THE GRIEF IS RAW, BUT NOW THERE'S SOMETHING ELSE—an itch at the furthest edge of Rafael's mind.

"No. There's no point."

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, the coolness of the floor against his bare feet anchoring him. The city's faint glow filters through the window, painting shadows that stretchh across the room like a silent witness.

His eyes fall to the nightstand. A half-drunk bottle of whiskey sits beside a solitary glass, the amber catching the light like a slow-burning ember. He reaches for it without thought, pours just enough to coat the bottom, and takes a sip—slow, steady. The burn curls down his throat, grounding.

He catches his reflection in the window—a ghost of himself staring back, the light catching every line on his face. He tilts his head, running a hand over the faint mark along his jaw--a souvenir from a world she never saw.

The magazines at Joel's apartment had dredged up memories he wasn't prepared to confront. His sister used to collect ones just like them. They'd sit up late into the night, magazines all over his bed, talking about everything and nothing.

Her voice slips into his mind, unbidden but familiar, like a melody he's forgotten the words to: You're going to be in a uniform one day, Rafa. All serious and grumpy.

The corner of his mouth twitches, a reluctant smile pulling at him. The words bring a warmth that lingers, tugging at the edges of his thoughts.

And then, like stepping through a doorway, he's back there with her, 15 years old, in a room filled with dreams and magazines.

"Can you believe people actually live here?" she says, her voice full of wonder. "Look at this, Rafa! The beaches, the sunsets, the water slides inside the dome. And this dress—look at her! She's perfect!" Abby jabs a finger at a model in a flowing orange gown.

Rafael lies on his stomach, a datapad in hand, barely glancing up. "Yeah, it's pretty. But what's so great about The Halo? It's just another dome."

Abby gasps, smacking him on the arm with the magazine. "Another dome?" she repeats, her mouth falling open in mock outrage. "You take that back!"

Rafael laughs, rubbing his arm. "Ow! Relax, it's not that serious!"

"It is that serious," she insists, flipping her long braid over her shoulder and flopping down beside him. The magazine is open between them now, and her finger traces the outline of The Halo. "One day, I'm going to live there," she says, dreamy and confident. "I'll be a famous designer. I'll make dresses for all the superstars, and they'll invite me to all the fancy parties."

"Yeah, right. You're going to end up like Uncle Junior."

"You know. I don't think that's funny."

"Don't worry. He's only between green and yellow zone. You'll still be able to work."

Abby doesn't respond right away. Instead, she narrows her eyes at the model in the orange dress and does something Rafael's seen her do a hundred times but still doesn't understand—she licks her thumb, then presses it to the model's face, rubbing in small circles like she's wiping off invisible smudges.

Rafael watches, waiting for her to argue back. Instead, she just flips the page, her fingers lingering at the crease. "Uncle Junior still gets to work, sure. But he keeps his résumé printed on his desk so he can read it every morning." Her voice is softer now, like she's talking to herself more than him. "Mom says Grandma was the same way before—" She stops, correcting herself. "Before she stopped needing it."

She presses her thumb to another model's face, this time without licking it first, just smoothing over the paper like she can fix something no one else can see.

"You always do that," Rafael says.

Abby blinks. "Do what?"

"The thing with your thumb. Wiping people's faces off like they've got dirt on them."

She frowns at the page, rubbing a little harder. "It looks like a smudge."

Rafael smirks. "You ever think maybe there's nothing there?"

She gives him a side-eye. "And what if there is?"

He snorts. "Then I guess it's a good thing you check." Then shakes his head. "You're the weirdest person I know."

"And don't you forget it," she says, her grin widening.

He knows he never will. Nobody else in the world does something like that, as far as he's seen. It's such a strange, endearing thing—one of those quirks that's just her.

"What about you?" Abby asks, turning to him. "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

Rafael hesitates, his voice quieter when he answers. "I don't know yet."

"Liar." She bumps him with her elbow. "You totally know."

He sighs. "Fine. I want to be a detective."

Abby lights up, sitting cross-legged and leaning forward. "Really? Like... solving crimes and everything?"

