The plunge was a gut-wrenching freefall, a cacophony of twisting metal and Meher’s own choked cry. Air rushed past her, acrid and heavy with the stench of raw Jiva-sap and something else, something metallic and sharp. She hit hard, the impact jarring her teeth, driving an ache through her vertebrae. The Iron Wasp, her precious engine, had cushioned the worst of it, crumpled around them like a discarded toy. Darkness pressed in, absolute and suffocating. Dust motes, thick with caustic particles, danced in the anemic glow of her helmet’s emergency lights. “Kian!” She fought for purchase on the uneven ground, her hand scrabbling for him in the gloom. The air burned her throat. She toggled her helmet’s atmospheric filters to max, the whine of the tiny scrubbers barely audible over her own ragged breathing. Her lights found him, slumped against a mangled section of the Wasp’s chassis, his face pale beneath the grime. The dark stain on his arm had spread, glistening wetly, and the air around it shimmered with corrosive vapor. Xylo-acid. Samira’s poison. He coughed, a wet, rattling sound. “Forget… filters. Won’t last. Need… higher ground.” His voice was raw, his eyes, even in the dim light, held a flicker of pain he usually hid so well. “This level… the discharge vents from the lower conduits. Pure, undiluted Jiva-effluent.” “You’re bleeding,” Meher snapped, already ripping open her utility pouch. “And that acid… it’s still active.” Her hands, despite the throbbing pain of her own burns, moved with practiced speed. She pulled out a small, pressurized vial of neutralizer paste and a spool of bioluminescent gauze. “Hold still.” He winced as she peeled back the charred fabric of his suit. The skin beneath was a mottled landscape of angry red and sickly yellow, blistering already. His muscles, usually taut and defined, seemed to shiver. Her stomach twisted. This was worse than she thought. She slathered the thick paste over the wound, feeling the acid hiss and neutralize, a tiny cloud of steam rising from the treated area. Kian sucked in air through his teeth, but he didn’t pull away. “You… you knew about these levels?” Meher asked, her voice tight, as she wrapped the gauze, the faint glow illuminating his grim features. “Why didn’t you say anything?” “Ardeshir’s orders,” Kian rasped, flexing his palm, testing the bandaging. “Security protocols. Uncharted. Supposedly. Now… we need to move. That acid… it attracted something.” Meher ignored the chill that went through her, focusing on his words. He was right. The air was growing heavier, the distant thrumming of the lower city’s machinery replaced by an unsettling silence, broken only by the drip of unseen liquids. She finished securing the dressing, her skin brushing against his wrist. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through him. Her mechanic’s instinct, honed by years of diagnosing dying engines by feel, kicked in. She reached for his other arm, finding his pulse, her brow furrowing. It was irregular, a frantic fluttering interspersed with slow, heavy beats. “What is this?” Her voice was barely a whisper. She pulled back the cuff of his gauntlet, revealing not just the pristine skin of his uninjured arm, but also a small, metallic patch embedded just above his wrist, glowing with a faint, erratic blue light. Beneath it, she could see a faint, crystalline lattice, like frost spreading under the skin, pulsing in time with his erratic heart. A bio-patch. And the crystallization… it was identical to Tariq’s. But worse. Far more advanced. This was why his heart was failing. This was why he’d been so careful, so restrained, in the arena. He was dying. Kian’s gaze was fixed on hers, his expression unreadable. “A legacy,” he said, his voice stripped bare. “Like your brother. Only… I’ve had it longer.” Meher felt the world tilt. All the times he’d seemed to brace himself, all the moments she’d seen a flash of profound weariness in his eyes, it wasn’t just the burden of his duties. It was this. This slow, internal corrosion. He was living on borrowed time, just like Tariq. The ferocity she usually reserved for her brother, for herself, for the bio-grid, now coalesced around Kian. A shared vulnerability, stark and undeniable, hung between them in the suffocating darkness. Her grip, still resting on his wrist, tightened. She could feel the faint tremor of his failing heart, the cold bite of the crystallization. Her eyes, wide and disbelieving, searched his. He didn’t look away. The silence stretched, thick with unvoiced questions, with a burgeoning understanding that threatened to drown out the roar of her own fury. She leaned closer, drawn by an invisible current, by the raw honesty in his gaze. His breath, warm and shallow, ghosted across her lips. The smell of ozone and his own unique scent, metallic and clean, filled her senses. “You fight like a storm,” Kian murmured, his voice a low rumble, his good hand rising, hesitant, to cup her cheek. His thumb brushed the grime from her skin, a feather-light touch. “For Tariq, for yourself… but you never let anyone fight for *you*.” His eyes held hers, a deep, unsettling clarity. “I’ve never seen anyone bleed so much, yet refuse every hand offered.” His words, so simple, so direct, struck her with the force of a physical blow. Her fierce, prickly pride, the very armor she wore, suddenly felt brittle, inadequate. In this dark, toxic place, with the truth of his own failing heart laid bare, his understanding was a revelation. She leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed for a fraction of a second, the raw emotion in her chest threatening to overwhelm her. The proximity was intoxicating, dangerous. Her own battered ribs throbbed against an erratic pulse, spurred by something far deeper than exertion. He was so close. The air between them crackled with an almost painful intensity. She could feel the warmth of his hand, the rough pads of his calloused fingers. His lips parted, a silent invitation, and she found herself leaning in, drawn by an irresistible magnetic pull. Just as their breaths mingled, just as the last fraction of an inch closed between them— A guttural roar ripped through the darkness. The ground vibrated, sending fine dust showering from the unseen ceiling. A massive shadow detached itself from the gloom, its hide slick with Jiva-effluent, its multiple eyes glowing with malevolent green light. A mutated Leviathan spawn, larger than any she’d seen in the lower levels, its maw distended, revealing rows of needle-sharp teeth dripping with caustic fluid. It lunged. Meher’s and Kian’s heads snapped up, their moment shattered. Kian shoved her back with his good arm, pulling a short, heavy blade from a sheath on his thigh. The creature was upon them, its foul breath washing over them, reeking of decay and Jiva-sap. Its claws, long as her forearm, slashed at the air, tearing through the metal wreckage of the Wasp with terrifying ease. Just as its head dipped, jaws agape, to devour them whole, a series of high-pitched whines cut through the air. The ceiling above them exploded inwards, sending down a rain of debris and a harsh, blinding floodlight. Heavily armed figures rappelled down, their rifles spitting fire, their armor emblazoned with the unmistakable crest of the Ghaffar family.

Scars in the Dark