But the threads of light—those red strands that only I can see—they guide me. I feel where the next bullet will fly. I pivot. Smooth. Natural. My body moves as if I’m pulled by a wind only I can sense.
A choke. A scream, low and broken. Another shot follows. Then curses. The threads twist my leg to the right, pulling my torso with it, letting me move with a strange grace—like a dancer on the edge of the wind.
But the gulping doesn’t stop.
And something inside me does.
In the corner of my vision, I see him—Christopher. A hole torn through his throat, hands trembling as they reach for me. His body sinks halfway into the waste.
His mouth moves. Wet and slow.
It’s small. Weak. But it’s real.
My ear starts to ring. Then ache. I touch it. My hand comes back red.
I’ve known him for two, maybe three days. But he was kind. Quick to laugh. Quicker to fight. Still full of life—just minutes ago.
His fingers slip from his gun. The revolver falls into the sewer water. His body follows.
Jimmy and Caroline lunge toward him, their silhouettes barely visible in the flickering blue lamplight cast by the enemy. I watch my own shadow grow larger behind them.
He probably was a better man than I ever was or ever will be.
My cheeks are long dried from salt.
Only red awaits me. When I die, I’ll go to hell. But I will not go alone.
I hold my half-torn ear, feeling the pain spread. I scream—but no sound. Just a breath stretched too long. My feet touch the water—lightly. Just enough to balance before I pivot.
Three faint lights glow at the end of the tunnel—orange dots against the dark. The blues. Their skin blurs in my vision—bluish, but in my eyes, it’s purple. Dull. Dying.
My fingers rake across the first one’s forearm. He gasps as his grip on the revolver breaks.
The second—I drive a kick straight into his gut. He buckles forward, breathless, gasping like my brother did before he died. I drive two more punches into his throat, hard and clean.
The last—I duck under his swing, weave right. My shoulder brushes the wall as I pivot and spring off it, slamming my foot into his wrist. His gun flies free just as he fires. The bullet clips my calf—sharp, hot—but not deep.
“Eos! Christopher!” Caroline screams behind me.
Her voice is shaking. She’s bigger than most women, broad in the shoulders, and Christopher’s sister. Her hands are stained from shit, her arms streaked with bruises and ash. She’s sobbing.
“He’s not to be saved,” I say. My voice is colder than I intend it to be.
They see me as a god.
Eos. Dawn. The first light after long darkness. The red hope.
But I cannot raise the dead.
I can heal. Mend wounds. Slow blood. But I cannot call back what’s already gone.
My teeth clench. My fists tighten. I turn away.
“More are coming,” I say flatly.
I see the glows of our own—the red pulses that linger just beneath the skin. Jimmy. Caroline. Gene. Myself.
Further off, near the bend—Cham. Sixteen years old, and too bright-eyed for this world. Like those of my brother.
Three more of us still stand.
Which means more have died.
Beyond the walls—shadows. Five more blues. And farther... green.
More bullets. Louder this time. Sharp. Like a slap straight into my eardrums.
How the hell didn’t I wake up before?
So it really must have been a—
My thoughts snap in half as pain pierces through my skull.
My eyes flicker. My stomach churns.