"We can't just wait here, Eli," Kael snapped, his voice cracking like dry kindling. "The Syndicate is closing the perimeter. If we don’t move now, we’re buried."

Elias reached across the table, his hand gripping Kael’s forearm—a solid, grounding weight. "The deal was always the same, Kael. You get the future. I get the memories. That’s how we survive."

"You always do this," Kael whispered, sliding into the chair opposite him. "You carry the whole world so I don't have to feel the weight. But look at you, Eli. You’re breaking."

Elias didn’t look up. "If we move now, we’re seen. If we’re seen, we’re dead. Sit down, Kael. Brother up."

Outside, the first black SUVs rolled onto the gravel. The rain continued to hammer, but inside the safehouse, the air went still. They didn't need a plan; they needed the promise.

"Let me hold some of it," Kael urged. "Whatever happens when that door kicks in... don't go out first. Don't be the hero this time. Just be my brother."

The rain didn’t just fall in the Outer Rim; it hammered, a relentless rhythmic drumming against the corrugated metal of the safehouse. Inside, the air tasted of ozone and stale coffee. Elias sat at the scarred wooden table, his hands steady as he cleaned a service pistol that had seen too many wars.

Across from him, Kael was pacing. Kael was the younger of the two—not by blood, but by the scars they both carried from the Siege of Oakhaven. Kael was the fire to Elias’s cold iron, and right now, the fire was spiraling.