Aaron blinked into consciousness like a man surfacing from a grave.
His ribs screamed. His head pulsed.
But he was breathing.
Still breathing. That surprised him.
The room smelled like wet concrete and smoke.
Somewhere nearby, wind moaned through broken glass.
Voices. Low. Tense.
He pushed himself up, slow, grunting against the pain.
Every movement was a scream under his skin.
He was in the same ruined daycare.
Same graffiti. Same ash.
But something was off.
He heard Leon's voice first.
"…you sure about this?"
Then Matt.
Calm. Steel.
"I've never been more sure."
Aaron forced himself to stand. Moved to the edge of the doorway.
He saw them.
Leon, arms crossed, posture tight.
And Matt—upright, still, a bag slung over his shoulder.
No tremble in his hands. No doubt in his stance.
Just resolve.
Aaron spoke, voice like gravel dragged through blood.
"What happened?"
Leon turned. Grim.
"She came."
Aaron froze.
"…Mia?"
Leon nodded.
"She didn't stay long."
Aaron looked at Matt.
Matt met his eyes.
And Aaron saw it instantly.
Not hate.
Not sorrow.
Not even grief.
Conviction.
Matt walked over, dropped a Polaroid in Aaron's lap.
It was blurry, grainy—but unmistakable.
Mia. Walking away.
A man in the background—Bishop's silhouette.
Aaron looked up. "He sent her."
Matt nodded. "She didn't say it. But she didn't have to."
Leon stepped forward. "He's pulling strings again. Trying to push you."
Matt looked at both of them.
"He already did."
Aaron stood, slow. Pain everywhere. But sharp now. Awake.
"Then we hit back. All the way."
Matt shook his head.
"No."
Aaron frowned. "What do you mean no?"
Matt looked past him, out the broken window.
Voice quiet. Cold.
"We don't hit back."
His gaze locked with Aaron's.
"We finish it."