The rain came without warning—violent, slapping the metal roofs and grimy glass like it had something to prove. The sky above the C-lass district boiled with black clouds, veins of lightning splitting it apart in flashes that reflected across the waterlogged streets.
Crick tugged his coat closer, arms wrapped tightly around a soaked paper bag that threatened to fall apart with each step. "Storm came outta nowhere," he muttered, voice shivering.
Lucien didn't respond. His eyes were ahead—fixated, hollow, focused on nothing. His coat was drenched, his feet soaked in puddles. One hand tightened around the strap of the bag on his back. The other? It kept brushing against his pocket. Feeling. Checking.
The pocketwatch was still there.
Their boots splashed through the last corner of mud that marked the alley to their hideout. A turn, then the broken neon sign, flickering dimly.
But something was wrong.
Smoke.
Lucien stopped in his tracks. Crick bumped into him and froze too. The scent hit them both a second later—burnt cloth, scorched flesh, melting synthetic.
"No…" Crick whispered.
They broke into a run. A single lightning bolt cracked above, illuminating the alley like the glare of some angry god. The door was gone—blasted off its hinges. The walls were blackened, the shelter inside barely more than a skeleton. Rain poured through the broken ceiling, hissing against the embers. The fire had died, but the ruin remained.
Lucien stood still as Crick ran in.
"Hey—HEY! Anyone! Zira! Sann! Tobo!" Crick screamed, voice echoing through the broken ribs of their home. He stumbled over fallen debris, slipped on ashes, and collapsed beside a charred body.
Lucien walked in behind him. One step. Then another.
The air inside was heavy. Too heavy.
Crick sobbed beside the body of a boy no older than himself. "He was just twelve…"
Lucien didn't speak.
Then he saw Zivah.
She was curled in the far corner, shivering beneath a pile of what remained of the emergency blankets. Her white hair clung to her scalp, and her yellow eyes stared into nothing. Her mark pulsed faintly. Her voice was a whisper: "They came. I hid."
Lucien knelt slowly beside her, pushing a burnt support beam aside. "Who?"
She shook her head. "I don't… I didn't see. It was too fast. They were… quiet."
Crick turned away from the bodies, his voice hoarse. "They killed everyone. Why? Why would anyone do this?"
Zivah sobbed. "I don't know. I don't know."
Lucien stood. Then sat. Then stood again.
He walked in circles. Then stopped, his hands trembling. His eyes darted from the burnt floor to the smoke-stained walls. His breath grew faster.
"What the hell is this?" he whispered. "What… what the hell is going on?"
Crick looked up. "Lucien?"
Lucien backed into the wall, sliding down until he sat in the rubble. "Who? Who did this? And why? Was it me? Was it you?" He gestured at no one, arms shaking. "What do they want?"
The rain fell harder. Drops smacked through the shattered ceiling like nails.
Lucien gripped his head. "What if they come for me next? For Crick? For Zivah? I'm supposed to be the one who keeps people safe! I'm the older one, I'm the one with the stupid Nano they said would awaken, I'm the one with this… this watch and this name and this confusion and this nothing!"
He threw the bag aside and pulled the watch from his pocket. It clicked faintly as he opened it. Inside, a photo. A blur of a smiling boy beside a woman—neither of whom Lucien remembered.
"I don't even know who I am…" he said.
Crick approached slowly. "Lucien—"
"I can't even fight," Lucien interrupted, his voice rising. "I can't hold a weapon. I get tired after walking five blocks. I've never even punched anyone, and I'm supposed to be the protector? I'm a fraud! I can't even kill a fly, Crick. A fly!"
His voice cracked.
"I keep pretending I'm this… hero. Like all those fantasy books. But I'm not. I'm scared, and I'm useless, and I don't know what to do. What am I supposed to do now?"
Zivah turned her head. Her voice came like a ghost. "Live."
Lucien looked at her.
"Live," she said again, louder. "Because they died. And we didn't."
Crick sat beside Lucien. "You're scared. I'm scared too. But you're not useless. You're still here. You're still breathing. And they're not."
Silence settled like dust.
Lucien pressed the watch closed and tucked it away. He rubbed his face, wiping ash and rain from his cheeks.
"I don't want to lose anyone else, I'll become a walker" he whispered.
