For the first time in months, 24 woke to silence.
No alarms. No wind screaming through broken glass. Just the faint hum of the pipes somewhere deep in the walls, and the soft rhythm of rain tapping on the roof above them.
He sat up slowly, muscles instinctively tense—then paused when he remembered where they were. The suite was still dim, lit only by the gray morning bleeding in through the cracks. The old lamp on the table had gone cold. Lu was still asleep on the bed across the room, her arm draped loosely over her mask.
Her breathing was steady. Peaceful.
It felt wrong—too calm—but he didn't move for a while. He just sat there, letting the quiet settle around him like dust.
When he finally stood, it was automatic. He checked the door first—still barred, undisturbed. Then the windows. He moved without a sound, his steps calculated, precise. Every creak of the floor told him something about the structure: which planks were weak, which could serve as cover if needed.
He tested the wall by the western edge. Reinforced. The bathroom pipes still ran faintly, meaning the line was active. That could be good or bad.
He noted it anyway. Always note everything.
By the time Lu stirred, the air had warmed slightly. She blinked, disoriented, then stretched with a groggy sound that almost resembled a sigh of relief.
"You were up early," she murmured, voice still rough with sleep.
"Didn't sleep much," 24 said, crouched by the window, tightening one of the boards. "Old habits."
She sat up, rubbing her shoulder.
"You check everything again?"
He nodded once.
"Three exits. Two are usable. The roof line's still stable for movement if we need height."
He glanced over at her. "No signs of patrols since last night. Either the commander's keeping his word, or he's waiting."
Lu pushed the blanket aside and stood, looking more rested than he'd seen her in weeks.
"Maybe both," she said softly.
"Maybe."
He crossed to the small stove they'd repaired from scraps and set a metal tin of water to heat. The faint hiss of boiling filled the room, and soon the familiar scent of instant rations—burnt coffee and synthetic grains—rose between them.
It wasn't luxury. But it was quiet.
And in this world, quiet meant alive.
Lu leaned against the wall, arms crossed loosely as she watched him work.
"Feels strange," she said finally. "Not waking up to the sound of gunfire."
"Don't rely on it," 24 said simply.
"I know," she replied, though there was a small smile hidden in her voice. "Still… it's nice pretending for a bit."
He didn't answer, but there was a flicker of agreement in his expression. Pretending had its uses. It let you remember what it felt like to be human before you had to stop being one again.
After breakfast, they began their usual routine, but slower. No sudden orders. No shouted corrections. Just quiet movement—stretching, breathing, letting their bodies remember the rhythm of rest before discipline.
Lu moved through her flexibility drills with care. Her muscles loosened faster than before, her control sharper. 24 watched, arms folded, occasionally correcting a stance with a tap or a brief word.
He didn't push her. Not today.
"You're improving," he said when she finished.
She looked up, surprised.
"You actually said that like it wasn't a warning."
"Don't get used to it," he said.
They shared a faint, tired smile—one of the rare moments where neither of them felt like soldiers.
Later, when the rain faded, 24 climbed to the roof through a rusted hatch to scout the camp's perimeter. He crouched low, scanning the horizon through the mist.
The town looked smaller from above—patches of life scattered between the ruins. Smoke rose from makeshift chimneys, and he could see a few of the resistance guards walking their paths, relaxed but alert. No drones overhead. No EGI movement within range.
For now, they were ghosts in the system again. Hidden.
He stayed there a while, letting the wind cool his skin, before heading back down.
Lu was sitting at the table, sketching a rough map of the settlement from memory.
"You're charting escape routes?" he asked.
"Just in case," she said, glancing up. "Learned from the best."
"You're still too predictable," he replied.
"Guess you'll have to teach me how to be unpredictable next."
He almost smiled at that.
As the day faded into evening, they decided to stay inside. The lamps flickered to life again, bathing the room in amber. For the first time in a long while, there was no edge to their movements—no urgency, no unspoken countdown.
24 sat by the window, listening to the faint hum of rain returning. Lu sat near the bed, cleaning her blade with slow, thoughtful motions.
"Think the commander's watching us?" she asked after a while.
"Always," 24 said quietly. "The question is whether he's afraid yet."
Lu's gaze lingered on him, reading something unspoken in his tone.
"And if he is?"
"Then he'll make his move soon," 24 said, standing. "But until then, we rest. We train. And when the storm comes—we'll be ready."
He turned off the lamp, leaving only the faint shimmer of rain through the cracks.
Outside, the world slept uneasy.
Inside, for one more night, they let themselves breathe.