Rogue helps me to my feet, steadies me when my legs wobble. “Come on. Let’s get you somewhere you can rest.”
We leave the room, move back down the hallway. The music is quieter now. The doors we pass are closed.
We step out into the night. The city is cold, dark, mostly empty. But the air is cleaner than the Rot, no surprise there. Sharper. Real. We walk a few blocks in silence. My knee aches, but I keep pace.
Then Sting stops in front of a building. Taller than the club. Windows mostly intact. A door with a faded sign I can’t read.
“Here,” he says.
We go inside.
The lobby is gutted, old furniture pushed against walls, floors cracked but swept clean. Stairs ahead of us.
Armen takes my hand. “Third floor.”
We climb. My knee protests every step, but I don’t complain.
The third floor has a single door at the end of the hall. Rogue pulls a key from his pocket, unlocks it.
Inside is a room. Small but intact. A bed, real bed, not just blankets on the floor. A window with actual glass. A chair. A table with a lantern already burning.
“This is yours,” Armen says. “Ours. When we need to be outside.”
I step inside slowly, looking around. “How long have you had this?”
“Long enough.”
I turn to face them. “Why bring me here now?”
The three of them exchange a glance.
Then Sting speaks. “Because tomorrow, someone’s coming to meet us. Someone who knew your father.”
My breath catches. “What?”
“The older woman, the one who approached you in the hub, she reached out. Said she has something to show you. Something your father left behind.”
My heart pounds. “You said I couldn’t?—”
“We said you couldn’t dig alone,” Rogue interrupts. “We didn’t say we wouldn’t help.”
I stare at them, processing. “You’re going to help me find the truth?”
“We’re going to help you decide if the truth is worth dying for,” Armen corrects. “Tomorrow, you’ll see what she has. Then you’ll choose.”
My throat tightens. “And if I choose to keep digging?”
“Then we dig with you,” Sting says. “But you don’t do it alone. Not anymore.”
I exhale shakily, sit on the edge of the bed.
They’re helping me.
After weeks of telling me to let it go, to stop asking, to forget?—
They’re helping.
“Why?” I whisper.
