The terminal was a tomb of silence as the final hour of darkness arrived. Chloe and Mel were slumped against a pile of moldy life vests, their breathing synchronized in the deep, heavy rhythm of the exhausted. Across the way, the family was a tangle of limbs and tattered blankets, Kyle’s hand still white-knuckled around the shaft of his halberd even in sleep.

  Only Ren and Amiel remained awake, two specters watching the purple light creep across the toxic surface of the East River.

  Ren adjusted his hood, the movement causing a faint rattle in his chest. He looked at Amiel, who was meticulously sharpening his jagged violet dagger with a whetstone that made no sound.

  "You weren't always a Ferryman," Ren said, his voice a ghost of a whisper. "Before the sky turned red... what was a man like you doing?"

  Amiel didn’t look up. "I told you. I was a fisherman. But that’s a polite way of saying I was a man who hated his desk job. I spent forty hours a week staring at spreadsheets in a cubicle in Midtown, and every weekend I’d take my little skiff out here. I’d sit in the middle of this river, surrounded by the noise of ten million people, and I’d wait for a bite. It was the only time the world felt quiet."

  He paused, testing the edge of the blade against his thumb. "Now, the world is always quiet. And my hobby? It’s a way of life. I don't miss the spreadsheets, Lexington. I miss the fish that didn't try to eat the boat, but I don't miss the old world."

  Amiel finally looked at Ren, his amber eyes reflecting the sickly violet of the sky. "What about you? I’ve seen your type. The ‘Lone wolf.' You’re built to be a solitary predator. You take, you consume, you move on. So why the baggage? Why the girls? Why risk your neck for a family that has nothing to give you?"

  Ren looked at Chloe and Mel. In his [Thermal Vision], they were two bright, burning anchors in a world of freezing indigo. "I didn't choose them," Ren said softly. "The system... it tries to turn us into numbers. Levels. Stats. But when I’m with them, I remember I’m Ren Vane. Not just a Ghost. Not just a Level 5. They’re the only thing keeping me from becoming exactly what you called me—a wolf."

  Amiel chuckled, a dry sound. "A noble sentiment. Hope it doesn't get you drowned. In this river, a 'human' is just a high-calorie snack."

  "Wake up," Amiel’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

  The transition was instant. Chloe’s [Twitch] jerked her upright, her hand already on her sword. Mel’s eyes snapped open, her good ear tilting toward the water. The mother, Sarah, sat up with a gasp, immediately pressing Leo to her chest. As the baby began to let out a high-pitched wail, Sarah instinctively began to breastfeed, the muffled sounds of the child’s hunger the only noise in the terminal.

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  Amiel led them out to the "boat." It wasn't the bone-skiff Ren had imagined, but a relic of the old world—a sturdy, wide-bellied fishing boat with a small cabin and a tattered sail rigged to a makeshift mast in the center. But it had been transformed. The hull was plated with the iridescent scales of Level 6 Carp, and the "hood" of the cabin was draped in the leathery skin of a river-beast, masking the scent of the humans inside.

  "Get in," Amiel commanded. "Positions. Now."

  They boarded in silence. Amiel stood at the tiller, his eyes scanning the horizon. He gathered them in the center of the deck, his voice a low, dangerous vibration.

  "Listen once," he whispered. "The motor is off. We rely on the wind and the current. No talking. No pointing. If you see something, keep your eyes on the deck. If the baby cries, Sarah, you cover his mouth. If Ren coughs, he covers his own. If any of you make a sound that shouldn't be here, I will throw you overboard myself to save the rest. Understood?"

  He reached into his pocket and produced the remaining Goby eggs, handing one to David, one to Sarah, and one to Kyle.

  "The taste is rot and copper," Amiel warned. "Use them only if the boat goes down. If you eat them now and scream from the flavor, you’ll call every Devil in the water to our position."

  Then, he pushed off.

  Without his [Thermal Vision], the river was a nightmare of texture. The water wasn't liquid; it was a thick, viscous sludge of toxic green and oily violet, swirling with "Flux-scars"—pockets of energy that hissed when they touched the air. The debris of the Williamsburg Bridge loomed above them like the ribcage of a dead god, the twisted steel draped in glowing moss and hanging vines of Flux-kelp.

  The sound was the worst part. It wasn't the sound of water. It was the sound of movement. Large, wet slaps against the bridge pilings. The distant, rhythmic grinding of teeth. A low, subsonic hum that made the floorboards of the boat vibrate against the soles of Ren’s boots.

  The smell was a suffocating mix of stagnant swamp, ozone, and the coppery tang of old blood. It filled Ren’s compromised lungs, making every breath a battle of will not to cough.

  Ren looked back. The shoreline of Manhattan—their campfire now a tiny, flickering orange dot—grew smaller and smaller until it was swallowed by the violet haze.

  He looked at the others. Chloe was ashen-faced, her knuckles white. Mel was vibrating, her echolocation likely picking up a thousand horrors she couldn't see. The couple, David and Sarah, were huddled together, eyes closed, praying to a god that had likely left the planet during the Integration.

  And then there was Kyle.

  Kyle stood at the prow, his halberd held out like a defensive ward. In the grey-purple light, he looked terrified. His eyes were darting everywhere, jumping at every ripple, every shadow in the depths. He was a boy trying to play protector in a world of monsters, and his fear was a physical thing, a scent that the river could surely taste.

  Amiel signaled to them, a sharp motion of his hand to hold on tight. They had reached the center of the river—the "Deep Trench" where the current accelerated. The boat began to pitch and roll as it hit a pocket of Flux-Turbulence. The bone-skiff groaned, the scales on its hull clashing together.

  Ren felt the [Shadow Weight] beginning to tickle his skin. The sun was mere minutes away. He shifted his weight to compensate for a sudden lurch.

  CLANK, CLANK.

  The sound was deafening.

  Kyle’s halberd, loosened by his sweaty palms and the sudden tilt of the boat, had slipped. The heavy steel head struck the floorboards with a clear, bell-like ring that echoed off the surface of the water and bounced against the underside of the ruined bridge.

  The silence that followed was absolute.

  Every head turned toward Kyle. The boy’s face went from pale to ghostly white, his mouth hanging open in horror.

  Amiel didn't move his head, but his amber eyes shifted toward the water. His grip on the tiller tightened until the wood creaked.

  "Shit," Amiel whispered, the word barely a breath.