energy shield generator. It was an older model, its casing dented and scorched. Micah had salvaged it from a bot carcass during one of their jobs.

If he could get it working, it might provide a temporary defensive barrier—something that could buy him a few precious seconds in a firefight.

He disassembled the device, carefully cleaning the carbon scoring from the components. The main capacitor was fried, but he had a spare from an old comms relay. Micah swapped it out, then rerouted the power lines to bypass the damaged circuits.

The generator hummed to life, a faint blue glow radiating from its core. Micah pressed a button, and a shimmering energy field flickered into existence around him. It was unstable, sputtering at the edges, but it held.

“Not bad,” he murmured, powering it down. He made a mental note to fine-tune it later.

As the hours passed, Micah lost himself in the work, the weight of the world fading into the background. He tinkered with blaster mods, reinforced his armor plating, and even experimented with a wrist-mounted grappling line—though that particular project ended in a tangled mess.

Despite the frustrations, he kept going. Every new gadget, every modification, was a step closer to being prepared for whatever came next. The Undercity was a dangerous place, and Micah had learned the hard way that staying ahead was the only way to survive.

Zander passed by at one point, pausing to watch him. “You ever stop?” he asked, amused.

Micah didn’t look up. “Not really.”

Zander chuckled. “Well, keep at it. Might just turn you into a walking armory.”

Micah's lips quirked into a faint smile. “That’s the idea.”

As Zander walked away, Micah’s expression grew serious again. He wasn’t just doing this for survival. He was doing it for them. For his brothers, his sister, and Michelle.

Especially Michelle.

He tightened the last bolt on a blaster mod and set it down with a determined breath. Whatever it took, he’d be ready. Because one day, he’d find his way back to them. And when he did, he’d be stronger than ever.

Micah leaned back against the wall, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. The makeshift workbench in front of him was cluttered with scraps and tools—testaments to the hours he’d spent modifying, repairing, and upgrading. His stomach growled, pulling him out of his focused haze.

“Right,” he muttered. “Food.”

He stood up, stretching his arms over his head. His muscles protested, sore from both the morning’s workout and the intense work session. Micah rubbed his neck, feeling the tension knotting there, then made his way to the communal area where the others usually gathered for meals.

A long metal table sat in the center, its surface scratched and dented from years of use. Several of the crew were already there, eating and talking in low voices. The scent of roasted protein and something vaguely bread-like filled the space.

Micah grabbed a portion from the makeshift kitchen setup—a tray of ration cubes, some kind of stew, and a roll that was tougher than he’d prefer. He didn’t complain, though. It was food. And it was edible. Barely.

Zander was standing by the far end of the table, laughing at something one of the guys said. He caught sight of Micah and gave him a nod. Micah returned it but chose a quieter spot at the edge of the table.

He sat down, peeling open the packaging on the ration cubes first. They were dense and tasteless but packed with nutrients. Micah chewed mechanically, his mind still on the projects he’d left unfinished.

The energy shield needed more stability. The grappling line was a mess, but there had to be a way to make it work. And the drone could use a stealth upgrade—maybe adjust the power signature to keep it off enemy scanners.

His thoughts were interrupted when Zander plopped down in the seat across from him, carrying his own tray of food.

“You ever take a real break, or is this your version of downtime?” Zander asked, smirking.

Micah shrugged. “Guess I just like keeping busy.”

Zander chuckled. “Fair enough. But don’t burn yourself out, kid. Trust me—I’ve seen it happen.”

“I’ll be fine,” Micah said, though his voice lacked conviction.

Zander studied him for a moment, then changed the subject. “So how’s that leg brace working out?”

“Better. I reinforced it and added more flexibility. Still working on the one for my other leg—might help with mobility in tight spots.”

“Smart,” Zander admitted. “You’re a quick learner. Not everyone around here bothers to think that far ahead.”

Micah’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Guess it’s just how I operate.”

They ate in relative silence after that, the background noise of the crew filling the space. Despite the clatter of trays and occasional bursts of laughter, Micah’s thoughts drifted back to the agency and the people he’d left behind.

Michelle. He clenched his fist around the roll, his appetite waning. He missed her more than he could put into words.

But he had to push through. He had to survive.

Because one day, he’d get back to her. And when he did, he wouldn’t just be the same guy who had to be rescued. He’d be someone worthy of standing beside her.

He shoved the last of his food into his mouth and stood up, ready to get back to work.

As Micah stood from the table, he pushed his tray aside. His thoughts lingered on the promise he’d made to himself. Survival wasn’t enough—he needed to be better. Stronger. Smarter.

He made his way back to his cot, where his gear was neatly laid out. The new leg brace gleamed under the dim lights, sturdy and dependable. With the added pressure systems designed for enhanced movement. He strapped it on, adjusting the fit until it felt secure.

Micah ran a hand down both braces, satisfied with the modifications. If these worked as planned, they’d give him the speed and mobility he’d been missing. He tugged on his hoodie, followed by his long dark jacket, the familiar weight settling on his shoulders. Next came his hood and mask, concealing his face from the prying eyes of the city.

Reaching for his weapons, Micah checked the charge levels on both blasters. Fully loaded. He holstered them on either side of his hips and slipped a knife into his boot for good measure. His pack was the last thing he grabbed, slinging it over his shoulder with a determined tug.

As he walked toward the warehouse exit, Zander called out from across the room, “You heading out again?”

Micah paused at the door. “Yeah. Thought I’d hit up the scrap yards near the docks. See if there’s anything worth bringing back.”

Zander raised an eyebrow. “Those docks are heavily guarded. You sure that’s a good idea?”

Micah’s eyes hardened. “More guards usually mean better tech gets dumped nearby. I’ll stay clear of them.”

Zander studied him for a beat, then nodded. “Just watch your back.”

“I always do,” Micah replied before stepping through the door.

The heavy metal hatch creaked as it sealed behind him, and the noise of the undercity washed over him like a chaotic tide. The air was thick with the scent of burning fuel and rust, mingled with the faint tang of the distant sea. Crowds bustled along the narrow streets, a blur of faces, noise, and activity.

Micah kept his head down, blending into the flow. His dark clothing and masked face made him just another shadow moving through the underworld. He moved with purpose, navigating the labyrinthine streets with ease born of familiarity.

As he neared the edge of the docks, the atmosphere shifted. The crowds thinned, and the air grew cooler, laced with the briny scent of the ocean. He could hear the distant hum of security drones patrolling the area and the occasional bark of a guard issuing orders.

Micah ducked behind a stack of crates, scanning the perimeter. He spotted the fenced-off scrap yard on the far side of the docks—a sprawling mess of discarded machinery and metal debris. Jackpot.

He tightened his grip on the straps of his pack and took a steadying breath. If he played this right, he'd be in and out before anyone noticed.

But in this place, luck was always in short supply.

Micah carefully moved through the shadows, keeping close to the towering stacks of scrap. The docks were eerily quiet, save for the low hum of drones overhead and the occasional clank of distant machinery. His every step was deliberate, avoiding any area where light might catch him or a guard might spot movement.

He kept his back to the fence, inching closer to the heart of the yard, where the most valuable scraps lay hidden among piles of rusted metal and old tech. His breathing was steady, controlled, every sound muffled under his mask. He adjusted his pack on his shoulder, making sure the contents didn't shift too much, as he moved in further, eyes scanning for anything that looked useful.

The place was a gold mine of parts—discarded power cells, broken servos, pieces of machinery that, to most, seemed useless. To him, they were treasure. Every part had potential. Every scrap could be repurposed, rebuilt, or reforged into something better.

He ducked behind another pile, catching sight of a few larger tech pieces—something that looked like a motor from an old mech suit. It had potential. He could strip it for parts, maybe even reinforce his own gear with some of the plating.

Micah approached with caution, bending down to inspect the machinery. He pulled out his tools, quickly and efficiently dismantling the pieces. His focus was unbreakable. He had no time for distractions, no space for mistakes. The dock guards were close enough that even the smallest sound could alert them.

Just as he pulled a large power coil free, he heard a low hum—a drone passed overhead, barely ten feet away. His heart stilled for a beat, the quiet buzz of the machine filling his ears. Micah froze, holding his breath, eyes tracking the drone’s path. It didn’t turn toward him, and after a few seconds, it continued on its way, oblivious to his presence.

He exhaled, feeling the tension in his shoulders slowly ease. That was too close. He couldn’t afford another slip-up.

He quickly finished stripping the parts he needed, stuffing them into his pack before moving out of the yard, retracing his steps. The drones were more spread out now, and he had to weave through piles of scrap more carefully to avoid crossing into their search zones. But the further he went, the more confident he became, until he finally reached the back fence.

Micah took one last look around, ensuring there were no guards in sight. Satisfied, he carefully scaled the fence, climbing over with practiced ease. His heart was still pounding in his chest, but he had made it out undetected. For a moment, he allowed himself a breath of relief.

With his pack heavier and his heart still racing, he made his way back into the shadows of the undercity, eyes darting around for any sign of trouble. The night had grown colder, and the wind cut through his clothes, but the weight of the scraps in his pack was a small victory against the cold.

He kept his pace steady, head down, blending into the crowd as he made his way back to the warehouse.

On his way back, Micah turned down a narrow alleyway, seeking solitude away from the more crowded parts of the undercity. The streets were quieter now, most people staying indoors or gathered in the nearby taverns for warmth. He knew that, if he was going to test out the leg augmentations he'd been working on, this was his chance—away from prying eyes and the risk of being interrupted.

He found a secluded spot, tucked behind an old, abandoned building. The area was mostly clear, save for a few scattered piles of refuse and scrap metal—perfect for his purpose. A couple of rusted fire escapes stood on either side, offering good vantage points for climbing and testing his agility. The alley’s edges were framed by crumbling concrete walls, ideal for him to work on his jumps and balance.

Micah set his pack down and, with practiced precision, began removing his jacket and hoodie. His hands were steady as he adjusted the leg braces, tightening them slightly to ensure they were secure. The metal joints clicked into place, and he took a deep breath, his mind focused. He could feel the subtle hum of the power cells from his augmentations, the pressure system just waiting to respond.

He rolled his shoulders and took a few tentative steps forward, feeling the weight of the leg braces as they shifted with his movements. The extra reinforcement in his legs gave him a sense of strength, though he still wasn’t sure what it would feel like to push them to their limits. His heart was racing, both from anticipation and the underlying fear that something could go wrong.

But he’d made progress—he had to trust it now.

Micah started with a light jog, feeling the spring in his step as his augmented legs powered him forward. The adjustments had definitely improved his mobility. His stride felt more natural than before, and he quickly gained momentum. The first test—running—was a success.

He let out a breath of relief, but he wasn’t done yet.

Next, he angled himself toward one of the lower fire escapes, giving himself just enough room to approach it at a decent speed. Micah focused on his legs, mentally preparing himself to test the power of his augmentations. He sprinted forward, the reinforced legs propelling him with more force than he anticipated. With one swift movement, he launched himself toward the base of the fire escape, aiming for the lowest rung.

His feet hit the metal with a satisfying thud, and he swiftly grabbed onto the ladder, using the power in his legs to jump up with ease. His body moved fluidly, though he quickly realized that he was overcompensating in his excitement. He almost overextended the leap and hit the second rung harder than he meant to, the impact jarring his body slightly. But he managed to steady himself and keep climbing.

Micah grinned despite himself. It wasn’t perfect, but it was progress.

With a few more rapid movements, he made it to the top of the fire escape. He stood there for a moment, catching his breath and letting the rush of success wash over him. He’d done it. The augmentations worked.

But now, he needed to test the full range of his new abilities. With a deep breath, he climbed back down, positioning himself below the fire escape, ready to test the jumping power he had incorporated into his leg brace design.

Micah backed up a few paces, then broke into another sprint, using every ounce of power from his legs to launch himself upward. His legs responded with a force he hadn't anticipated—he soared higher than he'd thought possible, landing with a soft but firm thud several feet away. He staggered briefly as he adjusted his footing, but the impact wasn't as harsh as he feared.

