The bridge was still.

Behind Ying, the city moaned – smoke curling from rooftops, chants fraying into screams, firelight bleeding into twilight. But here, at the centre of the Charles Bridge, there was only the wind. Only silence. Only her.

She stood with her blade drawn, its edge humming faintly in the air. Voidshadow licked around her boots, coiling and dissolving in the cracks between stones. Her cloak snapped once – then fell still, as if the world were holding its breath.

Then she felt it.

First, a sound. Then, a presence.

Movement in the mist ahead. Shapes emerging between the statues. Three figures—slow, limping, uneven. Dan first, arm looped under the second. Liz beside them, shoulders squared like steel. And in the middle—

Max.

He looked like a ruin.

And Ying froze.

For a heartbeat, she couldn't move – because the figure limping between Dan and Liz didn't look like Max. Not the Max she remembered. Not the one she'd trained beside. Fought for. Believed in.

His shirt hung in tatters, half-burned and clinging to skin stretched too tight. Dried blood striped one side of his face like paint, and his eyes – those eyes – were hollowed. Not empty. Worse. Exhausted. As if even blinking might cost him more than he had left.

Each step was dragged. Laboured. Barely coordinated. His ribs showed beneath the dried blood. His mouth twitched, as if caught in a wordless argument with ghosts.

A wave of unfamiliar emotion rose in her gut – sorrow, pain, shock. It stole her breath. She wasn't ready for it.

Not even during Jade Dragon.

She thought of the Chinese super-soldier programme – the broken bodies they pulled from testing chambers, men and women mangled by injections, warped by psionic drills. She thought of the hollow stares, the twitching hands, the ones who couldn't stop screaming.

But even there, no one had come out looking like this.

Max hadn't just been tortured. He'd been emptied. Peeled back. Left hollow and somehow still walking.

And yet—

He was alive.

Ying didn't run. Didn't speak. Just sheathed her blade in a single, fluid motion. Then she stepped forward slowly, boots tapping against ancient stone.

When she reached them, she stopped in front of Max. Her voice was soft. Barely audible above the wind.

"You came back."

Max looked up.

Tried to say something.

But nothing came out.

His eyes flickered once – confusion, then memory, then something else. She didn't know what. Maybe he didn't either.

She should've said more. Should've said I missed you, or I thought you were dead, or I hated you for leaving. But none of it came.

So, she just touched his arm. Then Liz's.

The warmth of his skin made her chest ache.

He was much thinner than she remembered. Paler. Older. But it was him.

She stood beside them, letting her fingers linger for half a second too long. Close enough to shield. Close enough to hope.

She hadn't let herself think about it – not during the planning, not during the silence, not during the years he was just a question mark on the edge of every decision. But now that he was here, real, breathing—

The ache returned. Not sharp. Just steady. A weight beneath her ribs.

No more words.

Not yet.

Just presence.

Just the unbearable relief of him.

…………………

The alleys near the Aria Hotel creaked with the weight of silence.

Chloe moved first, blade in hand, steps careful over broken stone. Alyssa kept pace beside her, eyes scanning every shadow, half-expecting a scream or a tentacle or something worse to explode from the cracked windows. But nothing came. No chant. No growl. Just wind and the distant sound of something weeping through the pipes.

The quiet felt wrong. Like the eye of a storm that hadn't finished forming.

"Feels like a trap," Alyssa muttered.

Chloe didn't answer. Her fingers flexed once around the hilt of her phaseblade, then released. They reached the mouth of the alley and stepped out – onto the edge of the Charles Bridge.

And saw him.

Alyssa stopped.

Max stood in the middle of the bridge, half-leaning against Liz. Dan braced him from the other side. His head was tilted slightly toward Ying, as if listening to something he didn't quite understand. The torchlight caught his profile just enough.

Long hair. Tangled. Matted. A beard like he hadn't seen a razor in years. His clothes hung loose over a frame stripped of muscle. The fire in his eyes – once the centre of every fight – had gone dim. Not dead. Just... quiet.

Alyssa whispered, "He's... thinner."

It wasn't even close to what she meant. He looked like someone who had been starved of more than just food. Like time had forgotten him.

He blinked slowly when he saw them. Something flickered across his face. A twitch of the mouth. A narrowing of the eyes. Recognition, maybe.

"Hey," Max rasped.

That was all.

Alyssa couldn't move for a second. Then her knees gave and she dropped beside him. One hand touched his shoulder, gently, as if afraid he might break under it.

"You're really here," she breathed.

No tears. Not yet. Just the kind of raw disbelief that didn't need them.

Chloe didn't speak. She just crossed the last few steps and wrapped her arms around Max's chest, her cheek pressing to his collarbone. She held on longer than she meant to, silent, her breath catching once – but she didn't let go.

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Ying nodded to them both. No words. Just the slight dip of her chin – an acknowledgment of grief shared.

