The girl's name was Mari.
Hernan didn't ask. He read it off her hospital tag.
She'd been transferred to a local clinic in the outer edge of District 9 — still dirty, still bleeding, but breathing. Technically off the grid. No press. No reports.
But someone had spoken.
An audio trace had appeared on the dark channels — a whisper of a Zodiac execution, logged on a street scavenger's recorder.
A half-second clip. Muffled. But enough.
Enough to ruin everything.
So Hernan went back.
Alone.
He moved through the ruins of District 11 like a ghost — no wristband, no cadet uniform, just a grey hood and a medtech crate he'd stolen from the dorm supply closet.
The streets were quieter now. Buzzards gone. The air smelled like ozone and soot.
The clinic was barely guarded. One camera. No outer wall. Just a single nurse at the front desk, reading off a screen and chewing a stim strip.
Hernan didn't speak.
He handed her the crate.
"Concord follow-up," he said. "Post-rescue scan and DNA clearance."
She waved him through without looking up.
"Room five. Last on the left."
He found her alone.
She lay curled in the corner bed, IV drip pulsing green at her wrist. Her lip was split. One eye swollen. But she was awake.
When she saw him, she stiffened.
"You were there," she whispered.
He nodded.
"You saved me."
He didn't correct her.
She sat up slightly, wincing. "The others… the ones they killed… one of them was—was trying to surrender."
"I know."
She frowned. "He said he used to be a hero. He—he didn't want to hurt anyone."
"He didn't."
Silence.
She looked at him, voice trembling. "Then why did they shoot him?"
Hernan looked down at his hands.
They were clean. Always clean.
"Because he wasn't useful anymore."
He stepped forward.
Her breath caught. "Wait… what are you—?"
She saw the syringe too late.
He caught her gently by the shoulder and pressed the needle in. Fast. Silent. Painless.
Her eyes widened.
Then stilled.
She didn't scream.
Just stopped.
Like a light being turned off in a room no one had entered in years.
He held her for a moment.
Just to make sure.
Then he cleaned the site, replaced the vial in the waste bin, and left through the service stairwell.
The nurse never looked up.
Back in the safe zone, under the soft lights of the Academy showers, Hernan stood under the water until it ran cold.
He watched it pool at his feet.
No blood.
No dirt.
Just the memory of a face that hadn't begged. Hadn't fought.
She'd just asked why.
And he'd had no answer that didn't taste like poison.
Later, in the quiet dark of Room 103, Nico snored in his bunk while Hernan stared at the ceiling.
He wasn't angry. Wasn't proud.
He just… counted.
Another mark on the file.
Not a villain.
Not a hero.
Not an enemy.
Just someone who saw too much.
And now she was gone.
Like screams swallowed by the dust in a district no one visited.