The roar of the waterfall was a constant, thrumming vibration in the soles of their boots, a reminder of the millions of tons of water crashing down miles above their heads. Here in the outskirts, the resulting mist was suffocating, a "soup" so dense that moss grew on the lampposts and the air tasted of wet stone. This outer ring of the city was practically unliveable, a graveyard of water-logged timber and crumbling brick where the moisture rotted everything eventually.
Ruben paused by the skeletal remains of an old textile factory, its windows shattered and gaping like missing teeth.
"We could hole up here," Ruben whispered, eyeing the darkness inside. "It's dry enough on the second floor."
Corbin shook his head immediately, pulling his collar up against the damp. "No good. It's the first place they'll look. Every drifter, junkie, and fugitive heads for the abandoned zones of any spot they end up in. The Paladins will have drones sweeping these parts within the hour. We'd be fish in a barrel."
Ruben let out a breath, watching it plume white in the cold air. He looked past the ruins toward the inner city, where the gaslights glowed warmer and the houses stood tall and well-maintained.
"Then we go in," Ruben said, his voice flat. "We find a house. Someone's home."
Corbin looked at him like he was crazy. "You want to break into an occupied house? With a kid?" He gestured to Oscar, who was clinging to the back of Ruben's jacket. "That's a dumb idea, Ruben. One scream or even a dog sniffing us out and barking, and it's over."
"Not just any house," Ruben corrected, his eyes scanning the architecture of the district ahead. "We find a big one. The older in style ones in the quiet neighbourhoods. The ones without the electric gates but with too many rooms for a small family."
He adjusted his gloves. "We aim for an attic. Or a storm cellar with a latch around the back. People don't go into their attics every night. We can slip in, sleep for a few hours, and be gone before they even wake up to make coffee."
Corbin hesitated, looking at the rows of large, silent houses disappearing into the fog. It was brazen. It was risky. But it was also the last place a tactical team would look for three fugitives. They'd be hunting in the sewers and the slums, not the guest bedroom of a wealthy merchant.
"Attics," Corbin muttered, weighing the odds. "Nobody checks the attic."
He looked back at the miserable, dripping ruins of the outskirts, then nodded.
"Alright," Corbin said. "Lead the way."
They were caught.
The realization hit them not with a bang, or a shout, or the racking slide of a shotgun, but with the soft, deliberate click of a hallway lamp turning on.
Ruben froze mid-step, his boot hovering inches above the polished mahogany floorboards. Corbin, who had been leading the way with a tension that made his shoulders look like coiled springs, snapped his head up, his fists already clenching, the veins in his neck bulging as his Ego, Boost, prepared to spike his adrenaline.
But there was no threat. Only an old man standing at the top of the staircase, looking down at them through the banister with an expression of profound, weary disappointment.
He was tall, with a posture that suggested he had once carried heavy things, though now he simply carried the weight of his years. He wore a heavy wool cardigan over a buttoned shirt, and his hair was a steel-gray sweep that matched the square, wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. His face was a landscape of deep lines and sharp angles, a square jaw, a square forehead, giving him the look of a man built from blocks of granite.
He didn't scream. He didn't reach for a phone. He just took a slow breath, inhaling the damp, foul air the boys had brought in with them.
"I do not like people breaking into my home," the man said. His voice was a low rumble, solemn and devoid of fear. It was the voice of a man who had seen enough of the world to no longer be surprised by its ugliness.
Corbin stepped in front of Ruben and Oscar, his stance wide. "We aren't looking for trouble, old man. Just turn around and go back to bed, and we'll be gone."
The man adjusted his glasses. "You are dripping sewer water on my runner rug. If you leave now, you will simply drip from here to the porch. The damage is done."
He walked down the stairs, his slippers making no sound. He stopped three steps from the bottom, towering slightly over them. "My name is Konrad Bach. I am sixty-two years old, and I have heart palpitations when I am startled. Do not startle me."
