The night broke before dawn could catch it. Smoke clung to the skyline, the Grid’s skeleton glowing in slow, dying pulses. Cain and the others stood on the deck of a derelict transport, the hull groaning beneath the weight of ash. The city below still breathed—but it was uneven, gasping through broken circuits and burned orders. Susan pressed a hand against her ribs, her breaths shallow. "We didn’t just cut their network," she said, eyes tracking the ghost-lights of patrol drones falling into the sea. "We cut their spine." Roselle checked her pistol, silent. Her gaze swept the horizon like she expected the dawn to shoot back. Steve sat slouched by the ship’s terminal, his fingers blackened with grease. "Spine’s one thing," he muttered. "But parasites crawl even without a head." Hunter watched the smoke rise from the distant towers. His expression had none of the satisfaction the others shared—only calculation. "Daelmonts will rebuild. They always do. The question is—what happens before they get the chance?" Cain turned from the railing. His coat was torn, the blade across his back dim with grime. "Then we decide before they do." The wind howled through the broken rigging, making the whole ship tremble. Roselle stepped forward, her voice hard enough to cut through the noise. "We’ve been reacting. Always one strike behind, one deal short. I say we end that." Hunter frowned. "By doing what? Declaring war on what’s left of the council? On everyone who’s still pretending to hold this together?" Roselle’s answer was simple. "Exactly." Cain said nothing. His thoughts traced the weight of her words. A war in name was one thing—but what they were standing in now wasn’t war. It was collapse. And collapse didn’t stop until someone built something heavier to hold it down. He stepped toward the terminal, the screen flickering with half-dead feeds. "The leaks won’t stop," Steve said. "You pulled too deep. The whole network’s bleeding. Every secret out there, every hidden link—it’s all surfacing." "Good," Cain said quietly. "Truth doesn’t kill people. What they do with it does." Susan scoffed. "That’s rich, coming from the man who’s made a career out of cutting people for answers." Cain didn’t flinch. "Truth hurts. But it makes sure no one sleeps easy. That’s the only balance we have left." The sky cracked with the low growl of thunder. The storm was circling back, drawn to the heat of the burning towers. Hunter turned to him. "You’re not talking about rebuilding, are you? You’re talking about burning the rest." Cain met his stare, his voice flat. "Rebuilding requires a foundation. This one’s rotten." For a moment, the only sound was the sea clawing at the metal hull. Then Roselle spoke, softer now, but certain. "Then we burn it clean." Steve looked up from the terminal. "If we’re serious about that, we’ll need more than rage. We’ll need to know where the money runs after this. The Daelmonts had partners. Backers. Shadow consortiums tied to the outer banks. If we hit those, we stop the next empire before it breathes." Cain nodded once. "Then find them." Susan straightened, pulling her rifle strap tight. "And when we do?" "We take the hands that built the system," Cain said. "And make sure they never touch it again." The deck creaked under their boots as the ship began to drift with the tide. The horizon was a deep bruise of smoke and light. Above it, the faint echo of the Grid’s last hum stuttered and died. Roselle holstered her weapon and glanced toward Cain. "You know what comes next." He looked out across the dying city. "They’ll come for us." Hunter smirked faintly. "They always do." Cain adjusted his coat and drew his blade. "Then we stop running." The ship turned with the current, carrying them toward the mouth of the river—the only path left open. Behind them, the city burned without mercy, and ahead, the unknown waited, ready to take what was left of their resolve and measure it in blood. The ship drifted farther down the river, its rusted hull grinding against floating debris and the bones of the city’s wreckage. The storm had pulled away, but the sky still carried its bruise—thick clouds rolling with the faint shimmer of lightning somewhere beyond the horizon. Cain stood near the bow, his coat snapping in the wind. His reflection rippled across the black water, fractured by the passing current. Behind him, Roselle and Steve worked in silence, prying open the compartment that held what was left of their supplies. Bullets. Two sealed ration packs. A cracked comm drive that hissed static when powered. It wasn’t enough, and they all knew it. Hunter leaned against the mast, head bowed. His hands trembled slightly—an echo of nerves that his calm tone tried to hide. "You think they’ll regroup that fast?" he asked. Roselle didn’t look up. "They don’t have to. The Daelmonts built layers. Every piece of the Grid they owned still breathes through something else." Susan, sitting on a crate with her rifle propped between her knees, spat into the river. "Then we choke it. No mercy this time." Cain turned toward her. "Mercy isn’t the problem. Time is." Steve swore under his breath as a spark burst from the terminal. "If we keep following the river, we’ll hit the outpost near the dry docks by morning. Assuming it hasn’t been swallowed yet." Thɪs chapter is updatᴇd by 𝓷𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓵·𝓯𝓲𝓻𝓮·𝓷𝓮𝓽 "Outpost means people," Susan said, standing. "And people mean rumors." Hunter lifted his gaze, the faint ghost of a smile touching his mouth. "Maybe even allies. Though that word’s gotten expensive lately." Cain didn’t answer. His focus stayed on the skyline behind them—the glowing wreck of the city that had once been the Daelmonts’ empire. Even from this distance, he could see new lights flicker in the ruins. Someone was already rebuilding, already laying cables into the carcass of what they’d just destroyed. Roselle caught the same sight. "They’re fast." "They’re desperate," Cain corrected. "And desperate people don’t stop."