Chapter Text
Everything around him was a blazing, trembling nightmare, as if the very air was tearing from the heat and the crackle of twisted metal. His body lay among the wreckage of a mangled, molten beam. Silco didn’t immediately understand what had happened—a flash of blue, and then he just felt something pulling him down, and then—darkness.
Was that… an explosion?
How…?
Silco tried to move. His head throbbed, and his vision swam. Smoke drifted above him, and trembling orange flames shone through the burnt ceiling. He gasped hoarsely, coughed — the blood had dried on his lips.
He tried to sit up.
Hellish pain shot through his leg. He fell back, hitting the back of his head on a fragment. Legs… one of them broken? It was pinned by a beam.
Fuck… fuck.
His side burned—whether from the fire or the injury, he couldn’t tell. His palms were scratched. His head was spinning.
No… no. I have to… I must… Ohh.
Silco looked up. Above him—smoke and heat. His chest contracted convulsively. Panic slammed over him in waves, desperate thoughts spinning through his mind:
This is the end. I’m staying here. It was all for nothing… All for nothing. I lost.
Silco coughed violently. Something cracked in his chest, deep beneath the ribs—painful, piercing. He swallowed air, and with it—ash, heat.
The cough became silent—only jerky, wheezing, each breath shorter than the last. The world blurred, swayed, as if melting right before his eyes.
“Nghh…”
The last thing he remembered was plunging a dagger into Vander, and Vander grabbing him by the throat. Squeezing. Then…? What happened next? An explosion?
Vander… is he alive?—the thought pierced the haze of consciousness, but doubt swallowed it immediately. Even if he was… maybe he hadn’t even looked back.
He barely moved his lips, feeling a lump constrict in his throat. The irony was bitter: to think of this… traitor, at the very edge of death. Anger mingled with boundless fear, and pain spread through his body as if it were no longer his own.
Yet even realizing this, his heart raced wildly, fear of being utterly alone making it hurt even more.
He touched the floor with his hand—hot, cracked. His fingers cramped, his body unresponsive. Sounds were distant, as if behind a wall.
Smoke engulfed him like water—dense, sticky, merciless. His lungs constricted, his head rang, and for a moment, as his last desperate breath yielded nothing but pain, it truly seemed he was drowning again.
And then—everything went silent. Only his heart still beat somewhere deep in his chest, frenzied, relentless, as if trying to break free from the trap of his body. Darkness clouded his eyes.
⸻
Outside, the sound of the fire was unlike any other — it carried something of a beast’s growl, devouring everything around.
Metal groaned, wood cracked, blue flames danced along the walls. Vander stood outside, catching his breath, shielding Vi and Powder with his body. They were still shaking from shock, eyes glinting with fear, but they were intact. And that was what mattered most.
Everything turned out fine.
“It’s okay…” he whispered, more to himself than to them. “It’s… okay—”
At that moment, something twitched inside him — unconsciously, almost instinctively. His eyes still searched for someone with a panicked, sharp glance, as if he was back there — on the bridge.
A sharp, needle-like memory flashed in his mind: the night of the revolution. Gunshots, screams, choking smoke, blurred silhouettes in red light — he too had been searching then. Clutching at every shadow, trying to recognize a face, but — nothing.
Now he felt like it was repeating. The children in his arms, the flames at his back, and the same heart-wrenching sensation — he had failed again, left someone behind, lost someone close forever.
Silco.
His heart thumped, hands clenched, shoulders tensed, and his breathing became ragged.
He… stayed there. — And that thought stabbed him harder than the fresh knife wound Silco had left him.
Vander forced himself to freeze. No, Silco had made his choice. This was no longer the person he once called close.
This… is the end.
But now…
Fuck.
One second.
Two.
Three.
He turned sharply. Flames rose to the sky, screaming “too late.”
In those seconds, he seemed to remember everything: pain, hatred. What Silco had done. What he had wanted to do.
But beyond that — memory. His close person. How they had fought side by side. Nights spent with a bottle of cheap alcohol, dreaming of a better life.
And how it all fell apart.
In that instant, as if no longer thinking, he lunged forward — but before that, he spun sharply and shouted:
“Stay put! Got it?! Whatever happens — stay here!”
Neither Vi’s cries behind him, nor Powder’s tears — nothing seemed to matter. The flames reached for him, smoke weighted his lungs, but his body moved on its own, pushing him forward. Because this moment left no choice: Silco was there, and he wouldn’t leave him.
