Nico

 The shooting had stopped.

That was the first thing that scared him.

Not silence—there was no silence anymore. The city still screamed and collapsed and burned—but the pattern was gone. No orders. No volleys. No rhythm. Just noise without meaning.

Nico stood in the middle of a street he didn’t recognize, rifle hanging uselessly from one hand. The smoke was everywhere now, not drifting but settling, thick and yellow and wrong. It clung to the backs of his eyes. It scraped his throat raw every time he tried to breathe.

He coughed. Bent forward. Spit something dark onto the pavement.

“Hello?” he called, and the word died before it reached the next building.

Chicago was on fire.

Not pockets. Not blocks. Whole sections of the city burned like they’d been soaked in something eager. Buildings sagged and folded in on themselves, sending sparks and dust into the air. Somewhere nearby, something exploded with a deep, final sound, like a door slamming shut forever.

Nico started walking.

He told himself he was looking for Elara. Or her soldiers. Or anyone. But really, he was just moving because stopping felt worse.

Every shape in the smoke looked like a person until it wasn’t.

A body slumped against a wall.

A helmet melted into the street.

A hand sticking out from under rubble, fingers curled like it was still trying to grab hold of something.

He stepped around them. Then over one. Then stopped caring which.

His eyes burned. His lungs felt too small. The rifle slipped from his fingers and clattered against the ground. The sound startled him—too loud, too final.

He didn’t pick it back up.

“Hey,” he croaked, voice shredded. “I’m here.”

The city did not answer.

He turned a corner and nearly ran into a wall of flame. Heat punched him back. He staggered, coughing hard enough that his knees buckled. The gas was thicker here. It tasted metallic, bitter, wrong. Every breath felt like it was doing damage.

Nico dropped to one knee.

Just catch your breath, he told himself. Then get up.

He thought about Wesley. About Sil. About Jonah yelling something he hadn’t heard. About Elara riding past like she wasn’t bound by the same rules as the rest of them.

She was gone now. Passed through. The war had moved with her.

Nico hadn’t.

He tried to stand again. Failed. His hands shook too badly. His chest wouldn’t expand the way it was supposed to. Panic surged, but even that burned out fast, smothered by exhaustion.

He sat down in the street.

The pavement was warm beneath him. Almost comforting.

Around him, Chicago burned. Above him, the smoke turned the sky into something bruised and unfamiliar. Somewhere far away, engines roared and men shouted and the world reorganized itself around new lines of power.

Nico pulled his knees to his chest and pressed his face into his arms.

“I tried,” he whispered, to no one.

The gas kept coming.

After a while, the coughing stopped; not because his lungs were better, but because they were tired.

Nico stayed where he was.

And the city erased him.