"Yeah," he says, picking at a loose thread on the blanket. "But it's probably stupid. I don't even know how to become one."

"It's not stupid, Rafa," she says, her voice soft and serious. "You'd be great at it. You notice stuff other people don't."

He looks at her, a little embarrassed. "You think so?"

"Of course. But first..." Her smirk returns. "You're gonna have to join the military."

Rafael sits up so fast the bed creaks. "What? No way! Why would I do that?"

"Because all the detectives have to be in the military first," she says, completely matter-of-fact.

"That's not true, Abby. It isn't like that."

"Uh-huh," she says, unconvinced. "You'll see. One day, you'll be in a uniform, all serious and grumpy."

"Never," he mutters, lying back down.

They sit in silence for a while, the magazine lying open between them. Abby rests her chin on her hand, staring at The Halo again. "Do you ever wonder what it's like outside the domes?" she asks softly.

"All the time," Rafael admits.

"I bet it's wild," she says. "No walls. No curfews. Just... open space everywhere."

"Dangerous, too," he says.

"Yeah," she agrees, her voice tinged with a small, wistful smile. "But doesn't it sound exciting?"

Rafael doesn't answer right away. He imagines it, a world without barriers, full of freedom and uncertainty. "Yeah," he says finally. "It does."

Abby leans her head against his shoulder, her voice barely above a whisper. "One day, we'll see it, right?"

"Maybe," he says, though he doesn't know if he believes it.

She doesn't push him. They sit together in the quiet, the glossy pages of The Halo reflecting the faint light of their room.

The memory slips away like smoke, leaving Rafael staring at his reflection in the mirror. He doesn't recognize the man looking back at him. His jaw is sharper now, lined by time, hardship. and the faint scar along his jaw.

He brushes his thumb over the scar, as if trying to rub it away. It looks like a smudge.

He reaches for the glass again, takes another sip. The whiskey is a tether now, keeping him steady in the free-fall of memory.

Strange how something so small—a forgotten piece of her life—could hit so hard. He almost smiles, but the weight of reality crushes it before it can form.

Abby always wondered what it was like outside the domes. He knows now. It's brutal. It's raw. It leaves marks you can't erase, no matter how hard you try.

"Still here," he murmurs, his voice low and rough. The words feel hollow. A challenge, maybe, or a reminder to himself that he's made it this far.

But surviving isn't the same as living. He knows that now.

Rafael rubs his eyes, trying to shake off the weight in his chest. He stands, muscles stiff from restless sleep and crosses the room. His hand brushes the smooth wall as he exits the room. The tactile surface ripples under his touch, activating the WallCast.

THE GLOW FILLS THE SPACE, already tuned to his favorite channel.

Rafael's eyes catch the familiar figure in the ring—The Phoenix. A replay of her last fight. The one that ended her undefeated streak.

He steps closer, watching her move with clean precision—textbook perfect, but hollow. Each punch lands, but there's no weight behind it, no intent.

"Autopilot," he mutters as she takes a hit. "You feel that now, don't you?"

The fight continues in the background as he lowers himself into the chair, his focus shifts to the table before him— files and datapads scattered in controlled chaos. Joel Guerra's name is everywhere, staring at him like a dare.

"Look at me, still trying to be a detective."

The commentators fill the air, dissecting her every move with clinical precision. Rafael does the same with Joel's case.

He reaches across the clutter and refills the glass, almost absently. Takes another sip.

"Alright, Joel."

I'm flattered you think I'm that sophisticated. Joel's voice echoes in his head.

"Everyone did." Rafael exhales slowly, eyes scanning the glowing interface before him. The evidence is laid out, each datapoint a puzzle piece that refuses to fit.

"Three years ago..." Rafael begins to piece the timeline, speaking as if Joel was in the room trying to tell him something. "You successfully entered the government system."

"The Phoenix stepping in—sharp technique, but something's off. Look at her stance," one of the commentators says. Rafael doesn't look at the screen.

"You're in there... but you got nothing out of it." He grabs a datapad. "The official reports say your login was flagged, triggering an immediate arrest. That's standard protocol. Nothing unusual there."

