The sun hadn't risen in days.
Berou didn't mind. The dark suited him now. It wasn't a threat — it was a mirror.
He moved through the hills beyond the wastes, toward the old Abyss outpost they used to call Hollow Point. A dumping ground for broken gear, discarded records, and operatives too wounded to die cleanly. He remembered the layout. He remembered the stench.
And something inside him whispered:
Go back.
Begin where they think you ended.
He wasn't hunting vengeance.
He was hunting clarity.
Hollow Point hadn't changed. The gates still hung half-rusted, the perimeter wards flickering uselessly. No guard rotation. No discipline. Just ghosts and the stink of institutional rot.
But someone was inside.
Berou stepped through the ruins like he belonged there. His wings tucked, footsteps quiet, presence thin as mist. The moment he reached the main hall, he heard it — breath. Low. Steady. Too calm to be random.
He turned the corner.
A figure stood among the shattered benches. Armor black, polished. One wing missing. Sword sheathed but ready. The face was hidden behind a visor, but the voice betrayed no uncertainty.
"You're not supposed to be here, 9-74."
Berou didn't stop walking. "No one is."
The figure cocked their head. "You really came back? After what you did? You murdered seven units."
"They were never people to you. Only tools."
"You were a tool, too."
"No," Berou said. "I was a weapon. You just forgot which direction I was pointed."
Silence. Tension like string drawn too tight.
Then the figure removed their helmet.
Berou's eyes narrowed.
It was Kareth. An old unit captain. Efficient. Cold. He used to oversee the rookies' punishments — the ones who spoke too loud, cried too long, or tried to run.
Berou remembered Kareth's boots more than his face.
"You look like hell," Kareth said, expression unreadable.
"I've been there," Berou replied, "but I didn't stay."
In a blink, Kareth moved. Blade drawn. Fast.
Berou dodged left, caught the strike on his forearm, slid back across the dust-stained floor.
"I'm not here to fight you," Berou muttered.
"Then why are you here?"
"To see if anything worth saving still breathes in the dirt."
Kareth scoffed. "And? What's the answer?"
Berou's gaze sharpened. His fingers flexed.
And something under his skin responded.
A flicker of black armor shimmered across his shoulder — brief, unbidden. His blood thrummed.
"The answer," Berou said, "is no."
The second strike was his.
Fast. Clean. Too fast.
Kareth barely raised his blade before Berou was inside his guard — fist crashing against ribs, boot sweeping him into the wall. Dust exploded outward. Kareth groaned but didn't fall.
"You've changed," he hissed.
"No," Berou said. "I've remembered."
Another surge. His arm half-covered in shifting armor now. The Apostate was closer. Hungrier.
Kareth lunged again. Berou caught the sword between both palms, twisted, snapped it in half like a twig. In one motion, he slammed Kareth to the ground and pressed his hand to his throat.
"I came here hoping you'd beg," Berou said quietly.
"I don't beg."
"Then bleed."
But he didn't kill him.
He stood. Turned. Left Kareth gasping on the floor, humiliated but alive.
"You tell them," Berou said over his shoulder. "Tell them I'm walking toward the pit. Tell them I'm not hiding. Tell them their mistake has found its name."
Kareth coughed, blood in his mouth. "What name?"
Berou didn't answer.
He spread his two wings. Felt the absence of the other two like phantom limbs — not wounds, but promises.
He vanished into the dark.
And behind him, the ruins of Hollow Point seemed smaller.
Colder.
Like something had passed through it that would never leave it whole again.