The streets of New Haven were dull—just as dull as they'd always been. The sky hung grimy, a shade of black smeared over the city, the world ugly. Even more so through her eyes.
Dahlia turned a corner, colliding with a stranger. The impact knocked her off balance, sending her stumbling to the ground.
"I'm sorry," the stranger muttered, extending a hand.
"I'm fine," Dahlia mumbled, pushing herself up and rushing past him, hand covering her mouth, suppressing the urge to vomit.
She had understood what it meant to be an exterminator. From day one, they had been warned—told how dangerous the world was, how unforgiving the job would be. That many would die. That many would never make it home.
She had been prepared for that.
She had come to terms with it.
Or so she thought.
But this was too much.
She had accepted that she'd never see Quem again. That she was the reason for it. The weight of that truth had nearly driven her to quit. Maybe if she left, she could find some kind of solace—if not peace, then at least the guarantee that she would never have to go through this again.
Her feet carried her through another street, the sounds of the haven fading behind her.
Her hands wouldn't stop shaking. She shoved them deep into her pockets, balling them into fists.
Quem was dead. That was reality. But what terrified her more was the question that followed—what if next time it was Ansel? Or Massiah? The thought sent shivers down her spine, her throat turning dry as sand.
She needed to be alone.
But at the same time, she needed to be with someone.
Ansel was a good friend, a partner, but she had seen the burden he carried. She couldn't force him to play the strong one for her sake. Not now.
She needed someone who understood.
Someone she could talk to.
Dahlia exhaled sharply, forcing herself to act before she could hesitate. Her fingers hovered over the earpiece rerouting the signal from the company's comm tower to elsewhere.
If she called, Rose would pick up. If Rose picked up, she'd have to talk. And if she talked...
She'dhavetoadmitthatsheneededhelp.
Just go home, she told herself. Just sleep. It'll pass.
But she knew it wouldn't.
She exhaled sharply, pressing the button before she could change her mind.
A beep. Then a voice.
"Who's this?"
Dahlia clenched her jaw, pressing her palm to her mouth. She didn't want to do this. Didn't want to reach out like this.
But she didn't have a choice.
"It's me," she muttered. "Dahlia... Are you busy? I wanna talk."
Silence.
Then, a sigh.
"Come to the house. Don't worry—Dad's not around."
"Okay," Dahlia whispered, lowering her hand.
She turned back, heading toward the haven gates.
New Haven stood at the western front of the world, where the haze was thickest, where the storms that fell felt hot and painful.
Beyond the gates, a trail of sand stretched out toward the depths—toward the fractured ruins of old collapsed and unnamed havens, scattered remnants of lawless wastelands.
The depths connected everything.
A necessary road to reach any haven.
And now, it was the road she had to take.
Barrow lay to the east—a haven of technological advancements overshadowed by a brutal class divide. It was a city of progress, yet it had driven many of its own citizens away, forcing them to seek refuge in other havens.
It was also where she was born.
Two hours had passed since she left New Haven. Now, she stood before the towering gates of Barrow, where toll stations had been installed, their iron bars rising and falling as carriages passed through. The travelers flashed their credit cards and identification to the guards, the flow of transactions steady and seamless.
Dahlia followed suit, presenting her own before stepping past the threshold.
While Barrow prided itself on its technological prowess—boasting the most advanced communication systems, with twelve towering relay stations compared to New Haven's mere three—it had done little else.
Other major havens, like Gallio and New Haven, had focused on infrastructure, on maintaining clean water supplies and rebuilding electricity grids.
Barrow, on the other hand, had poured all its resources into industry, into cold efficiency.
She walked deeper into the city, the streets filled with people draped in tattered clothes, dirt smeared across their faces. The water hadn't been clean for as long as she could remember, and with merchants hiking up prices to hoard wealth, the common man could barely afford to survive.
A sign caught her eye:
HELP NEEDED—WEEKLY PAY, 5,000 CREDITS.
A crowd had already gathered around the sign—men and women standing in line, each waiting for their chance at the job.
She looked away.
As she ventured further, the city transformed. The streets grew cleaner, the air lighter, the clothes richer.
The scent of damp stone and unwashed bodies was replaced with fresh-cut grass and perfume. The houses towered now—white pillars, grand archways, the soft hum of relay stations buzzing through the streets.
Carriages stood parked outside mansions, each with a personal caretaker tending to the horses. Gardens sprawled across estates, chrysanthemums and tulips swaying gently in the breeze.
Dahlia kept walking, passing house after house until she reached the very last one on the street.
She raised her hand.
Knocked.
No response.
She knocked again.
This time, a voice answered—not directly to her, but to someone inside. A familiar tone, curt and commanding.
"Let them in."
The gate creaked open, revealing an estate bathed in soft tones of white and blue.
Dahlia stepped inside, following the path toward a shaded table nestled beneath an umbrella. A woman sat waiting, a porcelain teacup resting between delicate fingers.
"I thought you told us to go fuck ourselves?" Rose muttered—Dahlia's older sister. "Something about us being evil bastards, no?"
Dahlia sat down, meeting her sister's gaze.
Rose was beautiful, her features sharp and symmetrical, almost too perfect—whether by surgical precision or Godlike favoritism. Her long blonde hair draped over the back of the chair, and when she spoke, it was with an accent. English, not inherited, but learned—picked up from their father, who had always favored the sound.
"I still think you're horrible bastards," Dahlia said flatly. "The haven looks like shit, but hey, at least you can call your smelly boyfriend across the continent with your private comm system."