"Her form is still there," another voice chimes in. "But the follow-through? It's like she's hesitating, second-guessing every move."

"Then, a week ago, the system flagged you again. Not for a hack. Not even for anything serious. Just a simple login... violating parole." Rafael pulls up his assignment, the one that led him to Joel's arrest. He hadn't cared what Joel was doing online before. The job was simple—crime, punishment. But now, that detail might mean everything.

"What did you log on for?" His fingers move through the files. A pause. His brow furrows.

"Porn?" He exhales sharply. "You risked your freedom for this?"

His gaze flickers to the side, just for a second.

It's still there—a lip gloss tube, pink and gold, sitting at the edge of the table. The cap slightly loose. Exactly how he left it. He should've given it back days ago—tossed it her way any number of times they crossed paths—but he hasn't.

"You could've chased something real, Joel." He shakes his head. "But you settled for this. Why?" His lips press into a thin line as realization settles. "Because you're a simple guy with simple pleasures. What's hacking going to do for you?"

Rafael thinks back to his apartment. Joel's belongings. No sign of expertise on the subject.

"Alright. So you're not sophisticated."

On the screen, The Phoenix takes a hit. Stumbles. Loses the fight.

The WallCast cycles back to the start.

Rafael doesn't register the transition, but their words seep into his thoughts, trickling through the edges of his focus like water finding its way through cracks.

He starts over.

"The Phoenix stepping in—sharp technique, but something's off. Look at her stance."

He flicks through the data again, isolating timestamps.

Three years ago.

Joel breached the system. Fact.

Joel got caught. Fact.

Joel served time, got out on parole. Fact.

Why?

Five months ago...

He presses the glass to his lips again, now nearly empty. One last sip.

"That hesitation costs her. If you're not committed, you're done," the commentary drones on, faint but persistent. Rafael shakes off the thoughts of his sister.

"Five months ago, a signature code appears. A code that was never mentioned during the original case. Still fact-checking that one.

Joel's ID flags again. No signature code. A simple log on.

Joel gets arrested.

Something's off.

"She's reacting instead of controlling the fight. You can't just counter forever—you have to make a move."

The WallCast resets. The fight starts again.

"The Phoenix stepping in..."

Rafael doesn't look. He grits his teeth. His foot taps against the floor, restless, as he flips back to the start of the breach records.

"That hesitation costs her..."

His hands press against his temples.

"Her form is still there," another voice chimes in. "But the follow-through? It's like she's hesitating, second-guessing every move."

"But you didn't do anything else. Did you second guess yourself? Was it an accident? Or did you bite off more than you could chew, thinking you wouldn't get caught?"

Rafael flicks through the data again, isolating timestamps.

Three years ago.

10:13 a.m.—Joel's breach.

10:13 a.m.—Joel was at home.

10:16 a.m.—His arrest warrant was issued.

Too fast.

The system reacts quickly, but not that quickly. A violation like this should have triggered an alert, prompted an investigation, given officers time to verify. Instead, it had gone straight to detainment. No hesitation. No margin for error.

He scrubs through surveillance data again, eyes narrowing. The footage places Joel in his apartment all morning.

"She's on the ropes now. No momentum. No control. Her opponent is dictating this fight."

"You logged in. But then five months ago, it wasn't you."

The signature code.

Joel had mentioned it like a loaded weapon and Evelyn Sullivan guarded it. That information is privileged.

"She waited too long. You wait too long in a fight like this? Someone else makes the decision for you." Phoenix is on her back. Staring at the lights.

The fight on-screen resets, cycling back to the beginning.

Rafael does the same.

"The Phoenix stepping in..."

The footage. The timestamps. The records.

"She should've seen this coming. There were signs. She didn't react in time."

He starts over, combing through every detail with fresh eyes.

The night stretches ahead, but he barely notices. His muscles ache, exhaustion weighing him down, but his mind won't stop.

The WallCast replays the fight.

He replays the evidence.

Over and over.

And for the rest of the night, he does this.

Until the sun comes up.

"If you're not committed, you're done."