Kirion's knuckles ached, wrapped in worn bandages stained by more than just blood. The safehouse was quiet, except for the occasional crackle of the old solar generator and the distant rumble of government patrols. It was the kind of silence that didn't comfort—it haunted.
He sat across from a young man named Eli, barely nineteen, with shrapnel still embedded near his spine. Eli had volunteered after his brother disappeared in a government sweep. Now he lay on a stretcher, breathing slow, eyes wide with pain and purpose.
"I can still fight," Eli said, voice raw.
Kirion shook his head. "You've already done more than most ever will."
"But—"
"Rest is resistance too."
Kirion hated saying it. Hated how familiar those words had become.
That night, after making sure Eli slept, Kirion slipped into the tiny room where his daughter sat coding. Her face was bathed in a soft blue glow, fingers dancing over a salvaged keyboard like she was playing the piano.
"You okay?" he asked.
She didn't look up. "I rerouted an entire surveillance hub today."
"I know," he said, pride heavy in his voice. "You're incredible."
She finally turned to him. "When do I stop being incredible and start being safe?"
He had no answer.
He watched her return to the screen, jaw clenched, eyes sharp. She deserved peace, music, a normal teenage rebellion—not this war.
He left the room and stepped outside, breathing in the cold. Every step they took forward in this fight seemed to take something else from them—a piece of childhood, a friend, a sense of self.
But justice wasn't free.
And Kirion had already decided: if the price was everything he had left, he would still pay it.