Halfway up the stairs to Ortega’s apartment, you stop.
Not because you want to but because your body betrays you. Knees trembling, lungs refusing air, like they know better than your mind does. Like they’ve finally had enough of carrying you toward mistakes.
You stare at the door ahead. A few more steps and soon it’ll be too late, there is no going back.
Retribution is supposed to be brave. Fearless.
Ash Monroe is not.
Ash is the one who flinches at his own reflection, who wears long sleeves in summer, who never stops hearing the sound of cracking glass and bone whenever a car door shuts too hard. Retribution is armor, rage polished to a sharp edge. Retribution would not stand here like a coward on Ortega’s landing, trying to convince himself not to turn around.
If you were stronger, you would leave. If you were smarter, you never would have come.
Nowdays the noose gets tighter around your neck by each day, and you are so tired of being known only in pieces.
You force your hand up, press the doorbell. The sound echoes like a gunshot.
When Ortega opens the door, smiling like you are worth something, it almost breaks you right there.
“Ash,” he says, warmth in voice. Like you’re not carrying a confession sharp enough to carve him open.
“We need to talk,” you say, voice flat, stripped of every hesitation you’re choking on inside. Retribution would be proud of that. Ash only feels sick.
The smile fades into worry, into that unbearable tenderness you never asked for. “Of course,” Ortega says, stepping aside, like he doesn’t understand the danger standing on his threshold.
You walk in anyway. You are shaking, every step of it, but you keep walking.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. Not suspicious. Concerned. He never learns.
You laugh, brittle. “What isn’t?”
He frowns, but doesn’t bite. He waits. He’s always been good at that—standing steady while you try to tear yourself apart, as if he can hold you together by sheer stubbornness.
You hate him for it.
You love him for it.
You wish you were someone else so either of those things could matter.
You roll your sleeve up before you can change your mind. The motion is clumsy, jerky, like you’re trying to rip your own arm off instead of just revealing it. Black fabric drags against scar tissue, catches on ridges, and then—
Orange, burning bright under the apartment light.
The truth. The wound. The brand.
You hold your arm out between you like a weapon, because that’s all it ever was.
You don’t look at his face. You can’t. You stare at the floor, at the rug you’ve stepped over a hundred times before, and you brace for the silence to turn into disgust. For the warmth in his eyes to go cold. For him to finally, finally see you for what you are.
When the silence breaks, it’s not with anger, not with fear.
“Ash…” Soft. Like it means something.
You shake your head. “No. ReGene. That’s all I am.” Your voice is sharp, brittle, splintering in your throat. “I’m not what you think. I was grown in a tube, carved into a weapon, and they stamped it right into my skin so no one would forget. You shouldn’t have let me in. You should’ve locked the door.”
Ortega steps closer. Too close. You stumble back, but the wall stops you before you can escape. His hand lifts, cautious, like you’re a wounded animal that might bite.
“Can I—” he hesitates, and you almost laugh at the absurdity of it— “can I touch you?”
The laugh claws its way out of your throat anyway. It sounds wrong, jagged, half a sob. “Why are you asking? I’m not human, Ortega. I’m a machine they built. I don’t get a choice.”
“You do,” he says, and you hate the certainty in his voice, hate the way it makes something fragile stir in your chest. “with me you always did.”
“No.” Your voice cracks. Your eyes burn. “Don’t you get it? I’m not real. I was never real.”
And when he doesn’t answer, when instead he takes another step and holds his hand out like it’s the simplest thing in the world, you realize you’re trembling. Not from fear of him, but from the terror that he won’t recoil. That he’ll keep looking at you like that.
You stare at Ortega’s hand like it’s a trick. Like the moment you reach out, it’ll vanish and you’ll be left with nothing but empty air. That would make sense. That would fit.
He waits. Patient, ike he has all the time in the world for you.
Your throat closes. “Don’t,” you rasp.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Ortega says.
The words land like a blow. Because you know it’s true, and you wish it wasn’t. It would be so much easier if he raised his voice, if he looked at you with the disgust you deserve. But no—he just stands there, ridiculous in his softness, asking for permission you don’t know how to give.
You should run. You should end this before it ruins him, before it ruins you. But your knees won’t move, and your chest is caving in, and you are so tired.
So when he steps forward and closes the distance, when his arms wrap around you with infuriating care, you flinch hard enough to make him pause.
“I—” he starts, pulling back a little.
“No.” The word scrapes out of you, raw, desperate. “Just—” You choke on the rest, burying your face against his shoulder because if you see his expression right now, you’ll shatter.
His arms tighten, cautious but firm, anchoring you in a way that feels unbearable. His body is warm against yours, his heartbeat loud in your ear.
It’s wrong. It’s dangerous. It’s the only thing keeping you upright.
You press your nails into your palms hard enough to hurt. To remind yourself you’re here, that this is real, that it isn’t some Farm-induced fever dream.
Ortega’s voice rumbles low against your hair. “You don’t have to carry this alone anymore, Ash. Not with me.”
You almost laugh. It would sound like a sob if you did. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You’ll regret this.”
“No,” he murmurs, without hesitation, without doubt. “I won’t.”
You shake your head, but the protest dies in your throat. Because the longer he holds you, the more you believe him, just a little.
You’re Retribution. You’re a weapon. You don’t need this.