This was what he needed—speed, agility, and power. The augmentations were beginning to feel like an extension of himself.

Micah stood up, breathless but satisfied. His body hummed with the promise of his improvements. He couldn’t help but smile to himself. Each test, each small victory, meant he was that much closer to proving himself—not just to Zander, but to himself.

Now, he just needed to keep pushing. Keep improving.

With a final glance at the empty alley, Micah gathered his things and made his way back toward the warehouse, his thoughts already on the next test.

As Micah made his way back through the quiet streets, his steps lighter than before, he couldn't shake the sense of accomplishment that had settled in his chest. The augmentation tests had been a success, but there was still a lot of work to be done—he was far from perfect, far from what he wanted to be. But that didn’t stop him from feeling a glimmer of hope.

The sunless sky loomed overhead, casting an eerie glow from the two moons, one dimmer and distant, the other large and brilliant. He looked up briefly, his mind briefly drifting to Michelle. A familiar ache pulsed in his chest, but it was quieter now, more manageable. It didn’t hurt as much to think about her anymore, though he still longed for her.

He quickened his pace, forcing the thoughts to the back of his mind as he focused on the here and now. The warehouse loomed ahead, familiar and safe, a place where he could continue to push himself and improve.

As he entered the warehouse, he spotted Zander, who was talking with a few of the others near the central workbench. The usual buzz of activity filled the air—people were working, talking, doing what they did best. It was peaceful in its own way.

Zander caught sight of him and waved him over, his expression unreadable as usual. Micah made his way over, still feeling the lingering buzz of his earlier success.

“You make it back in one piece?” Zander asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Yeah,” Micah replied, giving him a slight grin. “Tested out some of the new features.”

Zander raised an eyebrow, but didn't press him further. “Good. Keep at it. You’re making progress.”

Micah nodded, more grateful than he could express, even though he could still feel the weight of uncertainty pressing on him. It was one thing to pass a test; another thing entirely to prove he could keep up with everything this life demanded.

They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, before Zander clapped him on the back. “You can rest for a bit. We’ve got a few quieter days ahead.”

Micah glanced around at the group, all of them moving through their routines. He was still an outsider here in many ways, but he was starting to blend in. It felt... okay. He could survive here.

As Zander moved on to check in with another member, Micah lingered, deciding to take a moment to just breathe. It wasn’t long before he realized that his thoughts had strayed again, this time toward the upcoming job they had lined up. There was always something more to prove, something bigger to accomplish.

His work wasn’t done.

But for now, he allowed himself a brief pause, feeling the weight of the journey ahead and the steps he had taken toward it. The peace of the warehouse surrounded him, but the distant hum of the city beyond reminded him that the real work, the real challenges, would never stop coming.

Micah made his way to his cot, pushing through the faint buzz of activity in the warehouse. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been at it today—hours blending into hours—but the fatigue was beginning to settle into his bones. He pulled his pack off his back, placed his blasters at his side, and let out a long breath.

As he sat down on the cot, he removed his hood and mask, his fingers feeling the familiar weight of his gear as he placed it carefully aside. His arms were sore from the workout earlier, the makeshift leg augmentations still humming softly from the effort of climbing and testing them. He flexed his feet a little, the new additions adding an odd sense of strength to his movements, though he knew it wasn’t perfect yet.

He closed his eyes for a moment, willing the tension from his body to unwind. His thoughts once again flickered to Michelle, though this time, instead of the usual ache, he found himself simply missing her. Not the burning pain of longing that used to overwhelm him, but a soft, aching reminder that she was still out there, and still somehow a part of him.

His thoughts shifted to the job ahead. It was always looming, always a reminder that there was no time to relax. In this line of work, rest was a luxury he couldn’t afford, but he needed it. The exhaustion creeping into his body reminded him that his journey wasn’t just about surviving—it was about building himself into something stronger, for the people he cared about.

Micah allowed himself a small, bitter laugh. He wasn’t sure when he’d become so wrapped up in the idea of proving himself, but he knew it had everything to do with the people he’d left behind. The ones he wanted to be better for.

He rolled onto his back, staring up at the bare ceiling of the warehouse. The faint hum of voices and the occasional clang of tools filled the background, but it all seemed distant now, like the world had slowed for a moment.

Maybe it was okay to let himself rest for tonight. The next day would come soon enough, and there was no telling what would happen, but for now, he allowed himself a fleeting moment of peace. Just a moment. A brief pause before the world demanded his attention again.

And with that, he drifted off, the weight of his thoughts settling into the quiet, steady rhythm of his breath.

Chapter Text

Michelle sat at the kitchen table, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of a chipped mug. The sound of light chatter from Shiloh and the others in the background barely registered. The house felt emptier than ever, and despite the occasional jokes from Josiah or Judah, the quiet undertone of grief that hung in the air made it hard to shake the sense of loss. 

It had been months since they had left Micah behind, and the weight of that decision never seemed to get any lighter. No matter how much they told themselves it was the right thing to do, the ache of not knowing, of not being able to bring him back, remained. 

She couldn’t help but think of the moments they had together—microscopic pieces of time that now felt both distant and painfully vivid. The way Micah would always joke around, teasing her with his infectious grin. Or the way he'd hold her close when things got rough, offering a comfort that felt like it could defy anything. Now those memories felt more like ghosts, haunting the silence around her.

Shiloh, ever the optimist, tried to keep spirits up. But even her usual energy had dulled, the heaviness of the situation weighing on her. She, like the rest of them, hadn't been the same since Micah disappeared. And Michelle could see it in her eyes—this quiet sadness that hadn’t gone away, a sadness she knew so well herself.

Judah seemed lost in his own world. He spent more time tinkering with his devices, diving into projects that seemed to absorb all his attention. Michelle understood it, though. Work, tasks, distractions—they helped numb the pain. But they couldn’t erase it. They all missed Micah in different ways, and none of them had any answers. 

Her mind wandered back to the day they'd made the decision to leave him. The look in his eyes, the hesitation in his voice as he'd said goodbye—it was almost as if he knew they'd never come back for him. That was the hardest part: knowing they hadn’t been able to give him a proper choice. That they had left him, thinking he was safe. And now, months later, they were still in the dark about his fate.

A lump formed in Michelle’s throat as her gaze shifted to the table, focusing on the small stack of letters that had been gathering dust. They had been unopened for weeks, and even though she told herself that reading them wouldn’t change anything, there was still a hesitation in her chest. The letters were from the agency, updates on operations, messages from Jocelyn and others... But every time she reached for one, her hand stopped, as though the words inside might shatter whatever fragile peace they had left.

“Michelle?” Shiloh’s voice broke through her thoughts, and Michelle blinked, realizing she’d been staring at the pile of letters for much longer than she intended. 

“Yeah?” she replied, not trusting herself to say more. 

Shiloh hesitated for a moment, before walking over and sitting next to her. “I know it’s hard... but maybe we should... talk about it more, you know? We’ve been... we’ve been holding this in for so long.”

Michelle looked at her friend, seeing the same rawness in her eyes. It was hard for her to talk about Micah without the sharp sting of pain cutting through her, but maybe Shiloh was right. Maybe they did need to talk about it, to make sense of all the confusion and loss. But Michelle wasn’t sure if she was ready to say it all out loud.

“I don’t know if I can do that,” Michelle admitted quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s been too long. What if he’s... What if he’s never coming back?”

Shiloh’s face softened, and she placed a hand on Michelle’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “We don’t know that. We don’t know what’s happened to him. But I know he’s out there. And we can’t give up on him, not yet.”

Michelle swallowed hard, feeling the tears threaten again. The uncertainty gnawed at her. She wanted to believe Shiloh’s words, but the fear of never seeing Micah again, of him being out there alone, was too much to bear.

“I want to believe that,” Michelle murmured, “but I don’t know how.”

Shiloh nodded, her voice firm but gentle. “Then we’ll figure it out together. We’re all in this together, Michelle. We’ll keep going. For him. For us.”

Michelle let out a shaky breath, feeling the weight of her friend’s words. Maybe Shiloh was right. Maybe the best thing they could do was keep going. Keep fighting. Even when it hurt.

Still, it didn’t make it any easier to live with the emptiness that Micah’s absence had left behind. They’d all been affected, but Michelle... Michelle had never felt more lost.

Michelle sat there for a long moment, feeling the weight of Shiloh’s words settle in her chest. Her sister’s determination was unwavering, but Michelle felt something different. A hollow ache. A longing to fix things that couldn’t be fixed. A desire to keep going but not knowing exactly how.

Shiloh squeezed her shoulder once more before standing up. “We’ll get through this. Micah wouldn’t want us to stop, to give up.”

“I know,” Michelle said, the words coming out more like a promise than a response.

As Shiloh moved away, Michelle’s gaze drifted to the window, the light fading outside as evening settled in. She could feel the weight of the world pressing in, the quiet urgency of missing Micah hanging over everything they did. It was almost as if the house had become too big for them, their movements more sluggish, their conversations quieter.

The sound of footsteps approaching snapped her out of her thoughts. Judah walked into the room, his face a little more worn than usual, but there was a gentleness in his eyes. He’d always been more amiable than the others, his emotions buried deep under layers of jokes and banter. But even he couldn’t escape the grief that lingered in the air.

“Have you... have you heard anything from the rest of agency?” Judah asked, standing awkwardly in the doorway.

Michelle shook her head, her throat tightening again. “No. Nothing. Just the usual updates. No leads on Micah.”

Judah didn’t seem surprised, but there was a flicker of something—maybe frustration, maybe guilt—on his face. “I hate this. I hate not knowing.”

“I know,” Michelle whispered, her voice catching. “But we can’t give up on him, Judah. We just can’t.”

Judah nodded slowly, his expression softening. “I don’t think I could, even if I wanted to.”

A long silence stretched between them. There were no words that could fill the gap, no explanations or reassurances that would change the reality they were facing. But the unspoken connection, the shared grief, was enough for Michelle to feel less alone in this moment.

“Maybe we should go out tomorrow,” Judah suggested after a beat. “We’ve been stuck here, waiting. Maybe it’s time to get out there. See what’s still out there.”

Michelle met his gaze, considering the suggestion. It had been a while since they’d done anything proactive, since they’d tried to take any step forward in the search for Micah. She knew Shiloh would likely agree with the idea, even if it felt like they were chasing shadows. But she also knew how important it was to keep moving, to keep trying.

“Yeah,” she said softly, a faint spark of hope in her chest. “Maybe you’re right. We need to keep looking. We need to keep fighting for him.”

Judah gave a small nod, then turned to leave, his footsteps light but determined. “I’ll let Shiloh know.”

As Michelle watched him go, she felt a strange mix of gratitude and fear. Gratitude that they were still trying, still holding onto that thread of hope. Fear that it might be too late, that Micah might be lost to them forever.

But there was no turning back now. She couldn’t just wait around, locked in her grief. She had to keep fighting, just like Shiloh said.

And for now, that was enough.

—

A week had passed since Michelle and the others had decided to leave the facility. They had ventured into the city and the underworld in search of any leads, but nothing concrete had turned up. Despite their efforts, every lead felt like another dead end, and the weight of it all was starting to drag on Michelle. The once-bustling agency facility now felt quieter, emptier. It was like the walls themselves carried the heaviness of the grief that had taken root in their hearts.

Shiloh had become more withdrawn, her usual determined focus on running the agency replaced by a quiet, almost absent air as she buried herself in work. She was still trying to lead, still trying to keep everything together, but even she couldn’t hide the cracks that had started to show in her resolve. 

The rest of the siblings had taken up different tasks to keep the place running, but there was an unspoken understanding among them all. The absence of Micah had left a void that none of them knew how to fill. The facility, usually so full of life, now echoed with the emptiness of unspoken grief.

