I scoop another share of food onto a plate, the spoon clinking against metal. The orphanage isn’t packed—never has been—but it’s still a hassle putting food on every single plate, one by one, every single day. My hands might as well be mechanical at this point.

  To my side, the cleaning bot thrums loudly, its joints whining like a tired child. I should oil the gears again—Zett dragged it here, but I was the one who got it running. Took three nights of rewiring its corroded brain, but now it actually listens.

  Too bad it’s still the most useful thing in this place.

  I never expected anything from that kid, but somehow, he dragged this thing out of who-knows-where, dumped it in front of me. Not that it means I get to rest.

  "Come eat!" I yell down the hall, my voice bouncing off the wooden walls.

  No response.

  I sigh, dropping the spoon into the pot and heading to the kitchen. The bot rolls past as I step inside, carefully balancing a plate of red beans on its metal arms.

  "Should I also retrieve the yogurt you prepared?" it asks in its polite, robotic voice.

  I smirk, wiping my hands on my apron. "Yeah. Make sure it’s not too cold—Klev complains if his teeth hurt."

  I’d tweaked its speech module last week—less monotone, more alive. Still not human, but closer. Maybe one day I’ll make something that doesn’t sound like it’s reading a grocery list.

  Before it can roll off, a knock echoes from the front door.

  I pause, frown, then grab my scarf and wrap it over my mouth before heading over.

  The second I crack the door, the wind scrapes my skin, bitter and bone-dry, dust curling in with every breath. There used to be grass out here. Now, it’s just cracked dirt and wind. The storm hasn’t let up all month.

  I cough and quickly pull the door closed behind me.

  Hovering in front of me is a drone, propellers whirring, stabilizing against the wind. Its speakers crackle as it shouts over the storm.

  "Delivery from Vortex! Please receive ten thousand Meccets into your View now."

  My View pings, a notification flashing across my vision.

  10,000 Meccets received.

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  I choke on air. "What?"

  The drone doesn’t care. "Vortex has embarked on his first military operation. This is an early payment for his service. His rewards will increase depending on success."

  The words each drop like anvils. He really went through with it. He left. And now he's out there, doing god-knows-what in some warzone.

  The drone extends a small package toward me. I hesitate before taking it. It’s lighter than I expected.

  "Did he… return my letters?" I shake the box gently.

  No answer. The drone simply states, "Departure sequence initiated," and starts to ascend.

  Or it tries to.

  A bolt of lightning carves through the sky.

  In a blink, the drone explodes mid-air, a shower of sparks and debris scattering into the storm.

  I stand there, watching the remains disappear into the dust, then groan, tug my scarf tighter, and stumble back inside.

  The cleaning bot whirs over and silently starts scrubbing the dirt from my boots.

  "Thanks," I mumble, shaking out my sleeves.

  I pry open the package. Inside, there’s only one thing—a letter.

  The handwriting is rough, messy—like he’s never actually written with graphite before. And, of course, the whole thing is exactly how he speaks.

  I scan the first lines, already shaking my head.

  Yo, this place wild.*

  Trainer don’t give a damn if we drop dead. But I ain’t gon’ be the weak link. Tell Klev I’ll arm-wrestle him when I get back.

  I snort. Classic Vortex.

  Food nasty as hell, but I be eatin’. They got us on some ‘you eat standing, sleep hanging, die laughing’ type drill.

  I thought I was strong, but nah. I been gettin’ worked. If I come home lookin’ different, act like you ain’t notice.

  I smile to myself. At least he still has his confidence. Then, further down, I spot something that makes my amusement fade.

  Zett different. Stronger than he look. He was strong enough to lift me off the ground. He special.

  I lower the letter and glance at the door.

  Zett has been outside all day. In the middle of this insane weather. I can barely step through it without being swept away. And yet, he’s just… out there?

  Probably climbing trees or trying to fly. Last week he jumped off the roof with a tarp.

  I sigh, rubbing my temples.

  Honestly, I’m surprised this orphanage hasn’t been blown into the sky by now. Not that it’ll last forever—soon, we’re all being moved to the dome in Kernel, where we’ll be ‘safe’ and ‘contributing to society’ like good little citizens.

  I reach the end of the letter.

  Tell Zett he better have somethin’ to show me when I get back. Y’all ain’t sittin’ around, right?

  I grin again. At least he’s somewhere. At least he’s doing something.

  Not like me—stuck here, spooning beans onto plates while the world moves without me.

  Then again, I’ve always been the one left behind.

  Growing up without parents is hard. I know that better than anyone

  Mine didn’t die in a storm, or a war, or a crime gone wrong. They chose to leave.

  They swallowed a pill—one they placed in my palm, too.

  I was nine.

  Grandma Rose found me sitting there, staring at their corpses, the pill clutched so tightly in my hand it left marks. She took me away, brought me here. Gave me a home.

  Now, Rose mostly rests, and I run the orphanage. I don’t complain. I just… wish I could do more.

  Dream like Zett.

  Dream like Revilsa.

  Dream like Vortex.

  I even wish I was part of their blood oath—that stupid, dramatic pact they made winters back, slicing their palms and swearing to change the world. Vortex the soldier. Revilsa the Hero. Zett the… whatever Zett is.

  And me? Just Cherry. The one who bandaged their hands after

  I wasn’t chosen. I stayed behind.

  But I know things.

  I love cooking, sure—but I love machines more. Not fixing these clunky old relics, but building something better. Something useful.

  Something that actually helps people.

  My hands twitch.

  If I could do that… it’d be enough.

  Before I get too lost in thought, the door suddenly swings open.

  I brace myself, my heart jumping. For a second, I think the storm’s finally torn its way in—until Zett collapses forward, coughing up a mouthful of dirt. His hands are scraped raw, his nails packed with soil like he’s been digging graves. Or trying to claw his way out of one.

  "I nearly died," he wheezes, breathless. "It was awesome."

  I stare at him.

  Completely covered in sludge, hair matted, clothes soaked, his entire body looking like he lost a wrestling match with the earth itself.

  This mud-caked lunatic is the guy Vortex called ‘special’.

  Then again, maybe he’s right. Normal people don’t survive sinkholes.

  Normal people don’t jump off roofs.

  And normal people don’t get letters from soldiers sending home enough money to burn.

  Maybe none of us are normal. Maybe that’s the point.