Alyssa rose, turning to Dan – and then threw herself into his arms.

He caught her with a grunt as she crushed him in a hug, burying her face into the crook of his neck. She didn't speak. Just clung tighter. After a moment, he buried a kiss in her hair.

Chloe stepped back from Max, exhaling shakily, and moved toward Liz.

Liz didn't speak either. She didn't need to. Her face was pale and tight, her eyes rimmed with red.

Chloe grabbed her. Hard. A fierce, sister-sharp hug.

"I know you're not okay," she said, voice low, steady. "We'll talk when we're safe. When we get your dad back. I promise."

Liz didn't answer.

But she didn't pull away.

…………………

The stone under Victor's boots felt too quiet. Too still. Each step echoed in his skull like a war drum, but there was no battle now – just the dark stretch of Charles Bridge yawning out in front of him, lit by distant torchlight and the dull throb of rebellion turning to ruin behind him.

He was bleeding. Somewhere. Didn't matter. His arms were streaked red, his coat torn to ribbons across the back. His shoulder throbbed from the last fight. Also didn't matter.

Because up ahead, through the smoke and the firelit mist, he saw them.

Liz. Dan. Chloe, Alyssa. Ying.

And Max.

Victor stopped like he'd hit a wall. The breath knocked out of him before he could even take it. Max was there – slumped between the two of them, one arm draped over Liz's shoulder, the other barely clinging to Dan's support. Head bowed. Shoulders shaking with each breath.

He looked like a corpse propped up by memory.

Alive.

But barely.

Victor's mouth opened. Nothing came out. He stared. His thoughts didn't line up. They fractured.

Max's frame – so much smaller now. Thinner. Hollowed. His face gaunt, cheeks sunken, skin pale where it wasn't bloodied or bruised. There were lines in his forehead that hadn't been there five years ago. Scars curled up his neck like old vines. One of his hands twitched as if from muscle memory – then stilled, limp.

His friend, his brother… was unrecognisable.

What the fuck did they do to you, Max?

Victor swallowed. Hard. His legs locked. He'd seen men broken before – war had trained him in that. Had shown him what too much pain could do to a body, what too long in a cage could do to the soul. But not even there had anyone come out looking like this.

Max looked like someone who'd bled for a century and just kept going because there was no one left to tell him to stop.

Victor moved. First a step. Then another. Then his body finally obeyed what his heart had been screaming for hours. He broke into a jog – then a run.

He didn't feel the wound reopen on his shoulder. Didn't notice when his boots slipped on blood-slick stone. All he saw was Max. Still there. Still breathing. Still... his.

The wind slapped his face. Cold. Sharp. And wet.

Only then did he realise he was crying.

He skidded to a stop just a few feet away. Couldn't go any closer. Couldn't trust his own hands not to shake. Couldn't breathe.

"Max?"

Max's head turned. Slowly. Eyes dull. Bleary. Red-rimmed like he'd cried until he'd forgotten how to stop. But he looked at Victor – and something flickered behind those ruined eyes.

Recognition.

The tiniest, shittiest, most beautiful little smile ghosted across his cracked lips.

Max blinked slowly. The blur of Victor's face came into focus – older, bruised, but so painfully familiar it hurt to look at.

They came for me.

The thought wasn't triumphant. It didn't feel real. He was too tired, too hollow. But as Victor's tears hit his shoulder and those arms locked around him, something shifted. A crack in the numbness. A thread of warmth buried beneath the ruin.

They still care. I'm still someone.

He didn't have the strength to cry. But the ache in his chest was the closest thing he'd felt to being human in years.

Victor's chest caved.

He exhaled like he'd been underwater for five years.

And still, he didn't speak.

Because there were no words strong enough for what this moment had stolen from him – and then given back.

…………………

Victor crouched slowly, joints creaking, every motion stiff with adrenaline that had nowhere left to go. He stopped just beside Max – close enough to feel the heat still bleeding off him, the shallow tremble in every breath. His hand hovered for a second before landing on Max's shoulder.

It was bone. Not muscle. Not the solid weight he remembered. Just skin stretched over a frame that had endured too much for too long.

"Jesus," Victor muttered, voice cracking on the first word. He forced a crooked grin. "You look like… like someone microwaved you, threw you out, and then forgot you existed."

A twitch. Not quite a smile. But Max's lips moved.

Victor pressed on, throat tightening. "Is this still Max? Or did you get replaced by some half-dead goblin from a sewer pipe?"

His laugh came out strangled. Half-cough, half-sob.

And then he broke.

The laughter collapsed into silence. His head dropped, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched like it was the only thing keeping him from shattering entirely. His hand curled tighter on Max's shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, the words hitching like broken glass. "I wasn't strong enough. I should've… I should've gotten there sooner."

Max moved. Barely. His hand – thin, shaking – found Victor's forearm.