Michelle, too, had thrown herself into the work. It helped dull the ache, gave her something to focus on instead of the never-ending thoughts of Micah. The few days spent out searching had left her exhausted, physically and emotionally. She hadn’t had a solid night’s rest in weeks, always waking up in the middle of the night, staring at the ceiling as the lingering questions ran through her mind. Was he still alive? Was he okay? Was he thinking about them, too?

Sitting at her desk, Michelle tried to focus on the reports in front of her, but her mind kept drifting. The low hum of the facility’s machinery filled the silence around her, but it only made the space feel more desolate.

A soft knock at the door broke her out of her thoughts.

“Michelle?” It was Shiloh, standing in the doorway with a hesitant look on her face. “Got a minute?”

Michelle nodded, trying to smile as she pushed her papers aside. “Of course. What’s up?”

Shiloh stepped inside, looking like she had something important to say. But before she could speak, she hesitated, her eyes scanning the room as if looking for the right words. “I... I think we need to talk,” she said finally.

Michelle raised an eyebrow but gestured for her to sit down. “Okay. What’s on your mind?”

Shiloh took a deep breath, her posture more rigid than usual. “I’ve been thinking a lot. About what’s next. About what we’re doing here.”

Michelle leaned forward slightly, curiosity piqued. “What do you mean?

Shiloh’s gaze dropped to the floor for a moment, gathering her thoughts. “I’ve been running the agency... trying to keep everything going, but it’s hard. It’s harder than I thought it would be. And I don’t think I can keep pretending that everything is okay when it’s not.” She looked up at Michelle, her eyes a little more vulnerable than usual. “I think we need to make a decision. Either we keep searching for Micah, or we focus on keeping the agency running. But we can’t keep doing both indefinitely.”

Michelle felt a sharp pang in her chest. It was a decision she had been avoiding, one that neither of them had been ready to confront. The thought of giving up on Micah was something she couldn’t bear. “You can’t be serious,” she said softly. “We can’t just... stop looking for him.”

Shiloh’s expression softened, but there was a sadness in her eyes. “I’m not saying we stop looking for him. But we can’t keep waiting around here, pretending everything is fine when it’s not. The agency needs us. The work has to continue.”

Michelle’s mind spun, torn between the desire to keep searching and the harsh reality of what their situation had become. But as she looked at Shiloh, she saw the strain on her sister’s face—the exhaustion, the pressure of holding everything together alone.

“I know,” Michelle whispered, her voice heavy. “I know, it’s just... it feels like we’re running out of time. But we can’t just give up. We can’t.” Her words were firm, even though her heart ached.

Shiloh nodded slowly, her gaze hardening with determination. “We won’t. But I think we need to find a way to balance both. If we can’t keep running the agency, then we might not have a place to come back to. And I won’t let that happen. I need you, Michelle. We need to stick together.”

Michelle swallowed, nodding in agreement. She couldn’t let the weight of this decision crush them both. They would find a way to keep moving forward. For Micah. For the agency. For their family. But she couldn’t help but feel a creeping sense of dread in the pit of her stomach. How much longer could they keep doing this?

—

Micah had settled into a rhythm over the past few months, his routine becoming more and more consistent. Wake up, train, work on repairs, run errands for Zander, and act as his bodyguard during deals. At first, things had been calm. Zander’s reputation and the fact that Micah was a steady, reliable presence had ensured that no one dared to challenge them. But as the weeks passed, that peace began to crack.

It started with small things—minor insults thrown their way by grungy street thugs or idle threats aimed at Zander. Micah had always kept his cool, sizing up the situation and stepping in just enough to show he wasn’t someone to be trifled with. His blasters were always holstered at his side, and when things escalated, he knew how to defuse the situation with a calm word or a firm posture. No one had dared push them too far.

But as more time passed, the threats grew bolder. The tensions between rival gangs were boiling over, and Zander, with his increasing visibility in the underworld, was becoming more of a target. Gang members started showing up at the locations of their deals, making themselves known in the shadows. They’d start by glaring, by making pointed comments, or by crowding in on the edges of the deals—sometimes making a show of “looking for work” or “looking for trouble.”

Micah had learned to sense the difference between a tense situation and one that was about to boil over, and so far, he’d been able to stop things from escalating. But one day, things changed.

It was a quiet deal—just another exchange of goods between Zander’s group and a well-connected client in the seedy backstreets of the city. They were in an alley, boxes stacked high against the walls, the low hum of the neon lights above casting shadows on the graffiti-covered walls. Zander had his back to Micah, negotiating with the client, when the first one made his move. A tall man, wearing the colors of a rival gang, approached slowly, his eyes locking onto Micah with a look of disdain.

Micah stiffened. Something was off. He could feel the tension building in the air as the man closed the distance. The words that followed were quiet but laced with venom.

“You don’t belong here,” the gang member said, his eyes flicking over Micah’s form, sizing him up. “This is our turf. And you’re gonna pay for stepping on it.”

Micah didn’t flinch. He remained calm, keeping his stance wide but not threatening. “Not here for trouble,” he said coolly. “We’re just doing business. You want to walk away, and we’ll walk away.”

But the man didn’t walk away. Instead, he gave a low whistle, and within seconds, a few more gang members emerged from the shadows, flanking him on either side. The tension in the air became electric. Micah's fingers hovered near the grips of his blasters, but he didn’t draw them yet.

Zander glanced over his shoulder, sensing the change. His expression tightened, and he took a subtle step backward, closer to Micah.

"You're making a mistake," Micah said, voice steady, warning laced within. “You don’t want this.”

The gang member just sneered, making a show of cracking his knuckles. “Think we’re scared of you, huh? Maybe it’s time you learned the rules around here.”

And that’s when the first punch was thrown.

Micah reacted in an instant. He blocked the blow with his forearm, delivering a sharp jab to the gang member’s throat. The man staggered back, gasping for air, but the others didn’t hesitate—they lunged, fists flying.

In the chaos, Micah was everywhere at once—fast, calculated, precise. He’d been training for this. His legs were stronger now, his reflexes sharper, and every movement felt like it had been choreographed a thousand times in his head. He incapacitated one attacker with a spinning kick, knocked another down with a swift punch to the side of his head, and avoided a wild swing from yet another thug. The fight was over before it could even get properly started.

But then, one of them, a stocky man with a blade, lunged toward Zander. Micah saw it in an instant, the glint of metal reflecting the dim lights. He moved without thinking, drawing his blaster and firing a shot into the thug’s shoulder blade, straight to his heart. The impact sent the man crashing to the ground, blood pouring from the wound as he groaned in pain.

The remaining gang members froze, realizing how quickly the situation had turned against them. They backed off, hands raised in surrender, eyes wide with fear. The fight was over. But Micah’s heart was pounding in his chest, adrenaline rushing through him.

Zander stood still, his gaze fixed on the thug writhing on the ground, his expression unreadable. Micah knew the shot would draw attention, would stir up trouble. But he didn’t regret it.

“We good?” Micah asked, keeping his voice steady despite the adrenaline still coursing through him.

Zander took a long breath, his hand running over his face as he sighed. He shot a look at the client, who was looking nervously between them and the fallen men. 

Zander took a long breath, his hand running over his face as he sighed. He shot a look at the client, who was looking nervously between them and the fallen men, his eyes darting from the bloodied thug to the two of them.

“Relax,” Zander said flatly, his voice carrying the tone of someone who'd seen this kind of thing before. “It’s over. You’re safe.”

The client blinked, not entirely reassured, but nodded. Zander turned his gaze back to Micah, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. There was no judgment, not in Zander’s eyes. He knew the rules of the Undercity, knew what it meant to survive. He wasn’t about to lecture Micah for doing what was necessary.

“You did what you had to do,” Zander said with a shrug, turning to walk toward the exit. His voice wasn’t harsh, just matter-of-fact. In this part of the world, taking a life was a reality, not an anomaly. The undercity was a lawless, dangerous place, and sometimes, it was kill or be killed.

Micah stayed still for a moment, his blaster still in his hand, the weight of it grounding him. The adrenaline was fading, but the sharp sting of what he'd just done lingered, a bitter taste in his mouth. He hadn’t planned on it. He hadn’t meant to take a life, but things had spiraled too fast. The man had come for Zander, and Micah hadn’t hesitated. The gun had discharged in a blur of motion, and it was over.

As Zander moved toward the alleyway’s exit, Micah followed behind, his mind running in circles. He couldn’t stop replaying the moment in his head—the split-second decision, the cold metal of the blaster, the thug’s body hitting the ground.

It was easier in the moment. Micah had acted on instinct, doing what was needed. But now, with the chaos behind them, the weight of it felt different. He couldn’t shake the thought that this would be the start of something darker.

They made their way back toward the main part of the undercity, where the towering structures of the scrap district loomed over them like monolithic giants. Zander glanced at him briefly, his expression still unreadable.

“You did good,” Zander said again, his tone lightening. “I’m not worried about you. But we can’t afford to get sloppy out here.”

Micah nodded, feeling a knot tighten in his stomach. He wasn’t sure if Zander was talking about the fight, the shot, or something else altogether. But he kept his thoughts to himself, focusing instead on putting one foot in front of the other.

They reached their usual rendezvous point, where the rest of the team had gathered to collect their payment. Zander handed the client a small package, exchanged a few words, and then turned to Micah.

“You get used to it,” he said, his voice softer this time, almost like he was trying to reassure him. “Out here, it’s either you or them. That’s the way it works. But you’re getting better at knowing when to pull the trigger.”

Micah didn’t respond right away. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to get used to it. He wasn’t sure if he even could. But what choice did he have? In the Undercity, survival came first. The rest of it was just noise.

The client left, and the others began to pack up. Zander clapped Micah on the back as he passed by.

“Nice work today. Let’s get out of here. You earned yourself a drink.”

Micah didn’t argue. A drink sounded good. A little numbness wouldn’t hurt.

As they walked back to their makeshift base, the hum of the undercity’s machinery around them, Micah kept his head low, but his mind was still miles away, lost in the mess of choices, survival, and what he was becoming.

As they made their way back to the base, the usual clamor of the undercity echoed around them. The low hum of machinery, distant shouting, and the clink of metal in the alleyways filled the air, familiar sounds that only underscored how different this place was from what Micah had known before. It was a constant reminder that here, life was fragile, and survival was a game where the rules were written by the ones who had the power to enforce them.

Micah walked silently, his hand absently brushing over the blaster at his hip. He had to focus on the now. The present. He couldn’t afford to let himself get caught up in what he’d done earlier. He couldn’t afford to think about it too much. The shot. The man. The life that was gone because of him.

Zander didn’t push him to talk. He never did, which was both a blessing and a curse. He didn’t know if it was Zander’s way of reading him, or just the nature of the Undercity, where words were often wasted. Either way, Micah appreciated the quiet.

They reached the warehouse, the entrance as nondescript as always. No frills, no fancy signs. Just a steel door in the middle of a dead-end street, hidden away in the shadows, as if it belonged to a world that didn’t care about being found.

Once inside, the familiar smell of oil, metal, and burned-out power cells greeted them. The others were finishing up their work—some fixing tech, others playing cards, and a few sitting around in a low conversation. No one seemed fazed by their return. It was business as usual.

Micah followed Zander to the back, where they kept their gear. Zander didn’t even break stride as he spoke.

“You’ll get used to the weight of it,” he said casually, his tone still light, though there was an underlying seriousness there. “In this line of work, you don’t have time to overthink. You act, or you die. And you didn’t die today. That’s what matters.”

Micah nodded, though the words didn’t feel like they held any comfort. Instead, they just felt like a harsh reminder of the world he was in now. A world where life and death were so casually weighed against each other. He dropped his pack and blasters onto the table next to Zander’s tools, running a hand through his hair as he looked at the others. They were starting to clean up, but the tension in the air was thick, even if no one said anything.

Zander turned to Micah after a long moment, his face unreadable as he spoke again.