"Then do so, and don't worry I'm rank 9 myself if anything happens I'll protect us" Crick replied.
The three of them sat there, surrounded by death and ruin. The storm outside began to ease. The rain softened into mist. The thunder rolled away into distant skies.
But inside Lucien, the storm was just beginning.
The forest stretched wide and tangled, an unruly sprawl of ironwood trees and rust-colored vines. Even under daylight, it bore the temperament of twilight. Crick pushed aside a branch, letting it whip back behind him. Lucien followed, his boots crunching dead leaves, his coat damp with morning dew.
"Here," Crick said, finally stopping beneath a half-broken statue, now consumed by moss and time. It was a forgotten place—one of the many silent corners that littered the outskirts of Grey's C-lass district. It was perfect.
Lucien leaned against a crooked tree, arms folded. "So? What now?"
Crick pulled out a wrinkled sketchpad and dropped to his knees, flattening it across a tree stump. "Now," he said, grinning slightly, "we plan the greatest theft of the decade."
Lucien raised an eyebrow.
"I'm serious," Crick replied. "I asked around. If we want Trigger, we have three choices. First—get it from a house. That means pledging loyalty, giving them your blood signature, and becoming their dog." He spat. "We both know that's not happening."
Lucien nodded.
"Second option: buy it. Easy, if you've got a hundred Kinn lying around."
Lucien snorted. "Do I look like I've got a single Sinn to my name?"
Crick grinned wider. "Exactly. So that leaves door number three." He looked up. "We steal it."
Lucien didn't laugh. Instead, he stepped closer, eyes narrowing over the sketchpad. "You actually have a plan?"
"I've had one since the day I started working at the factory," Crick said, pulling a charcoal pencil from behind his ear. "The Trigger Storage Vault is in the lower wing. It's guarded, sure—but only by shifts of two, max. They don't expect commoners to try anything. They rely on the intimidation factor."
Lucien leaned in. "When's the shift change?"
"Every eight hours. There's a twenty-minute window when one pair swaps with the next."
"And cameras?"
"Just one. Top corner. But the feed loops every thirty seconds. Easy to time."
Lucien crossed his arms. "That still leaves the locks."
Crick smirked. "That's where you come in."
Lucien blinked. "Me?"
"Yeah. I've seen the way you move. You're faster than you think. I'll cause a diversion—maybe short a circuit near the coolant tanks. You sneak in during the blackout. You're in and out before they know anything's gone."
Lucien paused. "That's a suicide mission."
"No, it's a desperate mission," Crick said. "Which is what we are. Desperate."
Silence settled between the trees, broken only by the wind whispering through leaves and the distant clang of factory hammers echoing from far off.
Lucien finally said, "And if we're caught?"
Crick didn't answer for a moment. Then, "We won't be."
Lucien studied him. The boy's eyes were still too young, too hopeful. But behind them was something sharper—steel forged through ash and grief.
"And once we get the Trigger?" Lucien asked.
"You consume it. You awaken. You start walking your channel, for real this time. No more hiding in broken shelters or licking crumbs."
Lucien nodded slowly. He looked up at the sliver of sky above the treetops. Somewhere out there, in the shadows of towers and temples, men in golden robes whispered about who lived and who died. Somewhere, someone burned their home down. Somewhere, people played games with their lives.
But not here.
Not anymore.
He looked back at Crick and said, "Fine. Let's do it."
Crick beamed. Then paused. He cleared his throat, awkwardly.
"I, uh… I've been thinking," he said.
Lucien raised an eyebrow.
Crick's cheeks colored. "From now on… I'm calling you Senior Brother."
Lucien blinked.
"What?"
"It's respect," Crick muttered, glancing away. "I mean, you're older. Smarter. Cooler. You've been through a lot. And you're not just looking out for yourself. You're looking out for me too."
Lucien stared at him for a long moment, then laughed—softly, like the rustle of wind.
"Alright, Junior Brother," he said. "But you're the one doing the hard work."
Crick stood tall, saluted dramatically. "For the Brotherhood of Thieves."
Lucien shook his head, but couldn't hide the grin tugging at his lips. In the heart of the woods, among rot and shadow, the first spark of purpose flickered to life.
Not justice. Not revenge.
But something.
And sometimes, that's enough to begin a rebellion.