The 6 Train was a rattling metal tube of exhausted humanity.
It was 2:00 AM. The car was half-empty. A man slept across three seats, hugging a backpack. A pair of night-shift nurses whispered in Spanish near the doors.
Dante sat rigid on the orange plastic bench. He wasn't looking at anyone. He was staring at the advertisement on the opposite wall—a smiling lawyer promising Injury Compensation.
"Stop staring," Nova whispered. She was sitting next to him, her shoulder pressing against his arm. She had wiped the worst of the vent dust from her face, but she still looked like a wreck. "You're drawing attention."
Dante didn't blink.
"The pixel density is wrong," Dante said. His voice was flat. Mechanical.
"What?"
"The lawyer's face," Dante said. "The resolution is fluctuating. 1080p to 480p. It's... inefficient."
Nova looked at the ad. It was a cheap paper poster. It didn't have pixels.
"Dante," Nova said, her stomach tightening. "It's paper. It's not a screen."
Dante turned his head to look at her.
The movement was jerky. Like a video buffering.
"Paper," Dante repeated. He blinked. When his eyes opened, the pupils were different sizes. The left was a pinprick; the right was blown wide, swallowing the iris. "Organic substrate. Flammable."
He twitched. His broken hand, resting on his knee, spasmed violently, the fingers drumming a chaotic rhythm against the denim.
"The drug," Nova realized. She grabbed his shaking hand, covering it with hers. His skin was burning up. "Doc said it was dirty."
"System latency increasing," Dante murmured. He wasn't talking to her anymore. He was talking to the dashboard inside his head. "Rerouting power to motor cortex. Warning. Packet loss detected."
"Hey," Nova hissed, shaking his arm. "Stay with me. We have three stops to the Bronx. Do not crash on me here."
Dante looked at the sleeping man down the car.
"Target identified," Dante said. "Threat level: Unknown. He is carrying a package."
"He's sleeping!" Nova whispered furiously. "He's a construction worker. That's his lunch."
Dante started to stand up. "Standard protocol. Neutralize potential threats in the perimeter."
"No!" Nova shoved him back down.
It shouldn't have worked. Dante was strong enough to bend steel door latches. But he crumbled under her push, his coordination gone. He slumped back against the plastic seat, his head lolling.
"Arvin?" Nova asked, hopeful.
"Arvin is... offline," Dante slurred. "The driver is... locked out. I am... I am steering through static."
He grabbed his head with his good hand. A groan escaped his throat—a sound of pure, digital agony.
The nurses looked over. One of them frowned, leaning forward.
"Is he okay?" the nurse called out. "Does he need help?"
Nova's heart hammered against her ribs. If they checked him—if they saw the eyes, the bruises, the gun she knew was tucked in his waistband—it was over.
"He's fine!" Nova said, forcing a tired, apologetic smile. "Just... too much to drink. You know? Bad night."
The nurse hesitated, then nodded sympathetically. "Keep him hydrated, honey."
Nova turned back to Dante. He was vibrating now, a low-frequency tremor running through his entire body.
"Listen to me," Nova whispered into his ear. "You are the Wolf. You don't break. You survive. Hold it together for ten minutes."
Dante turned to her. The blown pupil was trembling.
"The Wolf is blind," Dante whispered. There was genuine fear in the voice. Not Arvin's fear. Dante's fear. "The input feed is corrupted. Nova... I can't see the exit."
"I can," Nova said. "I'm the eyes now."
The train screeched as it hit a curve. The lights flickered.
For a second, Dante saw something that wasn't there.
The subway car dissolved. The walls weren't metal; they were red, wet meat. The sleeping man wasn't a man; he was a pile of limbs.
"Let me out," a voice roared from the static. Not Dante. Not Arvin. "The door is melting! Let me play!"
Dante slammed his eyes shut. He grabbed Nova's jacket, burying his face in her shoulder to block out the hallucination.
"Guide me," Dante gasped into the fabric of her coat. "I am... combat ineffective. Guide me."
Nova froze. The lethal, arrogant monster who had left a man to die an hour ago was now clinging to her like a terrified child.
She put her arm around him. She felt the heat radiating off him, the way his muscles were locked in a tetanus-like rigor.
"Next stop," Nova whispered, stroking the back of his head. "Hunts Point. We get off. We walk. Just breathe."
The train slowed. The doors chimed.
"Stand up," Nova commanded.
Dante stood. He swayed, his balance shot. Nova wedged her body under his arm, taking his weight.
"Walk," she said.
They stumbled out of the car onto the elevated platform. The cold night air hit them.
Dante dry heaved, doubling over near a trash can. He spat out bile that glowed faintly green in the moonlight.
"Error," Dante wiped his mouth. "Purge complete."
He looked up. His eyes were focusing again, but he looked drained. Hollowed out.
"The Bronx," Dante rasped. "Sector 4."
"Yeah," Nova said, adjusting her grip on him. "We're here. Where is the house?"
Dante pointed a shaking finger toward a row of dilapidated brick tenements looming over the expressway.
"The basement," Dante said. "Unit 1B. It has... reinforced doors."
He looked at Nova. The arrogance was gone. He looked at her with a strange, intense clarity.
"You took the wheel," Dante said.
"Someone had to," Nova said. "Come on. Before you glitch again."
She dragged him toward the stairs.
Behind them, the train rattled away into the dark.
And in the puddle of neon-green bile Dante had spat onto the concrete, something fizzed and hissed, burning a small hole into the stone.