But Ash Monroe does.
So you let yourself sink against him, trembling and exhausted, and for once you don’t fight it.
You let him hold the pieces of you together.
The apartment is quiet, but it isn’t silent. There’s the faint hum of the heater, the distant sound of a car outside, the steady thrum of Ortega’s heartbeat under your ear. Everything mundane, everything human, and it twists something sharp in your chest.
Ortega tilts his head, still holding you like you’re fragile. “You don’t have to say anything,” he whispers. “Not yet. Just…stay. Let me stay with you.”
The absurdity of it nearly makes you laugh, but the warmth of his hands, the way he refuses to let you pull away, makes your chest ache in a way that is almost unbearable.
And then, quietly, almost painfully, you let your guard drop. Just a fraction. Not fully, not yet. But enough. Enough for the taut string in your chest to loosen just slightly.
“You don’t understand,” you murmur, voice small, almost inaudible. “I’m dangerous. I’m…broken. Not human. I…”
Ortega presses a kiss to the top of your head. “I don’t care. You’re still you. Still Ash. Still someone I care about.”
The words hit harder than anything. Because you shouldn’t want them. Because every fiber of Retribution screams that you don’t deserve care. But Ash Monroe wants him anyway, this impossible warmth against your battered soul.
You press yourself closer, letting the armor fade just enough to feel something other than the edges of your own hatred. It’s not complete safety. It’s not redemption. It’s just…a pause. A moment.
And for now, that is enough.
You let Ortega hold you, and the moment stretches. You can feel every heartbeat, every shallow breath, and it’s a weight and a tether all at once.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, and you hate that he notices, hate that it matters to him, hate that it matters to you.
“I’m fine,” you say, sharper than you intend. The lie is reflex, muscle memory.
“You’re not fine,” Ortega says, tone patient but firm. “Ash…can you look at me?”
You can’t. Not while your arms are still burning with the memory of your tattoos, not while your lungs feel too tight to breathe properly, not while the idea of being vulnerable feels like stepping off a cliff into fire.
“Not yet,” you admit, voice breaking. A sound you almost don’t recognize as yours.
Ortega tilts his head, careful. “That’s okay. You don’t have to take off your masks all at once. “
Masks. How many layers are there? Sidestep, Eden, Ash…Retribution. Each one a blade, a shield, a lie. And every time you let someone in, you risk them seeing the wrong one.
“I don’t know how to be me,” you confess, whispering. “I don’t even know if I want to be any of them.”
Ortega doesn’t answer at first. He hugs you tighter, hands resting lightly on your waist and back, steadying you without forcing you. “You are you,” he says simply. “All of it. Every piece. I don’t care which mask you wear or which side of yourself you show me. I just…want you here.”
You let the words wash over you. You let yourself believe them. Dangerous. Stupid. You deserve nothing. You deserve pain, chaos. And yet…his hands, his voice, his presence—it’s soft enough to make you ache for more.
“Even…Retribution?” you ask.
“Especially him,” Ortega says lightheartedly, without hesitation. “He’s part of you too. We have unfinished business with each other.”
And suddenly, the jagged edges inside you feel just slightly less sharp. Not gone. Not healed. But held. Temporarily contained.
For the first time, you consider letting yourself exist without violence, without calculated destruction, without the constant self-loathing that has been your companion since the Farm.
For now, it’s enough that Ortega believes in you. That he chooses you, even knowing what you are. Even knowing who you are capable of being.
You lean harder into him, letting yourself be held, letting yourself breathe. Ash Monroe and Retribution, in this small apartment, in this quiet moment, both can exist. Both can survive.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough to keep going.
You leave Ortega’s apartment later that night feeling hollow and full all at once. The warmth he gave you lingers under your skin, a stubborn ache that refuses to leave, like a brand burned deeper than any tattoo.
Outside, the city hums, indifferent. Lights blur past you as you walk, and every step feels heavier than the last. Retribution stirs under your skin, impatient and sharp, reminding you that the world doesn’t pause just because Ash Monroe finally felt something like safety.
You think about the way Ortega looked at you, like you were whole, like you weren’t a weapon, like you weren’t broken. And part of you wants to believe it. Part of you needs to.
But the other part—the side you’ve trained, engineered, and hardened into something lethal—refuses to sit quietly. Retribution scratches at your ribs as if to remind you. You have a duty. You have a purpose.
And yet, Ash Monroe—the part of you that is still scared, still desperate for something real—clings to Ortega’s words. You replay them over and over in your head: I want you here. All of it. Every piece.
You hate how much it hurts. You hate how much it comforts you.
Back at your hideout, you strip off the jacket, peel away the last vestiges of your civilian disguise, and stare at the mirror. The orange tattoos gleam under the harsh light, a reminder of who you are.
You flex your hands. You feel both halves of yourself collide in a tension so sharp you almost taste blood.
You close your eyes and inhale, letting the anger and fear and aching hope settle in the pit of your stomach. You are two things at once: weapon and person, killer and survivor, mask and truth. And for the first time, you consider the possibility that maybe, just maybe, you don’t have to destroy one to preserve the other.
The path won’t be simple. It will never be simple. The world will never forgive Retribution for what he is. Ortega can’t protect you from everyone, and Ash Monroe will always be hunted.