“You did what you had to do today,” he said. “I don’t know what your past life looked like, but out here? It’s different. You can’t afford to hesitate. If you want to keep doing this, you have to be ready for the next time. There will always be a next time.”

The weight of Zander’s words pressed down on him. Micah’s jaw clenched, and he swallowed. “I know.”

Zander watched him for a beat, then gave a nod of approval. “Good. You keep that mindset, and you’ll go far.”

Micah didn’t reply, but he wasn’t sure what to make of Zander’s confidence in him. It felt like a burden, but at the same time, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Zander was right. This was the life he’d chosen—or rather, the life that had been thrust upon him—and in this world, hesitation was a luxury he couldn’t afford.

He moved toward the makeshift bar in the corner, grabbing a drink without much thought. Zander had said he earned one. Maybe it was the best he could do to drown out the thoughts that kept swirling in his mind.

The others were distracted by their own business, and Micah, for once, found himself alone with his thoughts. He let the bitter taste of the drink linger on his tongue, focusing on the burn in his throat, the warmth spreading through his chest.

It wasn’t much, but it was something to hold onto in the moment.

As the night dragged on and the others slowly filtered out, Micah finally found a quiet corner in the back, sitting down and leaning against the wall. His thoughts were still clouded, but now, they weren’t just about the fight earlier. They were about everything. The choices. The future. The people he had left behind.

He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall, and for a moment, he let himself think of Michelle.

How was she? Was she okay? Did she still think of him the way he thought of her?

He didn’t know, but the ache in his chest was almost unbearable. It was a reminder that no matter how far he ran, no matter how much he tried to numb the pain, the ghosts of his past would always find a way to catch up to him.

And he didn’t know how to escape them.

—

Micah and Zander had been sent on a routine supply run through one of the more dangerous sectors of the undercity, where rival factions frequently clashed over territory. The streets here were narrow, dark, and filled with the ever-present hum of neon lights flickering above, casting long shadows that masked potential dangers.

The deal was simple: retrieve a set of rare tech components from a local black market dealer and return without incident. Zander had briefed Micah thoroughly on the job. “We’ll be in and out, no sweat. But you stay alert. You know how this place can get.”

Micah, by now, was getting used to the rhythm of these jobs. He had been on several missions with Zander by this point, learning the ins and outs of the Undercity’s underworld. His augmented body was stronger, faster, more capable with each passing day, but even so, he had no illusions about the danger they could face. They moved carefully, staying close, keeping an eye out for anyone who might be watching.

But the calm didn’t last long.

Just as they turned a corner near the market district, they were ambushed. A group of men, dressed in ragged armor and wielding makeshift weapons, surged from the shadows, cutting off their retreat. Their leader—a tall, burly man with a cybernetic arm—gestured to his group, signaling the start of the attack.

“Hand over the tech, and we’ll let you live,” the leader growled, his voice low and dangerous.

Zander, ever the professional, put his hands up in mock surrender, but Micah’s instincts kicked in before Zander could negotiate. His enhanced vision locked onto the men’s weapons, noting the way they gripped them—tight, ready for a fight.

Micah didn’t hesitate. His left arm reached back, pulling one of his blasters from its holster. Before Zander could react, Micah fired a warning shot into the air, aiming to intimidate the group into backing off. The blast echoed down the alleyway, and for a moment, it seemed to work—the attackers hesitated.

But the hesitation was brief. One of the men, a smaller figure who had been crouched at the back, lunged forward, trying to close the gap between him and Zander. He swung a jagged knife toward Zander’s side, aiming to incapacitate him quickly. Without thinking, Micah shifted, his augmented leg propelling him forward with inhuman speed.

He knocked the attacker aside, sending the knife-wielder sprawling to the ground with a forceful blow. The man didn’t get back up, but Micah barely had time to process the action before another attacker moved in on Zander’s blind side, swinging a crowbar.

This time, Micah reacted without thinking, bringing up his blaster and firing. The shot hit the man’s shoulder, and he dropped to the ground with a strangled cry, his weapon skittering away.

But there was no time to revel in success. The leader—seeing his men dropping like flies—shouted an order to the rest of his group, and the fight escalated. Micah’s senses were on high alert. He could hear the whir of servos in his prosthetics, his enhanced vision highlighting the movements of each gang member as they adjusted their positions.

“Zander, we need to move!” Micah shouted, trying to keep his voice steady.

But Zander was busy holding off two more attackers, and for a brief moment, Micah was on his own. He didn’t have the luxury of waiting. One of the men lunged toward him with a sharp piece of rebar in hand, aiming straight for his midsection.

Micah barely dodged the blow, and his augmented leg kicked in, boosting his speed as he sidestepped and came up behind the attacker. Without hesitation, he fired—twice. The first shot missed, but the second found its mark, hitting the man in the leg. The gang member fell, his weapon slipping from his grasp.

Micah didn’t stop there. Another assailant was coming from behind, a heavyset man with a large weapon that looked like a reinforced pipe. Micah fired again, hitting the man square in the chest. The force of the shot sent the man crashing into a nearby stack of crates, collapsing him to the ground.

Breathing heavily, Micah scanned the area. The remaining attackers hesitated, unsure of how to proceed now that several of their group had been neutralized. The leader shouted something to them, but Micah wasn’t listening anymore. His attention was on the blaster in his hand, the still-warm barrel, and the fallen bodies around him.

He wasn’t sure when exactly the decision had been made, but it was clear now. These weren’t simple thugs looking to scare someone. They were willing to kill to get what they wanted.

As the last man standing hesitated, Micah didn’t think twice. He aimed at the leader, his finger tightening around the trigger. A single shot rang out.

The leader crumpled, the impact throwing him back several feet. There was a moment of silence as the last of the attackers, realizing they were outmatched, turned tail and fled into the shadows, leaving their wounded comrades behind.

Micah didn’t relax. His heart pounded in his chest, and his breathing was ragged. It had been quick, efficient, but that didn’t mean it was easy. He stared at the fallen bodies, a knot of guilt rising in his throat. He hadn’t wanted this. He’d only wanted to survive.

Zander, though, seemed unfazed. He gave a quick glance at the dead men, then turned to Micah, offering a nod of approval. “Nice work.”

Micah didn't know how to respond. The adrenaline was wearing off, but the weight of what he’d just done hung heavily on his shoulders. He looked at the bodies, then back at Zander.

“I—I didn’t have a choice,” Micah muttered, his voice quieter than usual.

Zander, as usual, didn’t seem to bat an eye. He was more focused on getting the job done. “Nobody ever does. Let’s go.”

The job was done, and with it, Micah had crossed another line. The ease with which he'd dispatched the attackers was unsettling, but it was necessary. The weight of the kill was still heavy in his chest, but he knew this was the Undercity. Survival came first, and that was something he’d just had to accept.

—

The job had seemed straightforward at first. Retrieve a valuable shipment from a warehouse owned by a local tech syndicate and return it to Zander’s contact. Micah was no stranger to this kind of work, and after weeks of increasingly dangerous missions, he felt more prepared than ever. His gear was fine-tuned, his augmentations stronger, and his confidence had grown—at least on the surface.

But things had already started to feel off as soon as they stepped inside the warehouse. The place was quiet, too quiet. The only sound was the faint hum of the industrial lights above, flickering intermittently. It was strange, considering this was supposed to be a highly secure location, and the shipment had to be guarded at all costs.

“Stay alert,” Zander had muttered, his eyes scanning the shadowy corners of the warehouse. “We’re not the only ones interested in this shipment.”

Micah gave a curt nod, pulling his hood lower and adjusting his mask. His enhanced vision cut through the darkness, picking up movement in the corners of the room. He felt the tension creeping up his spine as he glanced at Zander, who was leading the way toward the secured crates.

Without warning, the air was shattered by the sound of a loud crash. The doors to the back room burst open, and several armed men stormed into the warehouse. They were heavily armed, clad in dark tactical gear, and their leader—a broad-shouldered figure with a reinforced helmet—was barking orders.

“Grab the shipment, and don’t let them leave!” the leader shouted, and within seconds, the entire warehouse was filled with the sharp sound of weapons being drawn and cocked.

Zander didn’t hesitate, already moving to cover Micah as he reached for his blasters. “Get ready,” he gritted, taking a defensive stance. “We’re not getting out of here without a fight.”

Micah's heart rate quickened, but his focus sharpened. He knew his role. As Zander held the attackers off, Micah was supposed to keep them from getting any closer to the shipment. They had no intention of fighting the whole group—they just needed to buy enough time to secure the tech and leave.

A couple of the men aimed their blasters at Zander, but Micah’s enhanced reflexes kicked in. He was already moving, a blur of motion as he closed the distance and disarmed one of the attackers with a quick, fluid strike. The man staggered back, and Micah shoved him into a stack of crates. He wasn’t down, but he was disoriented.

Zander fired a few quick shots, taking down another man, but the leader was still standing strong in the center of the room, coordinating the attack. Micah’s gaze locked onto the leader’s movements, and he felt an instinctive surge of adrenaline.

The fight was escalating fast. More attackers were pouring into the room, and it was becoming clear that they weren’t just here for the tech—they were here for blood.

The leader’s voice cut through the chaos. “We don’t need to kill you, but if you’re not going to make this easy, we will.”

Micah’s stomach churned at the threat. These weren’t just petty thieves. These men were ruthless, willing to take down anyone who stood in their way. He could see it in their eyes—the cold, calculating malice. They weren’t going to hesitate, and neither could he.

One of the attackers came at Micah with a long-bladed combat knife, aiming for his side. Micah dodged to the side, but the man adjusted quickly, slashing the air just inches from his body. The blade was sharp, deadly. He had no time to think—only to act.

Micah’s augmented leg propelled him forward, faster than a normal human could react. He grabbed the attacker’s wrist mid-swing, twisting it and forcing the blade away from his body. With a swift motion, he disarmed the man and kicked him in the chest, sending him flying back into a stack of crates.

But just as he thought he had the upper hand, a second attacker—a lanky figure with a neural whip—came at him from behind. The whip snapped through the air with a crack, catching Micah across the arm. The shock of the electrical charge surged through his body, causing his muscles to seize for a brief second.

Pain shot through his arm, but Micah didn’t falter. His augmented body fought the pain, and he spun around, using his momentum to grab the whip mid-snap. He yanked it from the attacker’s hand and snapped it like a taut wire in the air, knocking the man off balance.

Micah was on him in an instant. The attacker tried to scramble away, but Micah’s blaster was already aimed at his chest. He didn’t want to pull the trigger—he didn’t want to take another life—but the decision was made for him as the attacker lunged forward, desperate.

Micah fired. A single shot to the chest, and the man crumpled to the floor.

The weight of the kill hit him like a freight train, but there was no time to process it. More men were still advancing, and Zander was shouting for him to cover his back.

Micah snapped back into action, his enhanced legs carrying him across the warehouse with precision as he positioned himself to block the attackers’ approach. But the feeling—the overwhelming sense of finality that came with killing—lingered, making his movements feel a little slower, a little more mechanical.

Then the leader lunged at Zander, his cybernetic arm swinging a reinforced pipe like a battering ram. Micah didn’t think; he just acted. He raised his blaster and fired, hitting the leader square in the shoulder. The impact sent the man sprawling, but he quickly regained his footing, growling in pain.

It was a turning point. The leader was injured, but still very much in the fight.

“Fall back,” Zander barked, his voice sharp with command. “We can’t keep this up much longer!”

Micah didn’t hesitate. He sprinted for Zander’s side, taking down another attacker who tried to step in their path. As they retreated toward the exit, the rest of the attackers seemed to realize they were outmatched. They hesitated for a split second, enough time for Zander to shout, “Now!”

They made a break for it, sprinting through the backdoor just as reinforcements from the syndicate arrived. The fight wasn’t over, but they had enough of a head start to make it to the rendezvous point where the contact would take the shipment.