"And I should hate the life I was born into?" Rose tilted her head, hesitating before continuing. "I should chase poverty and death just to feel human? Don't be stupid."
"People are suffering, Rose. It's not fair that we get to live like this while they can't even afford to eat."
"And I should singlehandedly fix the economy?" Rose smirked. "Come on, sis, you're stupid, but not that stupid."
Dahlia exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "I shouldn't have come."
"You missed Mom's memorial," Rose said suddenly. Dahlia flinched, her gaze flickering away, the same way she always did when forced to face something she didn't want to. "Dad called you over and over. You never picked up."
"I... was busy."
"Of course you were," Rose said, eyeing the dirt-streaked exterminator garb Dahlia wore—the signature uniform recognized in havens everywhere. "You ran off to play giant killer. So tell me, what do you actually get out of this, Dahlia? What's the point of throwing yourself into all this death and suffering?"
Dahlia had asked herself that same question more times than she could count.
Growing up in wealth meant ignoring the blood staining the world outside their mansion walls. It meant pretending she didn't see the hungry faces, the crumbling streets, the slow collapse of the city while her family held parties with other rich families.
She remembered being a child, standing before her father after Mom died, telling him they didn't need all this—didn't need private schools with barely twenty students, didn't need a personal security team, didn't need more relay stations while the rest of the city barely had working power.
But he never listened.
He never cared.
Dahlia clenched her fists, inhaling shakily. "I don't know," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe... maybe you were right. Maybe I should've stayed here. Been the princess you wanted me to be."
Rose's fingers curled into a fist against the table. Even if she didn't want her sister to leave, she understood why. Living in this house meant knowing there was always someone beneath them—always someone suffering.
Rose's voice softened. "...What happened?"
Dahlia swallowed hard. "I got someone killed," she said, her fingers twisting together. "An older exterminator... a friend. She pushed me out of the way of a myutant. She died instead of me."
Rose sighed. Dahlia was just like their mother.
Exactly like her.
Their mother had been the opposite of their father—selfless, determined, unafraid to stand up for what she believed in. She had fought for the people of Barrow, begged the wealthy elite to share their fortune, to lift the haven instead of hoarding power.
She was strong. Shameless when it came to doing what was right.
She had always wanted to help, believing she would regret it forever if she didn't.
And just like Dahlia, she was overly emotional—shouldering blame even when it wasn't hers to bear.
But that was what made their mother so beautiful. What made her special. Her strength, her courage, her heart.
Rose had never been more grateful that Dahlia had inherited those traits. Because it meant she could be the realistic one. The one who kept things afloat, who took on the burdens Dahlia shouldn't have to. That was her job as the older sister.
"It's not your fault," Rose muttered, watching her.
"No, Rose. It is my fault, and you were right," Dahlia said, voice shaking. "I don't belong out there. I only make things worse. I try to help, and people just die because of it."
Rose clenched her fists, watching as Dahlia cried. "That's not true."
"It is." Tears dripped onto the table, her shoulders trembling. "I'm just like Mom. And you and Dad were right. We can't help. We can't do anything."
Rose exhaled, long and slow. Her hand curled into a fist against the table. For a moment, she almost reached out—but stopped. Instead, she gripped the edge of her teacup, her knuckles whitening.
"We weren't right," Rose muttered. "Not me, and certainly not Dad. After Mom died, it fell on him to keep us safe, to keep us afloat. He couldn't honor her last wish because survival came first."
"But—"
"I pushed you away so you could experience what I couldn't." Rose wiped a hand over her face, exhaling. "Do you think I don't see the haven falling apart? That I don't know how broken it is? I do. I see it every damn day—when I close my eyes, when I try to eat. But it's not something I can change. It's not something you can change either."
She sighed. "You're emotional. So when you said you wanted to leave, I let you. Because I wanted you to try. To live a life you wouldn't regret."
"Rose..."
"I don't know what you're going through. I couldn't even begin to understand it." Rose leaned forward. "So I won't tell you not to cry. Or not to feel like shit. But I hope you don't regret it."
Dahlia's mind flashed back—
Leaving the bar.
Reaching Raval.
Throwing herself straight into the fight.
She had blamed herself for Quem's death. But she had never regretted it.
"And I hope," Rose continued, "that if the same choice comes again, you won't hesitate to make it."
Dahlia huffed, wiping at her face. "Sometimes I forget you actually have a sliver of good in you."
"And make sure when you do," Rose laughed, "you help out for the both of us."
Dahlia met her sister's gaze—strong, poised, willing to make the sacrifices necessary, even at her own unhappiness.
"You can follow me, we can—" Dahlia stopped, shaking her head. "I'll do it for the both of us. You can count on me."
"That's my Dahlia." Rose smirked. "Now, apologize for insulting Kenny. He smells amazing."
"He smells like candle wax."
"And what's wrong with candle wax?"
Before Dahlia could answer, her stomach let out a loud, protesting growl.
Rose raised a brow. "Let me guess—you haven't eaten because of guilt?"
Dahlia rubbed the back of her neck. "...Maybe."
"You really are exactly like Mom," Rose sighed, grabbing her by the wrist and dragging her toward the house. "There's food in the kitchen. The maids aren't around, so we'll have to experiment."
"You mean cook?" Dahlia muttered.
"Kenny said only poor people do that."
"And sometimes I forget you really are a shitty noble."
The door slammed shut behind them.