Ruben lowered his hand, signalling Corbin to stand down. He recognized the tone. It wasn't the tone of a victim, it was the tone of authority. "We're sorry, Mr. Bach. We needed... shelter."
"Clearly," Konrad said. He looked at the three of them, Ruben, pale and swaying slightly from withdrawal, Corbin, whose aggression was a thin mask for exhaustion; and finally, his gaze landed on Oscar.
The boy was clinging to the back of Ruben's muddy jacket, his face buried in the fabric, shivering so violently that his teeth chattered in the silent hall.
Konrad's expression didn't soften, but the hardness in his eyes receded, replaced by a resigned pragmatism. "There are two guest rooms on the second floor. First door on the left, second door on the left. The linens are clean. Do not ruin them."
Corbin blinked, his combat-ready brain misfiring at the sudden hospitality. "Wait. Why?"
Konrad raised an eyebrow.
"You haven't called the police," Corbin pressed, suspicion narrowing his eyes. "You haven't asked where our parents are. You haven't asked why we look like we just crawled out of a grave. People don't just let strangers in. What do you want in exchange?"
Konrad sighed, a long, heavy exhale through his nose. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and polished a smudge off the banister railing.
"Young man," Konrad said, his voice dry. "The stench of the city's underbelly is rolling off you in waves. You have a child with you who looks as though he hasn't seen a warm meal or a kind face in days. It does not take a detective to deduce that you are not close to your families, and you are certainly not close to anything resembling a home."
He put the handkerchief away and looked Corbin dead in the eye.
"I am offering you a bed because I am tired, and I suspect you are desperate. If I kick you out, you will likely break into my neighbour's house, and Mrs. Barn has a very loud terrier that will keep me awake all night."
He turned and began to walk back up the stairs. "I want no trouble. I want no loud noises. I do not want you touching anything in the hallway. And while you may sleep here tonight, do not mistake this for a sanctuary. I do not know what trouble is following you, but I do not want it knocking on my door for long. You leave in the morning."
Ruben nodded, a wave of relief washing over him so potent it almost made his knees buckle. "Thank you. Seriously."
Konrad waved a hand dismissively without looking back. "First door. Second door. They are both large enough for two, should you feel the need to huddle."
He disappeared into the shadows of the upper landing, the door to his own room clicking shut with a finality that echoed in the hall.
The boys stood in the silence for a moment, the adrenaline fading into a heavy, leaden fatigue.
"He's weird," Corbin muttered, finally relaxing his shoulders. "But I'm not gonna argue with a mattress."
They trudged up the stairs, the wood creaking under their boots. When they reached the landing, they stood before the two guest doors. Both were dark oak, solid and inviting.
Oscar was still gripping Ruben's jacket, his small knuckles white. He hadn't let go since the street. He looked up at Ruben with wide, terrified eyes, clearly unwilling to be separated from the one who had pulled him out of the dark.
Ruben looked down at the kid, then looked up at Corbin.
Corbin looked at the kid, then back at Ruben.
They didn't need to speak. They had been friends long enough that the conversation happened entirely in the micro-expressions of their faces.
One room has a kid who cries and emits rage gas.
One room is empty and quiet.
Ruben held up his fist.
Corbin held up his fist.
Oscar looked between them, confused, sniffing wetly.
On the count of three, synced by a rhythm only they could hear, they threw.
"Three... two... one."
Ruben threw Scissors.
Corbin threw Rock.
Rock crushes Scissors. Corbin won.
"Ughhhhh," Ruben groaned, the sound dragging out of his throat. He let his head thud back against the wall. He lost.
Corbin grinned, a flash of his old self breaking through the grime on his face. He didn't actually mind watching over Oscar, he had a soft spot for the helpless, and the kid looked like he needed a bodyguard, but God, he hated losing. Winning this felt like a small victory in a day full of losses.
"Looks like you're on babysitting duty, Rube," Corbin whispered, clapping Ruben on the shoulder a little too hard. "Don't let the bedbugs bite."
Corbin shoved open the first door and slipped inside, claiming the silence for himself.