As they caught their breath in the safety of the alley, Micah couldn’t shake the feeling in his chest. The quiet after the battle felt suffocating, and the faces of the men he had incapacitated, or worse, flashed before his eyes. His heart pounded in his chest, and for the first time since he started working with Zander, he felt sick.

“I—I had to,” Micah whispered under his breath, trying to reassure himself.

Zander glanced at him, his expression unreadable. “You did what you had to do, Micah. Don’t think too hard about it.”

But Micah couldn't help it. He had done what he needed to survive, but as he took another shaky breath, he knew it would haunt him for a long time to come.

—

The job had sounded simple enough. A local tech mogul needed a “retrieval” from a competitor’s warehouse, and Zander had been hired to get it—no questions asked. The shipment, a set of highly valuable prototype chips, was worth far more than a quick in-and-out. Zander didn’t mind the high stakes. He’d handled far worse before. But something about this job was different. Micah could feel it in the air.

The entire team had been laying low in a small, abandoned industrial area on the outskirts of the city. They had the blueprints for the warehouse, and everything was planned down to the last detail. The trick was getting the shipment without drawing attention. Quiet, quick, efficient. But as soon as they set foot on the premises, that plan went out the window.

Micah’s heart rate increased as the doors to the warehouse clanged open. He moved like a shadow, positioning himself behind Zander as they entered the dimly lit building. The smell of oil and rust filled the air. It was typical of these kinds of places—unused, forgotten warehouses where illegal business dealings took place.

The shipment was supposed to be near the back of the warehouse, inside a reinforced storage room. They hadn’t expected anyone to be inside at the time. But as Micah rounded a corner to check the perimeter, a low voice hissed from the shadows.

“Not so fast.”

Micah whipped around, his blasters already in hand. The voice had come from a group of men—at least five or six, armed and ready. They’d been waiting, lying in ambush. How had they known?

The lead man, a lanky figure with a cybernetic arm, stepped forward. His eyes gleamed with malice, and a cruel smirk spread across his face.

“You’re the ones who’ve been sniffing around in the wrong places,” he sneered. “This shipment belongs to someone else now.”

Micah glanced at Zander, who nodded once—silent confirmation to engage. The situation had just escalated.

Without hesitation, Zander pulled out his blasters, aiming at the nearest attacker. “Move fast, Micah!” he ordered.

The firefight began immediately. Micah’s augmented senses kicked into overdrive, but he wasn’t fast enough to stop the first attacker. A man lunged at him with a long knife, and Micah instinctively ducked, narrowly avoiding the blade. But as the attacker came in for another swing, Micah grabbed his arm, twisting it and forcing him to drop the weapon. He spun around, landing a knee to the attacker’s stomach, sending him crashing into a stack of crates.

Another man attempted to charge at Zander from the side, but Micah wasn’t about to let that happen. He slid across the ground on his augmented leg, taking out the attacker with a quick shot to the leg. The man went down, clutching his wound, unable to continue the assault.

But the leader, the man with the cybernetic arm, was still a threat. He raised his weapon—a massive pulse rifle—and aimed it directly at Zander.

Without thinking, Micah pushed off the ground, using his enhanced leg to propel him forward with a speed that was almost unnatural. He dove in front of Zander, tackling him to the side just as the shot rang out. The pulse rifle’s blast grazed Micah’s side, leaving a searing pain in its wake. But he didn’t stop. He gritted his teeth and landed hard, pulling his blasters from his hips.

The warehouse was filled with chaos—screams, shouts, and the crackle of weapons firing in every direction. Micah’s heart pounded in his chest as he aimed at the leader, still trying to recover from the blast.

The leader fired again, this time aiming for Micah. He was too slow. Micah fired first, hitting the cybernetic arm and severing the connection at the elbow. The leader screamed in pain, falling to the ground with a guttural roar, clutching his bleeding stump.

Micah felt a strange emptiness in his chest. He had just maimed the man—worse, he had killed one of the attackers moments earlier. The weight of the decision hit him hard, but there was no time to dwell on it. The rest of the attackers were closing in.

Zander was already on his feet, moving with the precision and agility Micah had come to rely on. He fired a shot that incapacitated another man, but there were still more to deal with. The odds were against them.

Micah knew what he had to do. Without thinking, he moved toward the nearest attacker, a heavily armored man with a plasma baton. The attacker swung the baton, aiming for Micah’s head, but he was faster. Micah dodged to the side, catching the baton with his enhanced arm and twisting it out of the man’s grip. With a swift movement, he punched the man in the chest, sending him flying back against the wall, unconscious.

But there was one more left. The last attacker had already reached the shipment, trying to secure it before they could stop him.

Micah’s hand trembled slightly as he aimed his blaster, his thoughts momentarily drifting to the lives he had already taken. Was this how it would always be now? Just another job, just another life snuffed out? He hated the feeling, but there was no turning back.

The attacker glanced up, realizing too late that he was caught. He moved to pull his weapon, but Micah fired. The shot rang true, and the man fell to the ground, his weapon clattering uselessly by his side.

The fight was over. Micah stood there, his chest heaving with the aftermath. He hadn’t even realized how much time had passed—seconds, minutes? It felt like an eternity.

Zander came over, wiping the sweat from his brow and checking the fallen attackers. “We’re done here. Let’s get the shipment and go.”

Micah nodded, but the emptiness didn’t leave him. The adrenaline was wearing off, and the reality of what he’d done began to set in. He didn’t say anything as they moved to secure the shipment, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of finality that had come with taking so many lives.

As they made their way back to their safe house, Zander didn’t offer any words of comfort. He didn’t need to. He had seen enough to know that in their line of work, this was just part of the job.

But as Micah walked alongside him, he couldn’t help but feel the weight of his decisions pressing down on him. Every shot, every move—he was becoming something he never wanted to be. A killer.

And it was starting to feel like he wasn’t just doing it to survive anymore.

—

The alleyway was dim, the flickering lights from malfunctioning neon signs casting long, jagged shadows along the cracked pavement. Micah and Zander had met with a client inside the back room of a rundown pawnshop. The deal had gone smoothly—too smoothly, Micah had thought at the time. It was only when they left through the alley exit that everything went sideways.

They barely made it halfway down the alley when a group of thugs emerged from the shadows, weapons gleaming under the sparse light. Micah's instincts kicked in immediately. He stepped in front of Zander, his hand hovering over his blaster. Zander muttered a curse under his breath.

“We don’t want any trouble,” Zander said, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “Just finished our business and we’re on our way out.”

The lead thug, a burly man with a scar running from his temple to his jaw, sneered. “You think you can just waltz through our territory without payin’ the toll? Bad move.”

Micah clenched his jaw. There were six of them, all armed. Most carried knives and blunt weapons, but two had blasters. The odds weren’t great, but they weren’t impossible. Still, Micah had learned enough in the past few months to know that charging in recklessly wouldn’t end well.

The situation shifted in an instant.

One of the thugs grabbed the client they’d just dealt with, yanking him back and pressing a blade to his neck. The man struggled, his face pale with terror.

“Hand over the creds and any tech you’re carrying,” the scarred thug demanded. “Or we slit his throat right here.”

Zander's eyes flickered with frustration. “These guys never learn,” he muttered. “Micah, think you can handle this?”

Micah's grip on his blaster tightened. “I’ve got it.”

He took a slow step forward, his voice calm but commanding. “Let him go. You don’t want to do this.”

The thug holding the client laughed harshly. “Oh, tough guy thinks he’s gonna save the day? I ain’t afraid of you, fancy gear or not.”

Micah's heart pounded, but his face remained stoic. He had trained for moments like this—he had to be ready. The nightmares of the lives he’d taken haunted him, but this was different. There was no room for hesitation now. If he faltered, the client would die.

The scarred thug raised his blaster, aiming directly at Micah. “You’re not walking out of here, pal.”

Micah moved in a blur.

He fired a precise shot, hitting the thug’s blaster hand and causing him to drop the weapon with a howl of pain. The other attackers sprang into action, but Micah was already moving. His augmented legs propelled him forward with unnatural speed. He ducked under a wild swing from one thug, delivering a brutal kick to his chest that sent him crashing into a pile of crates.

The alley exploded into chaos.

Zander pulled out his own blaster, covering Micah as he engaged the remaining attackers. Micah’s movements were fluid, calculated. He fired two more shots, disabling the armed thugs before they could retaliate.

But the thug holding the client wasn’t letting go. He tightened his grip, the blade pressing dangerously against the man’s neck.

“Stay back!” the thug shouted, desperation creeping into his voice. “I’ll kill him!”

Micah’s breathing was heavy, his blasters trained on the thug. Time seemed to stretch, each second filled with tension. The client's eyes were wide with panic.

“Let him go,” Micah said, his voice low and steady. “This is your last chance.”

The thug's hand trembled. Micah saw it—the fear, the realization that he was outmatched. But fear made people dangerous.

Micah knew what he had to do.

He lowered one of his blasters, his other hand steady. “You don’t want to die here,” Micah said softly. “Walk away. Leave him, and I won’t chase you.”

For a moment, it seemed like the thug might listen. But then he snarled, his grip tightening.

Micah didn’t wait.

He fired a single shot, the blast hitting the thug's shoulder. The man screamed, dropping the knife and the client as he stumbled back. Micah was on him in an instant, knocking him to the ground and disarming him completely.

Silence fell over the alley.

The client gasped for air, clutching his neck where a shallow cut bled but posed no serious danger. Zander holstered his blaster, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Well,” Zander said, “that was one way to handle it.”

Micah stood over the fallen thug, his chest heaving. The adrenaline coursed through his veins, but there was no satisfaction in the victory—only a cold, hollow feeling.

“You good?” Zander asked, his tone lighter now.

Micah nodded stiffly. “Yeah.”

But as they walked back toward the safe house, Micah’s mind raced. He had acted on instinct, taken lives again to protect others. He wasn’t proud of it, but he couldn’t deny the brutal efficiency he’d developed.

And that scared him.

Chapter Text

Micah grunted as he finished another set of pull-ups, his arms trembling slightly as he lowered himself back to the ground. The warehouse was quiet around him, the usual clatter of repairs and conversations absent this early in the morning. The faint hum of the facility’s power systems was the only background noise.

He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, glancing down at his arms. The difference was subtle, but it was there. Lean muscle now defined his previously wiry frame, filling in just enough to give him a stronger, more capable look. His shoulders were broader, his arms more toned, and even his core felt stronger. Nothing crazy—he wasn't looking to become some hulking bodybuilder anyway. That had never appealed to him.

No, this was better. Lean, agile, and fast. Yet strong enough to handle whatever came his way.

Micah stretched his arms overhead, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension. Zander had insisted he take a break from jobs for a week—something about not wanting him to burn out. At first, Micah had been restless, itching to keep moving, but he soon realized the time off gave him a chance to focus on himself. 

And if he was being honest, it was satisfying to see the results of his hard work.

He grabbed a water bottle from the floor and took a long drink, his eyes flickering to the corner of the warehouse where the others were starting to stir. Some of the crew were already gearing up for the day’s assignments, while others shuffled toward the makeshift kitchen area for breakfast.

Zander had given him free rein to use the training space, and Micah had made the most of it. The weights, 

resistance bands, and obstacle setups had become his daily routine. It wasn't just about building strength—it was about control. Mastering his body the same way he'd learned to master his mind in dangerous situations.

The augmented braces on his legs clinked softly as he moved. They'd become a natural extension of him now, enhancing his speed and stability without getting in the way. The modifications he'd made were holding up well, and he'd already started sketching ideas for further improvements.

He set the water bottle down and moved to the next station, a series of stacked crates he'd been using for agility drills. As he prepared to leap onto the highest one, his thoughts wandered.

Michelle would probably raise an eyebrow at all this if she could see him now. The image of her crossed his mind—arms crossed, a smirk playing on her lips as she teased him about being a gym rat. The thought made his chest ache, but he shook it off, focusing on the task at hand.