Every step into the factory felt like pushing through his own body — heart pounding, skin scorching, hands trembling slightly from adrenaline.
The factory was hell. With each step, the smoke made the air heavier, tongues of flame reached toward him, trying to stop him. Vander shouted:
“Silco!” — but the only response was the crackling of burning wood and the rasp of structures on the verge of collapse.
And then he saw him. The corner of a destroyed room. Collapsed metal beams. And among the rubble — motionless body. Face streaked with blood and soot, mouth slightly open, arms spread.
The metal burned his hands, scratched and tore skin, but he didn’t feel pain — only a dull fear in his chest. He braced his shoulder, ripped one beam away, then another, scraping his elbow against something hot — he felt the smell of scorched skin. Vander wheezed, smoke tearing at his lungs, but he didn’t stop.
He finally reached Silco, and lifted him into his arms. The movement was almost automatic — just like long ago, when they had been different people.
He was light. Too light. Vander felt as if his wounded body barely had weight — exhausted, like an empty shell. But in that moment, he seemed heavier than anything Vander had ever lifted. Because it wasn’t body weight — it was the weight of fear. He didn’t hear his breathing. There was no time to check for a pulse.
Outside, the girls watched with wide eyes. Vander dropped to his knees, pressing him to his chest. Silco remained unconscious. Vander checked immediately.
He’s breathing. He… ohhh… he’s breathing. Good. It’s okay.
⸻
Vander didn’t remember how exactly they got to the “Last Drop.” The whole night seemed to merge into one shadow.
He pushed open the door with his shoulder. His whole body ached, but his hands held Silco firmly — unconscious, pale as ash. Carefully, Vander laid him on the bed. The pillows and blanket felt alien — too clean, too calm for a body that had just emerged from hell.
“Fuck…” he whispered, leaning over him.
His fingers trembled as he touched the straps. The buckle wouldn’t budge at first, as if the metal itself had scorched and fused with the fabric. He carefully removed the coat, peeled off the tattered vest, the shirt stuck to the skin.
His gaze swept over the body he had once known so well.
I have to check him over.
Vander had experience — fights, knives, firearms. He had seen enough, stitched other people’s skin with his own hands, forced them to breathe when they were drowning in their own blood.
But now he didn’t know where the line was. How deep the injuries were. Whether he should call for help. Whether his hands would be enough.
Because he wasn’t a doctor.
He wasn’t sure where to start. Where to find the line between saving and causing more pain.
When Vander touched his shoulder — not to shake him, but just… to make sure he was still there — Silco didn’t react. Unconsciousness held him tightly.
Carefully, with two fingers, Vander traced down his chest — and immediately felt something wrong beneath the skin. He pressed lightly — the body flinched. Even in sleep. Broken ribs. Not just one. Maybe two, three. Silco shuddered, and it took his already scarce breath away. Vander clenched his jaw. He couldn’t rush.
His gaze drifted lower. The left leg, the one pinned under several beams, lay unnaturally. It looked like a broken doll limb. He touched it — lightly, almost weightless. And again — the muscles twitched in response. Even the body, lying unconscious, protested the movement. Probably the shin bone. A crack or a full break. Damn.
Vander exhaled. His skin… in places red, burned. He froze. The burns didn’t seem critical, but they still needed treatment and compresses.
All over his body — small cuts, scratches, bruises. On the stomach — a mark, as if he had hit the edge of something sharp. Or a shard. On the arm — a deep cut from broken glass. Everything mixed with dried blood. Vander took a cloth, carefully wet it with water, and began cleaning the wounds. One motion — pause. Another — pause.
It was jarringly contrasting, almost unbearable to the mind. Just a few hours ago, this person, who had essentially kidnapped him, had stood before him with a cold gaze and a knife in hand. Just a few hours ago, Silco had threatened him, literally trying to kill him.
Now the same man lay before him — unconscious and broken. But alive.
Vander wanted to be angry at him, to hate him, but… somehow, he couldn’t. A lump formed in his throat.
It was… the first time in six years he had touched him.
The past responded with a sharp flare — the last touch, back in the water, had been full of hatred. His hands had gripped to hold him, but not to save — only to break, to silence everything along with the water.
Now — the same hands. The same person under his fingers. But now every movement required care. He touched the body to stop the bleeding, not to cause more pain. He held him so he wouldn’t slip into darkness.
