A Small Cabin – Somewhere Far from the War
It was the first time Lengaza had slept in a real bed in years.
The pillow smelled like cedar and old stories. The air didn't buzz with scanners or drones. Just wind… and a crackling fireplace.
Raya sat at the window, humming. Something from her childhood—something her memories hadn't stolen.
Lengaza stirred.
"What day is it?"
"Thursday," Raya said. "I think."
He looked at her. Her eyes were on the stars.
"You never talk about what they did to you."
"You never ask," she replied, not looking back.
"I'm asking now."
A long pause. She swallowed.
"They erased my hometown. Wiped it clean from every map. Said it was contaminated. My dad used to say our soil had memory. That even after a fire, flowers would remember how to bloom."
"And now?"
She turned, softly.
"Now I don't know if I'm a person or just a weapon that forgot how to hate."
Lengaza stood and walked to her side.
"You're the only reason I still believe I'm human."
And in that quiet—no explosions, no codes, no secrets—they just stood there.
Breathing.
Elsewhere: The Program's Vault
Subject Two opened his eyes.
Slit pupils. Skin like cold iron.
"You remember your directive?" a voice asked.
Subject Two smiled faintly.
"Kill Lengaza. Retrieve Subject Six."
"And if they resist?"
He turned, cracking his neck.
"Then I'll remind them why they buried me in the dark."
Meanwhile: Subject Six
She walked barefoot through a meadow—the world strangely silent around her.
Children stared at her from a distance.
A dog barked, then whimpered and backed away.
She whispered.
"Where are you, Lenz?"
Her hands sparked blue.
The sky shuddered.