He sprinted forward, launching himself onto the first crate, then the second, each landing precise and controlled. His body responded effortlessly, muscle memory kicking in as he ascended to the top.

Breathing heavily, Micah paused at the peak, hands on his hips as he looked out over the warehouse. The view was the same as always—industrial, gritty, and far from the sleek agency he called home. 

But this place had become familiar, in its own rough way.

And he'd become someone different here.

Not unrecognizable, but changed.

He knew it was necessary. The skills, the strength, the instincts he'd developed—they were all part of surviving. And survival was still the priority.

But as he stood there, sweat cooling on his skin, he couldn't help but wonder if there would come a time when he could stop surviving and just live again.

With a sharp exhale, Micah jumped down from the stack, landing in a crouch. He straightened, rolling his shoulders once more. That time wasn't now.

For now, he'd keep pushing himself. Getting stronger, faster, better. Because when the day came that he 

finally made it back to Michelle and his family, he'd be ready.

He had to be.

—

The pull-up bar creaked softly under Micah’s weight as he gritted his teeth, pulling himself up once again. His arms trembled from the exertion, but he didn’t stop. The burn was familiar now, almost comforting. It kept his thoughts focused, silencing the restlessness that always threatened to creep in.

He’d lost count of how many sets he'd done when a familiar voice cut through the quiet.

“You’re gonna rip those shoulders clean off if you keep that up,”

Micah glanced down to see Zander standing nearby, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips. Despite the teasing tone, there was a genuine hint of approval in his eyes.

“Taking a break from yelling at clients?” Micah shot back, his breath ragged.

“Figured I’d come see what you’re breaking next,” Zander said, nodding toward the workout equipment. “Looks like it’s your own body this time.”

Micah huffed a breath that was half laugh, half grunt as he pulled himself up one last time before dropping down. His boots hit the ground with a thud, and he wiped his face with the rag hanging from his belt.

“Not breaking. Building,” Micah corrected, still catching his breath.

Zander snorted. “Whatever you gotta tell yourself.”

As Micah reached for his water bottle, Zander’s gaze drifted toward the jacket Micah had hung on a nearby hook. Something had slipped out of the pocket—a small, crumpled piece of paper now lying on the floor.

Without thinking, Zander stooped down and picked it up. He unfolded the paper, his brow furrowing as he took in the image. It was a photograph, slightly worn at the edges but still clear. The girl in the picture had long, wavy brown hair with a hint of curl, her skin warm-toned and radiant. Her bright, genuine smile lit up the image.

Zander’s smirk faded as realization dawned. So this was it. This was why Micah was so determined, so relentless. He wasn’t just trying to survive—he was fighting to get back to her.

“You’ve got a girl waiting for you, huh?” Zander muttered to himself, the words more observation than question.

Micah, noticing the sudden silence, turned and saw what Zander was holding. His heart skipped a beat.

“Hey!” Micah’s voice was sharp as he strode over, “Let go of that.”

Zander raised his hands in mock defense, holding the picture between two fingers. “Easy there, hotshot. No need to get your feathers ruffled.”

He carefully slid the photograph back into Micah’s jacket pocket. Micah exhaled slowly, tension still tight in his chest. He hated anyone seeing that picture—seeing her. It felt too personal, too vulnerable.

“Didn’t mean anything by it,” Zander said, his tone more genuine. “Just... should’ve known there was another reason you were itching to get off this rock.”

Micah didn’t respond right away, busying himself with wiping sweat from his neck. He hated how exposed this moment made him feel.

But Zander wasn’t one to let a conversation drop. “She looks like quite the catch,” he added, his voice light but curious.

Micah paused, his jaw tightening. He thought about her—Michelle. The way her smile could light up a room, the way her sharp wit kept him on his toes, the fierce determination she carried like armor.

“She is,” Micah admitted quietly, his voice rough with the weight of longing he tried to suppress.

Zander studied him for a moment, something unspoken passing between them. He nodded once, as though filing away the information.

Micah settled into his usual post-workout routine, sitting cross-legged near his cot with a spread of gear laid out in front of him. The rhythmic sound of metal on cloth filled the space as he meticulously cleaned one of his blasters. The task was soothing in its simplicity—disassemble, wipe, check, reassemble. It kept his hands busy and his mind focused.

Zander lingered nearby, leaning against a stack of crates, idly flipping a wrench in his hand. The man had a knack for reading the room, but today, his curiosity seemed to outweigh his usual restraint.

“So,” Zander began casually, “what’s her name?”

The question cut through the quiet like a blade. Micah’s hand faltered for a split second, his grip tightening around the blaster. He didn’t look up.

“Why?” Micah’s voice was low, guarded.

Zander shrugged. “Just seems like if you’re willing to tear through the Undercity for someone, I ought to at least know who’s got you fighting for them.”

Micah kept his eyes on the blaster, but the weight of the question pressed on his chest. He trusted Zander—he knew that. The man had proven himself time and time again. But this... saying her name out loud hurt in a way he wasn't prepared for. It made her absence more tangible, more acute.

He cleaned in silence for a few more beats, the tension thick between them. Eventually, the pressure became too much. With a heavy sigh, Micah set the blaster down.

“Michelle,” he admitted quietly, the name slipping from his lips like a prayer.

Zander didn’t react right away, as if letting the name settle between them.

“Michelle,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Strong name.”

Micah nodded, his gaze distant. “Yeah. It suits her.”

Zander tapped the wrench against his boot, his expression shifting to something more thoughtful. “Gotta say, I respect that kind of dedication. Most guys would’ve given up thinking they’d ever get back to someone.”

Micah's lips pressed into a thin line. “Giving up isn’t an option,” he said firmly. “Not when it comes to her.”

Zander studied him for a long moment before nodding. “Guess that’s why you're still standing, huh? That kind of resolve keeps a guy alive.”

Micah didn’t respond, instead picking up the blaster again and resuming his cleaning. But inside, his resolve burned brighter. Zander had it right—Michelle was the reason he kept pushing, kept surviving.

He had to make it back to her. No matter what it took.

Zander’s wrench clattered softly against the crate as he leaned back, arms folding across his chest. His usual cocky demeanor faded into something quieter, more weighted. He glanced at Micah, his expression unreadable.

“You want to know why I’m stuck in this place?” Zander asked suddenly.

Micah looked up from his blaster, brow furrowing. He didn't respond, sensing Zander was going to tell him whether he answered or not.

Zander sighed, the sound heavy with something deeper than frustration—a kind of weariness that settled 

into a person’s bones. His gaze grew distant, eyes fixed on something only he could see.

“My home Raelo... it got destroyed,” Zander said, his voice low and raw. “Harvested. Only a few of us made it out.”

Micah’s heart skipped a beat. Harvesters. His mind immediately flashed back to their recent fight against Darius and the chaos surrounding the evacuation of countless Raelos.

“It was the Sky Plague, right?” Micah asked carefully, his voice steady despite the tightening in his chest.

Zander's eyes sharpened, locking onto Micah. “How do you know about that?”

Micah hesitated, his fingers tightening around the blaster. The memories were still vivid—the frantic evacuations, the harrowing battles, and the bitter choices they’d had to make. But if anyone deserved to know the truth, it was Zander.

“Me and my family... we tried to evacuate some of the Raelos being harvested,” Micah admitted, his voice steady. “It got bad—really bad. We knew we had to go to the source. Darius, of the Verdonians. He was planning on ruling over the Raelos after the chaos.”

Zander's expression darkened, his jaw tightening. “Verdonians,” he muttered bitterly. “Of course.”

Micah sighed, recalling the tense confrontation. “My sister wasn’t convinced of his good intentions. None of us were, really. But we didn’t have much of a choice. Eventually, we managed to get him cornered. He was going to use a Velrite Doorway to transport his army across the Raelos.”

Zander leaned forward, his voice low. “And?”

Micah exhaled sharply. “He turned around in the end. Sacrificed himself to stop it.”

Zander stared at him for a long moment, disbelief flickering in his eyes. “Verdonian royalty sacrificing themselves? That’s a first.”

Micah huffed a bitter laugh. “Still not sure if I believe it myself. But he stopped the army, and we got out alive. Barely.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy with shared understanding. The weight of what they’d both seen and lost hung in the air, unspoken but palpable.

Zander rubbed the back of his neck. “Sky Plague or not, it doesn’t matter now. That place was home, and it’s gone. No getting it back.”

Micah looked at him, his expression firm. “Yeah, but you're still standing. Still fighting. That counts for something.”

Zander’s lips quirked into a faint, humorless smile. “Guess we both got reasons to keep fighting, huh?”

Micah nodded, his voice steady. “Yeah. We do.”

—

Michelle sat at the far end of the agency’s training deck, her knuckles raw from hours of pounding against the reinforced combat dummy. She didn’t bother wrapping her hands anymore—it was just easier that way. Pain was better than nothing, and it kept her mind busy.

The faint hum of the warehouse facility echoed in the distance, accompanied by the chatter of agents going about their duties. She tuned it all out. She didn’t want to be part of their world right now.

It had been almost a year.

The thought alone made her stomach churn. A year since Micah stayed behind. Since they’d last seen 

him—heard from him. A year of restless nights and empty days filled with grueling missions that only numbed the ache temporarily.

And then Josiah had gone and suggested a memorial service. A memorial. As if Micah was gone for good.

Michelle’s jaw clenched as she delivered another brutal punch to the dummy, the impact jolting up her arm.

They’d stopped searching.

The Nelson siblings—Shiloh, Judah, Elijah, Josiah, Daniel, David—they all agreed. Apparently, it was time to “let go.” Time to “grieve properly.” Michelle scoffed at the memory. Like that would make things better.

Micah wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be. She refused to believe it. And yet... they’d quit on him.

She sucked in a sharp breath, shaking off the creeping doubt that threatened to unravel her resolve. No. He was alive. He had to be.

Wiping sweat from her brow, Michelle grabbed a water bottle from the floor and took a long swig, the cold liquid doing little to soothe the burning in her throat. She’d been avoiding the siblings ever since that idiotic memorial idea was brought up. What was the point in talking to them when they’d already decided to move on?

Her grip tightened around the bottle. Cowards. That’s what they were. All of them.

Judah had tried to talk to her a couple of times, his voice gentle and apologetic. “Michelle, it’s not about giving up. We just… we need closure. Micah would want us to keep going.”

Closure. What a load of garbage.

Michelle had walked away from him without a word, her back rigid with defiance. She didn’t need their pity or their platitudes. What she needed was Micah. And if they weren’t going to find him, then she’d do it herself.

Setting the bottle down, Michelle stretched out her sore arms, her muscles protesting. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep up this routine—pushing herself to exhaustion just to keep the grief at bay. But what other choice did she have?

Her gaze flickered to the far side of the training deck, where a group of agents sparred under Judah’s watchful eye. He caught her staring and raised a hand in greeting, his expression tentative. Michelle ignored him, turning away.

They could have their memorial. Light candles, say nice words, cry about the brother they thought they’d lost.

She wasn’t interested. Micah wasn’t gone.

And she was going to prove it.

—

The warehouse was alive with holiday spirit. Twinkling lights hung from the rafters, casting warm glows over the sleek metal walls. Garland wrapped around support beams, and tables were piled high with festive treats. The familiar scent of cinnamon and cocoa wafted through the air as agents moved about, laughing, exchanging gifts, and savoring the rare moment of joy. The Nelson siblings had outdone themselves this year.

Michelle stood near the edge of the room, nursing a cup of hot chocolate that had long since gone cold. She barely noticed the cheer around her. The sound of carols, the sight of Shiloh laughing as she passed out gifts, even Judah’s heartfelt speech about resilience and togetherness—all of it felt hollow to her.

Because there was still no sign of him.

No Micah.

It had been a full year, and now they were celebrating Christmas without him.