Six years between these two touches — and a chasm that words could not name.
“You can’t die,” he whispered, wetting the bandage. “Not after everything. Not after what was between us… Even if you hate me even more after this.”
He thought Silco twitched slightly, but his eyes didn’t open.
Vander treated the wounds almost automatically, but his chest tightened. He had to bandage and stabilize the leg, apply compresses to the burns. He knew Silco was strong, and the injuries, though serious, weren’t fatal. Yet a panicked thought still flashed in his mind:
What if this is the last time I’m holding him?
When everything was finally done, he sat beside him. Bloodstains marked the blanket. The air was thick with smoke, sweat, and something else — silent despair.
“Please,” he said almost inaudibly. “Hold on. If you go now — I won’t forgive myself. Sil, we… will fix this.”
But Vander didn’t know how. He had no plan, no idea how to mend what was utterly broken. How to restore the trust they had destroyed. How to make the one he was bandaging now ever look at him again like before — without hate.
He leaned closer, looking at him. Silco seemed both foreign and painfully familiar.
The same face, the same sharp cheekbones, slightly hollowed cheeks, a pointed nose. But now — short-trimmed hair, exposing the neck. The scar around the eye, deeper than it had first seemed.
Vander noticed all of it not as an observer — but as someone who had once known every expression of that face, every shadow of emotion running beneath the skin… and now had to learn it again, almost from scratch.
His friend. His enemy. The person he had once loved and had just pulled out of hell.
“Damn you, Silco,” he whispered, adjusting the last bandage on the arm. “And now… what?” — he asked, running his hand over his face, pausing for a few seconds to look at him, and, with a barely audible sigh, stood up.
Old wounds hadn’t healed yet. The new ones — just opened.
Adrenaline that had kept him on his feet just minutes ago began to fade, leaving behind emptiness and a dull, throbbing ache throughout his body. The wounds protested — especially the one where Silco’s knife had gone through the muscle. Vander clenched his teeth, pressing his temporarily bandaged side with his hand. Hot, sticky moisture seeped through his fingers — not deadly, but no minor injury either. He needed to tend to his own wounds, and check Vi and Powder again.
Painkillers, cleaning, stitching. Later. First — the children.
⸻
Vander knew explanations were unavoidable.
Vi was too smart not to ask. And too straightforward to let it go unanswered.
They stood in front of him when he returned to their room. Vi crossed her arms, her face tense, almost angry.
“Why did you save him?!”
She didn’t shout, but her voice carried frustrated disappointment. Powder stood beside her, head slightly bowed, but waiting for an answer.
Vander ran a hand over his face, feeling how exhausted he was.
“Because I couldn’t do otherwise.”
“That’s not an answer.” Vi clenched her teeth. “Why did he try to kill you?!”
Silence.
“Vander, who the hell is he? What does he want from you?”
“This…” Vander sighed. He didn’t know how to explain. “His name is Silco,” he finally said. “Once… he was like… a brother to me. We were brothers-in-arms. Something happened between us many years ago.” — Vander answered evasively at last.
“And now he came back and… just decided to kill you? Us? You should have left him there!” Her voice broke. “You saw what he did! He was with those armed bastards! He set the factory on fire? Or was it the explosion? Fuck, it doesn’t matter! He hurt you, right?!”
Powder flinched at that and quietly sat on the edge of the ladder. Her lips trembled, but she stayed silent.
“And what was I supposed to do?” Vander interrupted her, though his voice was soft. “Watch him burn alive?”
Vi didn’t answer immediately.
“If he tries to do something again…” she finally said, less confidently.
“If he tries to do something again, I’ll take care of it.”
Vander looked at both of them — at Vi, still trying to understand his choice, and at Powder, who was simply afraid to ask more.
“It was still a reckless risk!”
“I know it’s hard to understand, Vi,” he said with a sigh. “But… let’s just calm down and rest for now, okay?”
Vander sank heavily into the chair, supporting his roughly bandaged side.
Vi noticed immediately. Her gaze settled on the dark stain showing through the fabric. She exhaled, unclenched her hands.
“Alright. Let me help.”
Her voice was still slightly sharp, but no longer angry.
Vander nodded briefly.
“Thank you, Vi.”
She stepped closer, carefully touching the bandage.
“What would I do without you…”
He said it quietly, almost casually. Vi didn’t answer, just started rebandaging. Powder silently edged closer.