"You're late," Max rasped, voice like ash. "But you got taller. That you? Or the Hulk?"

It hit Victor like a gut-punch wrapped in gold. He barked a laugh – but it turned to sob before it finished. The tears came hot, streaking down his face as he grabbed Max and pulled him in. Hard. Fierce. Not careful. Not gentle.

It wasn't a soldier's embrace. It wasn't a hero's reunion.

It was just one broken man clutching his brother like the world might end again if he let go.

…………………

Victor didn't speak. He just stepped forward and held out his arms.

"Let me," he said quietly, voice low enough that it almost got lost in the wind. "I'll carry you, brother."

Liz hesitated, but Dan gave a single nod. Between them, they gently shifted Max's weight into Victor's waiting grasp.

Liz paused for half a heartbeat longer than she meant to. For five years, her father had only existed as a prayer – one she kept saying even when no one else did. Letting go now felt like dropping a candle into the dark and not knowing if it would catch.

But Victor's arms were sure. And Max... Max leaned into them like he remembered this too.

Liz brushed her fingers once against his hand before stepping back, silently promising herself it wasn't goodbye. Never again.

Max didn't resist. His body leaned in like it remembered this – the feel of safety, of someone else taking the burden. His head dropped softly against Victor's collarbone. His eyes fluttered shut, breath shallow but steady.

Victor's arms locked around him, careful but sure. He held Max like he was made of smoke – like any wrong movement might make him vanish.

His jaw clenched. His eyes burned. But he didn't let go.

Around them, the others gathered. Liz stepped in first, brushing hair from her face, eyes locked on her father with something deeper than grief – something like awe. Dan stood just behind her, one hand still raised as if ready to protect. Alyssa, fists still clenched, was blinking too fast. Chloe hovered by her side, lips pressed tight. And Ying – ever silent – watched them all, sword still sheathed, but heart wide open.

They didn't speak. They didn't need to.

The group stood in the centre of the Charles Bridge, framed by crumbling statues and the glow of distant fire. Behind them, Prague bled – flames licking rooftops, screams echoing faintly from the Old Town. The rebellion was breaking. The flesh tide had not receded.

But for a few stolen minutes, it didn't matter.

The world had narrowed to this moment – seven souls, half-broken, bone-tired, but finally together again.

They sat where they could. Against railings. On cracked stone. Ying crouched near the edge, gaze sweeping the skyline. Chloe leaned her back to a pitted angel statue, arms crossed but fingers twitching – still listening. Alyssa sat beside Liz, one arm slung across her shoulders without a word. Liz let herself rest there, just for now, her head tilted toward the warmth.

Somewhere out there, people still chanted Max's name. Still raised banners to a Flame Father who hadn't lit the sky. Chloe didn't correct them. Not yet. But she looked at Dan – and knew where that light had really come from.

Dan worked in silence, kneeling beside Max with a damp cloth and steady hands. His healing had already done its work – burns sealed, fractures knit – but there was still dirt in the creases of Max's skin. Dried blood flaked from his hair. The stink of old pain clung like smoke.

Dan's touch was gentle, but his gaze lingered. He saw the weight still etched in Max's bones. The hollow beneath his cheeks. The way he blinked like light might hurt him. Max didn't resist the cleaning.

He saw the old burns. The starved frame. The way Max flinched at nothing.

How many times did you bleed with no one to stop it?

His hands didn't shake – he wouldn't let them. But the lump in his throat didn't go away.

"You held on," he said softly, not sure if Max could hear him. "That's all anyone could've asked."

Max didn't reply. But his breathing eased. Just a little.

Victor didn't sit.

He stood just behind Max, one hand on the hilt of his blade, the other resting lightly on Max's shoulder – like an anchor. His eyes never stopped moving. Scanning rooftops. Watching shadows. Every twitch in the smoke made his grip tighten.

He didn't speak. Didn't sharpen his blade like before. That ritual was gone. Now it was just silence and vigilance – the posture of a man who had nearly lost everything once, and would burn the world before letting it happen again.

To anyone watching, he looked like a soldier guarding a king.

But Max wasn't a king. Just his brother. Broken. Breathing. And Victor wasn't going to let anything take him again.

They weren't strategising. They weren't planning.

They were just... here.

Alive. Bruised. Burned.

But here.

Max shifted, barely able to lift his head. "This real?" he muttered, voice like paper.

Dan's hand tightened on his shoulder. "Yeah," he said. "It's real."

No one answered with words. But every breath in that circle carried something louder than language.

After five years of running, bleeding, and breaking – the circle had closed.

Max was here. They all were.

It wasn't safety. It wasn't peace. But it was enough to breathe again.

The nightmare could wait.

Max didn't know if he could walk tomorrow. But tonight, someone held him. And for the first time in five years, he let them.

On an old bridge beneath a burning sky – hope didn't burn. It held.

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