Michelle took a shaky breath, tightening her grip on the mug. She could almost hear his voice, teasing her for brooding in the corner. He’d always made an effort to drag her into the festivities, no matter how much she resisted. Micah would have been in the thick of it—joking with Elijah, playfully arguing with 

Josiah, and inevitably making some elaborate, ridiculous gift for Shiloh.

Her chest ached at the thought.

“Hey,” a familiar voice said softly.

Michelle glanced up to see Shiloh standing beside her, a faint smile on her lips. Her red sweater was dotted with tiny reindeer, and a Santa hat was perched crookedly on her head.

Michelle forced a tight smile. “Hey.”

“You doing okay?” Shiloh’s voice was gentle, careful.

Michelle shrugged. “As okay as I can be.”

Shiloh’s eyes softened with understanding. “It’s been a rough year. I get it.” She hesitated before adding, “You know, Micah would’ve wanted you to enjoy this. He wouldn’t want you to be alone tonight.”

Michelle's jaw tightened. “He would’ve wanted to be here, ” she said flatly.

Silence hung between them.

“You’re not wrong,” Shiloh admitted quietly. “But we have to keep living, Michelle. That’s what he’d want for us—for you.”

Michelle stared into her cup, her throat tightening. “You’ve all given up on him,” she whispered, the bitterness in her voice cutting through the holiday cheer. “But I haven’t.”

Shiloh’s face fell. “It’s not like that,” she insisted. “We’re not forgetting him—we’re just trying to find a way to move forward.”

Michelle set the cup down on a nearby table, her movements sharp. “Well, I’m not moving forward without him,” she said, her voice steely. “So you can have your Christmas party. I’m out.”

Without waiting for a response, Michelle turned and strode toward the exit, ignoring the concerned looks from the agents she passed. She pushed through the heavy doors and stepped into the cold, underground air. The festive lights and music faded behind her as she made her way to one of the quieter wings of the facility.

Her breath came out in visible puffs as she leaned against the cold wall, trying to steady herself. Anger simmered beneath the surface, but it was nothing compared to the gnawing ache in her chest.

He was out there. He had to be. She refused to believe otherwise.

And if no one else was going to keep fighting for him, then she would.

Alone if she had to.

—

The celebration echoed through the halls of the agency. Music thrummed against the walls, and the sound of laughter and countdown chants filled the air. The entire facility was lit up, agents buzzing with excitement as the new year approached.

Michelle stayed where she was—alone in their room.

It had been his room first. Then it became their room. Now it just felt empty.

She sat curled up on the edge of the bed, knees pulled to her chest, the only light coming from the soft glow of the small lamp on the nightstand. A few framed photos sat there, mocking her with happier memories. One was of her and Micah during one of their first missions together—she'd been glaring at the camera while Micah grinned like a fool, arm slung around her shoulder as if daring her to be annoyed.

She traced a finger over his face in the photo, her chest tightening.

Out in the common area, she knew the countdown had already started. “ Ten... nine... eight… ” The voices grew louder, more excited.

Michelle clenched her jaw, trying to block it out. She knew what would happen next—cheers, champagne toasts, and couples sharing their New Year’s kisses. Britney and David would be front and center, no doubt, wrapped up in their love like nothing else mattered. She liked them—she really did—but seeing them together without Micah was torture.

“ Three... two... one! Happy New Year! ” The room erupted into cheers.

Michelle’s throat tightened. She hugged her knees closer, her nails digging into her arms.

The ache was relentless. It gnawed at her, whispering that she'd never have that again. That she’d never feel Micah’s arms around her, never hear his laugh, never share another New Year’s kiss.

The tears came before she could stop them, hot and unyielding. She pressed her face into her knees, shoulders shaking. She hated this—hated feeling weak, hated the loneliness that clawed at her.

But most of all, she hated that everyone else seemed ready to move on while she was still stuck here, waiting for a miracle.

The door creaked open behind her, but she didn’t look up. Footsteps approached, and then the bed dipped slightly as someone sat down beside her.

“I figured you’d be here,” Shiloh’s gentle voice broke through the heavy silence.

Michelle wiped her face quickly, not wanting to be seen like this. “Shouldn’t you be out there celebrating?” she muttered, her voice rough.

Shiloh shrugged. “I was. But then I realized my best friend was missing.” Her tone was light, but there was concern beneath it.

“I’m fine,” Michelle lied, her voice brittle.

Shiloh sighed. “You don’t have to be fine, you know.”

Michelle's jaw clenched. “He’s not dead, Shiloh,” she whispered fiercely. “I know he’s not.”

“I believe you,” Shiloh said quietly.

Michelle’s breath hitched at the unexpected response. She looked up, searching Shiloh’s face for any sign of pity, but there was none—just quiet determination.

“I miss him too,” Shiloh admitted. “We all do. But I know if anyone can find his way back, it’s Micah.” She placed a hand on Michelle’s shoulder. “And when he does, he’ll want to see you strong and fighting—not shutting yourself away in the dark.”

Michelle’s lips trembled, but she forced herself to nod. “I just... I don’t know how to keep going without him.”

“You don’t have to do it alone,” Shiloh said firmly. “I’m here. We all are.”

The words settled into Michelle's chest, a fragile comfort amid the storm. She wasn't ready to rejoin the others—not yet—but maybe, just maybe, she could hold on a little longer.

For Micah.

And for herself.

Chapter Text

Micah crouched low in the shadows of a dilapidated building, fingers grazing the wreckage scattered across the floor. The wind howled through the empty city streets, a harsh reminder of how desolate this place had become. He was far from the familiar bustle of the underground facility where Shiloh and the others operated. Here, it was just him and the cold, crumbling remnants of what had once been a thriving settlement.

He’d been scavenging for hours—maybe more—but his mind wasn't on the debris or what was left to pick through. 

It had been a year. A full year. Time felt like a distant concept, but that realization hit him harder than anything else.

A year since he’d been forced to leave. A year since he’d promised Michelle he’d come back.

And he hated it. Not because of the loneliness. He had grown used to that, but because of her. She hadn’t signed up for this. She had never asked for him to disappear into the void of space, to risk his life while she stayed behind, unable to even know if he was still breathing.

Micah shifted, the familiar weight of his new leg braces shifting beneath his gear. He had learned to live with the constant reminder of the pain he had left behind—of the things he’d sacrificed. The enhancements he had built had improved his mobility, but they also reminded him of the void that had been left in his life. He could survive out here, sure. He’d survived for a year. But that didn’t mean he wanted to.

Not when he thought of her—of Michelle. She was everything. His reason for even trying to make it out alive. And now, all he could think about was the pain he’d caused her by vanishing without a trace. He could deal with the isolation. But she? She deserved better.

He rose from his crouch and gathered up the scrap he’d found, stuffing it into his pack with an absent focus. But his hands shook slightly as he did it, and the flicker of memories haunted him. Her face. Her smile. The way she would always roll her eyes when he said something dumb, and yet, never fail to have his back when things got tough.

“Focus, Micah,” he muttered to himself, tightening his pack.

His thoughts wandered back to home—the agency where his family lived and worked. Where he had lived with them, working alongside Shiloh, Judah, and the others. He wondered if they were still searching for him. Or if they’d given up.

And Michelle—was she holding on too? Was she okay?

He couldn’t afford to wallow in uncertainty. His mission was clear—survive, gather resources, and make his way back home. One day, he would return to her. But the weight of that “one day” crushed him. What if he couldn’t make it back? What if he had lost her forever?

He shook his head, pushing those thoughts aside. No. He couldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t let that happen.

With one last look around the abandoned area, Micah slung his pack over his shoulder, straightened his posture, and started walking. The path ahead was uncertain, but he wasn’t going to let fear dictate his steps anymore. He’d find his way back to Michelle. He had to.

Even if it took everything he had left.

—

Micah found himself back in a familiar place—a small clearing near the forest edge where he and Michelle used to sit during quieter moments. The world was soft and hazy, like the edges of a fading memory. The air was cool, but the sun still clung to the horizon, casting long shadows.

In this dream, Michelle was there, as vivid and real as the day they’d last been together. She was standing at the edge of the clearing, looking out across the space as if waiting for him. The way the light hit her hair, the curve of her smile—everything was just as he remembered. His heart lifted in his chest, an ache that he didn’t even realize he’d been carrying.

He stood there, frozen for a moment, watching her. Then, with a slow, steady breath, he moved forward. He wanted to tell her everything: how much he missed her, how he couldn’t wait to come home, how he’d survived all this time just to find her again.

But as he stepped closer, something felt off. The dream felt... wrong, somehow. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, and the way she turned toward him seemed almost... hesitant. 

“Michelle?” he called out, his voice low and hoarse. But she didn’t respond. She just kept looking past him, toward something—or someone—else. He turned around to follow her gaze, but no one was there. 

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw it. There, walking in the distance, was a figure. A man. He was tall, his build broad, and his face was obscured by the shadows of the fading light, but there was something familiar about the way he walked. 

Michelle turned toward him, her face softening with a look he had seen her give him only once or twice. It was a smile full of warmth, of familiarity, of something deeper than the way she ever looked at anyone else. 

The realization hit Micah like a punch to the gut. He couldn’t breathe for a second, and everything around him seemed to blur. 

She was moving on.  

She’d found someone else.  

His heart twisted in his chest as he stood there, helpless, watching as the man approached her. Michelle’s hand reached out to meet him, fingers brushing in a way that sent a sick feeling through Micah’s entire body. It wasn’t him. It couldn’t be him.

In a moment of anguish, he moved forward again, calling her name louder this time. “Michelle!” But she didn’t turn back. She just... kept walking toward the man.

And then, just like that, the dream began to fade. The scene around him evaporated into nothingness, Michelle’s face the last thing to disappear. Her smile, warm and genuine, was the last thing he saw before everything went dark.

Micah jolted awake with a gasp, his heart pounding in his chest, sweat slicking his skin. He reached up, clutching his chest as if to steady the beating of his heart, the dream still fresh in his mind. He could still feel the sting of it—the weight of seeing her move on without him.

For a long time, he lay there, staring up at the low ceiling of his small shelter, trying to steady his breathing. The night felt colder now, the quiet pressing in on him. His mind raced with the realization that she might have truly let go of him. The thought didn’t sit right, didn’t feel real, but the dream had felt so real that it was impossible to shake.

He pushed himself upright, running a hand through his hair in frustration. The feelings swirled inside him: guilt, grief, and the ever-present ache of missing her. But what if she was happy? What if she had found someone who could give her the future he couldn’t? He clenched his fists, trying to block out the pain.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. He wasn’t supposed to leave her behind. 

Micah stood, pacing around the small space, trying to shake the feeling of helplessness. The dream lingered in his mind like a shadow. He couldn’t go back to her if she’d moved on. But... if he stayed out here any longer, how long would it take before that dream became reality? 

As the morning light began to filter in, Micah made a silent promise to himself: He couldn’t let her go, not like that. He didn’t know when, or how, but he would make it back. For her. For the both of them.

But that dream—that haunting image of her with someone else—would stay with him. It would fuel him, but it would also weigh him down.

—

The room was dimly lit, the flickering light of an old, overhead fixture casting shadows across the cracked walls. Micah sat at a rickety wooden table, his elbows resting on its worn surface. Zander leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. Between them was a large, yellowed map, its edges frayed and corners curling from years of use.

Zander’s hand swept over the map, tracing a marked path that ended in a red circle. “This job’s big,” he said, his voice steady, almost casual, but his sharp eyes belied the weight of the words. “Too big for just me to handle. But I trust you’ve got what it takes now.”

Micah studied the map, his brows furrowing. The circle marked the heart of Skylord territory—a rival faction infamous for its ruthless tactics and paranoia. He could already imagine the layers of traps, patrols, and fortified walls they’d have to navigate to pull this off.

“What’s the catch?” Micah asked, leaning back in his chair.

Zander chuckled, pushing off the wall and walking closer to the table. “The Skylords aren’t just hoarding the artifact we need—they’re worshiping it. Some ancient relic they think will bring them glory or whatever nonsense they’re into these days. If we get it, it’s not just a win. It’s the win. Secures our stronghold here for years. But you already know it won’t be easy.”

