The storm had passed, leaving the world washed in gray.
24 and Lumen moved along the old railway tracks that cut through the outskirts of the ruins — a skeletal path leading away from the EGI outpost and deeper into no-man's-land.
Dawn was just a smear of pale light on the horizon. The air smelled of rust and wet earth.
24 walked ahead, his pack slung over one shoulder, blades crossing his back. His steps were steady — precise, economical. Lumen followed a few paces behind, rifle across her chest, mask catching faint glints of morning light.
They hadn't spoken since leaving the tunnels. Both preferred the silence; it felt safer than words.
But after a while, Lumen broke it.
"You never told me where you learned to move like that."
24 didn't turn. "I didn't learn. I was programmed to."
"That doesn't sound like learning to me."
He gave a faint smirk. "It isn't."
They walked a few more minutes before she spoke again.
"Those blades… you make them look lighter than they are."
"They're not light. You just get used to the weight."
"Think you could show me?"
He stopped, finally glancing back. "Show you?"
"How to fight. With the blades."
She stood there, rifle slung behind her, tone calm but serious. "I can shoot. I can set traps. But if they catch me up close, I'm done. I want to learn."
24 studied her. "You think you can keep up with me like this?"
"No," she said plainly. "But I can start."
For a moment, he almost refused. Teaching someone how to kill — he'd sworn off that long ago. But there was something in her voice. Not recklessness. Not pride. Just quiet determination.
He nodded once. "Fine. But you do exactly what I say."
She gave a small tilt of her head — the closest she came to a smile. "Understood."
They stopped in the shell of a half-collapsed warehouse a few miles later. The floor was cracked concrete, open enough for movement. Shafts of daylight cut through holes in the ceiling, dust swirling in the light.
24 unsheathed his short blade and handed it to her hilt-first. "Start with this."
Lumen took it carefully, testing the balance. The blade was heavier than she expected.
"Grip it too tight and your hands will cramp. Too loose and you'll lose it the moment someone hits back."
He stepped behind her, adjusting her stance. His movements were efficient, impersonal — a soldier training another.
"Feet apart. Weight forward. Keep your shoulders low."
She followed, awkward at first, nearly stumbling when she shifted her balance.
"Don't force it," he said. "Blades are about rhythm. You read the movement before it happens."
She tried again. The blade moved clumsily, slicing through air without control.
"Slow down," he said. "Feel the motion before you strike."
They practiced in silence. Each correction was small — a change in footing, an adjustment in grip, a reminder to breathe. After an hour, she was sweating beneath her mask, chest heaving.
"Better," he said finally.
"Better?" she panted. "I almost dropped it twice."
"Then next time, don't."
Despite herself, she laughed — a short, breathless sound that echoed off the walls.
"You're not much of a teacher."
"I'm not much of a student either."
He stepped back, watching as she tried again. Her swings were sharper now. Still rough, but deliberate.
"You learn fast," he admitted.
"I've had to."
She sheathed the blade, turning toward him. "You trained people once, didn't you?"
His eyes darkened. "Not people. Soldiers."
"And now you're training me."
He looked away. "You're different."
"How?"
"You're not doing this because you have to. You're doing it because you choose to."
Lumen was quiet for a long moment. Then she handed him back the blade, careful to meet his gaze through the cracked mask.
"Then maybe there's still a difference between what they built you for… and what you've become."
24 took the blade slowly, sliding it into its sheath. The words lingered longer than he expected.
"Maybe," he said finally. "But the line's thinner than you think."
They packed up before sunset, moving again before the light faded. The road stretched long ahead of them, painted in orange and dust.
As they walked, Lumen said quietly,
"Tomorrow, we train again."
24 nodded. "Tomorrow."
And for the first time in a long time, he didn't mind the weight of the word.