The knock at the door had been sharp, precise. I hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken. When it opened, I didn’t need to look to know it was Caine.
The silence between us was immediate and heavy, filling the small room like a storm cloud. I heard him step inside, his boots soft against the tiles. His breath hitched, just for a moment. Then nothing.
“Pylot...” he said finally, his voice low, unsteady in a way I’d never heard before.
I didn’t respond. My eyes stayed fixed on the floor, the blood pooling around me like some dark mirror. My hands rested limp at my sides, my stomach still open from where I’d torn at it. The polished metal beneath glinted under the dim light, mocking me.
“Shit,” he muttered, his tone caught somewhere between awe and horror. “That’s... I don’t even—” His words faltered. He crouched beside me, his movements careful, almost hesitant. “What did you do?”
I turned my head slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. The usual fire was gone from his expression, replaced by something I couldn’t quite place. Excitement, maybe. But there was something else, too. Something softer.
“I had to see,” I whispered, my voice hoarse. “Had to know what I am.”
Caine didn’t respond right away. He just stared, his eyes flicking between the torn flesh, the blood, the metal. Finally, he exhaled and sank down beside me, leaning back against the wall.
“You know,” he said quietly, “I’ve seen a lot of messed-up shit in this city. But this... I don’t even know what to say.” He paused, running a hand through his hair. “You’re not okay. And I don’t just mean the wound.”
Caine reached into his jacket, pulling out a small flask. He twisted off the cap, took a long swig, and offered it to me. I didn’t take it.
After a moment, he spoke again. “You know... there was this kid.”
I glanced at him, confused.
“A kid,” he repeated, staring straight ahead now. “Not so long ago, when I was still new to this vigilante hero bullshit I met a kid, ten years old. Lived in the worst part of the city—Dark District. His mom was sick. Real sick. Couldn’t work, couldn’t pay for meds. So the kid started stealing. Little stuff, you know? Watches, comms units, whatever he could grab.”
He paused, his grip tightening on the flask. “I caught him one night. Chased him halfway across the district. Thought I’d scare him straight, put him on the right path.
“What happened?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Caine let out a heavy breath, his shoulders sagging. “He was just a kid trying to survive. So I gave him a few stern words, a couple of credits for some meds and sent him on his way. But he kept showing up. Kept finding me. Stubborn little bastard.” A faint smile tugged at his lips. “We got close. I started looking out for him, doing what I could. Gave him this little device, a visual tracker tuned to Shadowtask’s old comms frequency. Told him to 'push the button' if he ever needed me.”
He paused, his jaw tightening. “I told him, ‘You may see my location, but under no circumstances are you to come to me. Don't ever find me, If you ping me, I’ll find you.’”
"He didn’t listen, did he?” I asked.
Caine shook his head. “No. He didn’t. One night, I was sent to intercept a robbery downtown. Red Dogs. Couple of grunts with firearms, nothing I couldn’t handle. But he... the kid showed up. Used the device to track me. He hid behind some wooden pallets in the street, watching. Amidst the adrenaline of combat, one of the gang members saw the kid in the street. Panicked. Pulled the trigger.”
He swallowed hard, his voice breaking slightly. “I got to him before he hit the ground. But it didn’t matter. He was gone. Just... gone.”
The silence stretched, broken only by the faint hum of the lights above. A single tear rolled down Caine’s cheek, falling onto the tiled floor below. It mixed with the pool of my blood, spreading slowly.
“I gave him that device,” he said quietly. “It was supposed to keep him safe. And I got him killed.”
I didn’t know what to say. The fire in Caine’s eyes was gone, replaced by something raw, unguarded. For the first time, he looked... human. Vulnerable.
His face sank, guilt etched into his features. “Two tickets,” he muttered, his voice heavy with grief. Suddenly, he hurled his flask across the room, the metallic clatter echoing against the walls. “Two fucking food vouchers, man.”
His tears continued to fall as he pressed a hand to his face, trying to compose himself. “Amidst the chaos, I picked him up off the floor,” he said, his voice trembling. “Meanwhile, the two gang members ran. They just... ran.”
Caine inhaled deeply, steadying himself as he stood. He let out a long exhale before continuing, his voice quieter now. “Next to his body were these two little vouchers. ‘Fortune’s Tune – 1 x Shoryu Ramen on us!’” He shook his head, a faint, bittersweet smile tugging at his lips. “The kid had been saving some of the credits I was giving him. Spent it on food vouchers for my favourite ramen spot.”
He paused, his gaze drifting toward the far wall. “I told I’d take him there man. I promised. I was always 'too busy', always putting it off. Fuck...”
His voice broke, “I try not to hold on to regrets,” he said finally, his tone softer, almost resigned. “But not being able to save that kid? That’s one of them.”
I could feel his pain, raw and unrelenting—and it mirrored my own. Together, our own demons gnawed at something deep within us. Suddenly I felt human again, emotions filling up the hollowed out, lifeless, robotic shell I was trapped inside.
“Why are you telling me this?” I asked at last, my voice barely above a whisper.
He turned to me, his expression hard but not unkind. “Because you’re not the only one carrying ghosts. And because... that kid, he made me realize something. This city eats people alive, chews them up then spits them out. Someone’s gotta stop it. Someone’s gotta fight back.”
His voice softened, his expression reassuring as he placed his hand shoulder. “Maybe you’re not who you thought you were. But you’re here. You exist. We all have a purpose, you just have to find yours."
The sound of footsteps broke the moment. Locke appeared in the doorway, his figure silhouetted against the hall’s fluorescent glow. “You okay?” he grumbled, stepping inside. His eyes flicked to the blood, the wound, the metal. His frown deepened.
“What the hell happened?” he asked bluntly.
I hesitated, the weight of my own thoughts holding me in place. Locke crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. “Come on. Clova can fix you up.”
Caine stood, offering me a hand. “He’s right. You don’t have to figure it all out tonight. But you don’t have to do it alone, either.”
I stared at the blood pooling on the floor, the faint glint of metal beneath my torn skin reflecting back at me like a cruel reminder of what I was. Slowly, I reached for Caine’s outstretched hand. Locke stepped forward too, gripping my arm firmly to help me up.
I felt no pain, no physical injury—just a deep, unshakable sense of defeat. Every part of me resisted the effort, the weight of it all pulling me down. I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want to fight. I just wanted to escape this endless nightmare.
Together, we headed to the medi-lab, the echoes of Locke’s boots and Caine’s quiet encouragements filling the halls. And for the first time in what felt like forever, I let myself lean on someone else.