Micah exhaled slowly, glancing down at the map again. He wasn’t afraid of danger—he’d faced plenty of that in his time. But every job, every risk, pulled him deeper into this world, making the thought of leaving feel heavier. And yet, he couldn’t deny the pull of Zander’s words. He was starting to feel responsible for these people, for their survival, even if his heart still ached for home.

“I’ll do it,” Micah said, his voice firm.

Zander’s grin widened, and he clapped a hand on Micah’s shoulder. “Knew I could count on you.”

As Zander turned away, his boots clicking against the concrete floor, Micah clenched his fists under the table. He stared at the red circle on the map, the weight of his decision settling over him like a heavy cloak.

Every time I help them, I’m digging myself deeper. How much longer can I afford to stay here?

The door creaked shut as Zander left the room, leaving Micah alone with his thoughts. The silence pressed in around him, broken only by the faint hum of the flickering light above. He reached into his pocket, pulling out the picture of Michelle he kept as a reminder of home. Her smile sparkled up at him, reflecting a memory of everything he was fighting to return to.

He gripped it tightly, his jaw set. One more job. Then I’ll figure out a way back. But even as he thought it, he wasn’t sure he believed it anymore.

—

The night air was thick and heavy, clinging to Micah’s skin as he crouched on the rusted metal catwalk overlooking the Skylords' compound. The low hum of generators and the occasional bark of orders drifted up to where he and Zander waited in the shadows. Below them, masked guards in patchwork armor patrolled the maze of crates and scaffolding surrounding the central warehouse.

Micah adjusted the brace strapped to his leg, feeling the slight hum of energy coursing through it. The augmentations he'd worked on with scraps from the undercity had held up so far, but tonight would be the real test.

Zander knelt beside him, his expression serious. “Guards rotate every ten minutes,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the noise below. “We’ve got a three-minute window to get past the east gate and into the main building.”

Micah nodded, eyes scanning the compound. The relic they were after was in the warehouse at the center—a heavily fortified structure surrounded by fences topped with razor wire. This wasn’t just about sneaking past guards. They’d have to outthink security drones and bypass reinforced locks.

“You good?” Zander asked, his tone softer now.

Micah flexed his fingers, adrenaline buzzing through his veins. “Always.”

Zander smirked. “That’s my guy. Let’s move.”

They dropped silently from the catwalk, landing on the gravel below without a sound. Micah's augmentations absorbed the impact, and he felt a brief flicker of satisfaction. All those late nights tinkering had paid off.

Sticking to the shadows, they moved swiftly along the fence line. Micah’s heart raced as they approached the east gate. Two guards stood at their posts, their rifles slung over their shoulders. Zander glanced at Micah and tapped twice on his forearm—the signal for silent takedown.

Micah nodded, his body already moving before he had time to second-guess. He slipped behind the first guard, one hand clamping over the man’s mouth while the other pressed a stun rod to his side. The guard jerked once, then went limp. Micah lowered him to the ground as Zander took care of the second guard with equal efficiency.

“Clean,” Zander murmured, wiping his hands on his pants. “Gate’s clear. Let’s go.”

They slipped through the gate and into the compound, the towering warehouse looming ahead like a sleeping beast. Micah's eyes darted to the security drones hovering in slow patrols overhead. Their red lights swept across the ground in rhythmic arcs.

“Stay low,” Zander warned.

They weaved between stacks of crates, keeping just out of the drones’ sightlines. Micah’s pulse pounded in his ears as they reached the side entrance to the warehouse. The door was reinforced, a keypad glowing ominously beside it.

“I’ve got this,” Zander muttered, pulling a small hacking device from his pocket. He knelt by the keypad, fingers flying over the device’s interface.

Micah kept watch, his blasters drawn. The faint whir of a drone grew louder, and he tensed as its red light crept closer.

“Hurry up,” he hissed.

“Almost there...” Zander’s voice was strained.

The drone's light swept toward them, and Micah's breath caught. He didn’t have time to think—only react. He raised one blaster and fired a precise shot, hitting the drone's sensor. Sparks flew as it spiraled out of control and crashed to the ground.

Zander’s head snapped up. “Subtle,” he muttered, but the door clicked open.

“Let’s move,” Micah said, ignoring the adrenaline still coursing through him.

They slipped inside, the air thick with the smell of oil and metal. The warehouse was vast, rows of shelves stretching into the shadows. In the center, a pedestal bathed in a pale blue light held the relic—a glowing, crystalline shard that seemed to hum with energy.

“There it is,” Zander breathed.

Micah's eyes narrowed. “Too easy.”

As if on cue, alarms blared, and red lights bathed the warehouse in an ominous glow. Security doors slammed shut, trapping them inside. From the shadows, heavily armed guards poured in, their weapons raised.

Zander swore under his breath. “Guess they were expecting company.”

Micah's grip on his blasters tightened. “Then let’s give them a show.”

Without waiting for a response, he fired the first shot, taking out a guard on the left. Zander dove behind a shelf, returning fire. The air was filled with the deafening sound of blaster fire and the sharp scent of burning metal.

Micah moved with precision, his augmentations giving him an edge as he dodged shots and returned fire. He vaulted over a crate, landing in front of two guards. A swift kick sent one sprawling, and he disarmed the second with a well-placed shot.

“Zander, go for the relic!” Micah shouted.

Zander didn’t need to be told twice. He sprinted toward the pedestal, ducking under a hail of gunfire. Micah covered him, taking out any guards who got too close.

Zander reached the relic, his hands wrapping around the glowing shard. The energy pulsed through the room, momentarily disorienting the guards.

“Got it!” Zander called.

Micah's jaw clenched. “Time to get out of here.”

They fought their way back to the entrance, every step a battle. By the time they reached the door, Micah's muscles burned, and his breath came in ragged gasps.

Zander slammed the door shut behind them, sealing the guards inside. They stumbled into the night, the alarms still blaring in the distance.

As they ran back toward the fence, Micah’s thoughts were a whirlwind. Every job was getting harder, the risks greater. But he couldn't back down now—not when the stakes were this high.

When they finally made it back to their hideout, Zander collapsed onto a crate, laughing breathlessly. “Now that was a job,” he said, holding up the relic triumphantly.

Micah leaned against the wall, wiping sweat from his brow. His heart still raced, but a grim satisfaction settled over him. They’d made it out—barely.

Zander looked over at him, his grin fading into something more serious. “You did good, Micah. Real good.”

Micah didn’t respond. He just stared at the relic, its glow casting eerie shadows across the room.

One more job down. One step closer to home.

But even as he thought it, he wondered how much more of himself he'd have to give before he finally made it back.

—

Back at the hideout, the damp stone walls hummed with the faint vibrations of machinery deeper in the undercity. The place was a haphazard patchwork of salvaged tech, flickering lights, and makeshift furniture scavenged from raids. Zander tossed the relic onto a metal workbench with a triumphant grin, the glow from the shard flickering across his face.

Micah sank onto a crate nearby, his chest still heaving. The rush of adrenaline that had carried him through the job was fading, leaving behind a gnawing ache in his limbs. His hand trembled slightly as he wiped sweat from his brow.

“That was close,” Zander said, leaning back and propping his feet on the bench. “Too close.”

Micah gave a humorless laugh. “When isn't it?”

“Fair point.” Zander pulled a flask from his jacket, taking a long swig before offering it to Micah.

Micah shook his head. “I’m good.”

Zander shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He capped the flask and set it down. “Still, you handled yourself like a pro out there. Even with those drones breathing down our necks.”

Micah flexed his fingers, the lingering tremor irritating him. “It wasn’t exactly clean.”

“Clean doesn’t matter down here. Alive does.” Zander’s voice was firm. “And we’re alive, thanks to you.”

Micah didn’t respond. His eyes were fixed on the glowing relic, its crystalline surface pulsating with an otherworldly energy.

Zander studied him for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “You’re thinking about her again, aren't you?”

Micah's jaw tightened. “What makes you say that?”

Zander smirked. “I’ve been around long enough to know that look. The one that says your mind is a thousand miles away—or however far your Raelo is from here.”

Micah's shoulders sagged. He didn't have the energy to deny it. “It’s been over a year,” he admitted quietly. “I just... I hate thinking about her being alone.”

Zander’s gaze softened. “You’re not the only one who knows what it’s like to leave someone behind, you know.”

Micah looked up, his eyes meeting Zander’s.

“Before everything went to hell on my Raelo,” Zander continued, his voice rough, “I had someone too. We were planning to get out, start fresh somewhere. But when the Sky Plague hit, she didn’t make it.” He took a steadying breath. “That’s why I stay here, I guess. There’s nothing left for me out there.”

Micah’s throat tightened. He couldn’t imagine losing Michelle like that. The thought alone was enough to twist his stomach into knots.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

Zander waved it off. “It is what it is. But that’s why I’m telling you—don’t lose sight of what you’re fighting for. You’re not like me, Micah. You’ve got someone waiting for you. And that means you’ve got to keep your head in the game.”

Micah nodded slowly, the weight of Zander’s words settling over him.

“Speaking of which,” Zander said, his tone lighter now, “next time we go on a job, maybe don't piss off the security drones, yeah?”

A faint smile tugged at Micah's lips. “No promises.”

Zander chuckled. “That's the spirit.”

As the laughter faded, Micah's resolve hardened. He was done waiting for the right moment to find a way back home. He'd waited long enough.

“Zander,” he said, his voice steady, “I need to start making a plan. A real one. To get off this Raelo.”

Zander arched a brow. “That sounds ambitious.”

“It has to be,” Micah said firmly. “I can't stay here forever.”

Zander regarded him for a long moment before nodding. “Then let's make it happen.”

Micah's chest swelled with a renewed sense of determination. He wasn't going to let another year slip by. Michelle was waiting for him—and he was going to find his way back to her, no matter what it took.

Zander pulled a chair closer, its legs scraping against the concrete floor. “Alright,” he said, leaning forward with a gleam of interest, “you wanna get off this rock? Let’s break it down.”

Micah dragged his crate closer, resting his elbows on his knees. “I need a ship. One that won't get shot down the second it leaves the atmosphere.”

Zander snorted. “Easier said than done. Most of the ships that come in here are either heavily monitored or belong to syndicates that’d love to shoot us on sight.”

Micah clenched his jaw. “There's got to be a way.”

Zander tapped his fingers on the table, his gaze distant. “There are rumors about a merchant ship that's been slipping past patrols. No one’s sure how they’re doing it, but if we can track them down and figure out their route…”

Micah's eyes sharpened. “Then we have a way out.”

“Maybe. It won't be simple, though. And it sure as hell won't be legal.”

Micah gave a bitter laugh. “When has anything down here ever been legal?”

Zander grinned. “Fair point.” He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “If we’re doing this, we’ve gotta play it smart. That means building up favors, gathering intel, and staying off the radar. You up for that?”

Micah's gaze hardened. “Whatever it takes.”

Zander nodded approvingly. “Good. First thing's first—we need to secure a few key contacts. I've got someone who owes me a favor in the docking bay. He might know more about that merchant ship.”

“When do we meet him?” Micah asked.

Zander grinned. “Tomorrow. But tonight?” He leaned forward, a mischievous glint in his eye. “We drink to making it another year in this lovely slice of paradise.”

Micah smirked despite himself. “I'm not much of a drinker.”

“Then you're doing it wrong,” Zander quipped. “Come on, one toast won't kill you.”

Reluctantly, Micah grabbed the flask Zander slid toward him. They clinked their makeshift cups together.

“To surviving,” Zander said.

“To getting the hell out of here,” Micah added.

They drank, the burn of the alcohol searing down Micah's throat. As the warmth settled in his chest, he allowed himself a rare moment of hope. He had a plan now. And with Zander's help, he was going to make it back to Michelle—no matter what it took.