Ruben looked down at Oscar. The boy was staring up at him, waiting.
"Alright," Ruben sighed, peeling the kid's hand off his jacket gently. "Come on, kid. Let's get some sleep."
The shower had done its job, scrubbing away the physical layer of the sewers, but the smell of the tunnels, damp rust and decay, seemed to linger in Ruben's nostrils, a scent that soap couldn't reach.
The room Konrad had given them was large, filled with the heavy silence of a house that had been quiet for a very long time. The twin beds were separated by a small nightstand with a doily and a lamp that wasn't turned on.
Ruben lay on his back, staring up at the plaster ceiling, tracing the faint patterns of shadows cast by the gaslights outside. His body felt heavy, sinking into the mattress, but his mind was a live wire. There was a scratching at the back of his throat, a dry, insistent itch, but he forced it down, focusing instead on the small, trembling lump in the bed next to him.
Oscar was curled into a tight ball under the quilt, facing the wall. He was still shivering, a rapid, rhythmic vibration that made the bed frame creak softly every few seconds. He was muttering to himself, a low, frantic stream of nonsense words, like a prayer or a plea to make the world stop spinning.
Ruben turned his head on the pillow, watching the boy's back.
His tactical mind, usually so cold and efficient, began to slot the pieces together. The shipping container in the sewers. Ten beds. Eight bodies, pale and dressed in white, marked with the number nine. Two empty beds.
One was for that guy who had Oscar, Ruben thought, his eyes narrowing in the dark. And the other one was for him.
"Oscar," Ruben whispered.
The muttering stopped instantly. The shivering paused, the boy holding his breath as if hoping Ruben would disappear if he stayed quiet enough.
"Who was that guy? The one in the mask."
Oscar squirmed under the blanket. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, until a small, fragile voice broke it.
"Paul..." Oscar whispered into the wall. "His name is Paul Strahm."
Ruben exhaled slowly. Paul Strahm. A name for the face.
Ruben had a hundred questions burning in his chest. How does your Ego work? Why does he hate the city and the nation? What happened to the other people from the container? He wanted to shake the answers out of the air, to solve the puzzle and move on to figure out what their next move is.
But then he heard Oscar's breath hitch, a sharp, jagged intake of air that sounded like a sob being swallowed whole.
Ruben closed his eyes. He remembered that sound. He remembered making that sound himself, sitting on the edge of his bed in Chicago, trying to be quiet so his dad wouldn't come in trying to show off a different side to himself so that maybe they could form a bond.
He let the interrogation die in his throat. The tactical map faded, replaced by the simple, brutal reality of a child in pain.
"Oscar," Ruben asked, his voice softening, losing its edge. "Did he hurt you?"
The lump under the covers went deathly still.
There was no answer. No movement. Just a terrifying, absolute silence. It was the silence of someone who had learned that making noise only attracted pain.
Ruben propped himself up on one elbow. He could feel the tension radiating off the kid, the sheer effort it was taking for Oscar to hold the dam together.
"You don't have to do that," Ruben said into the dark.
Oscar didn't move.
"You don't have to hold it in," Ruben continued, looking at the boy's small shoulder. "People... people spend their whole lives thinking they have to be quiet. That they have to swallow it all down until it turns to poison. But you don't. Not here."
Ruben lay back down, staring at the ceiling again.
"especially not in private," he murmured. "I'm not going to make fun of you, Oscar. And I'm not going to hit you."
The promise hung in the air. I'm not going to hit you.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a small sound escaped the other bed. A whimper. Then another. The dam cracked.
Oscar turned over, burying his face into his pillow, and the sobs came. They were deep, ugly, wrenching things, the sound of fear and exhaustion finally being allowed to leave the body. He cried with the desperation of someone who hadn't been safe enough to cry in a very long time.
Ruben didn't say anything else. He just lay there in the dark, listening to the boy weep, keeping watch over the grief, he was getting tired of this, it was almost like their short time with Fionn again.
But the difference was they were stuck in Brumailia with another problem they decided to solve.