Nico moved through the clinic like a ghost, visiting the injured from the riot.
Forty-seven dead. Hundreds wounded.
He'd memorized all forty-seven names. Could recite them in his sleep. Did recite them, during the nightmares that came every time he closed his eyes.
Mrs. Huang. Terrence Rodriguez. Marcus Liu. Ana Chen. David Okoye.
On and on. A litany of death.
The clinic was overwhelmed. Maya and her team worked twenty-hour shifts, treating broken bones, shock baton burns, gunshot wounds.
Bed twelve: A woman who'd taken a baton to the face. Fractured skull. She might recover. Might not.
Bed fifteen: A teenager who'd been trampled. Crushed ribs. Collapsed lung. Alive, but hurting.
Bed twenty-three: An old man who'd inhaled too much tear gas. Respiratory damage. Every breath a struggle.
All of them had fought for Nico. Protected him. Risked everything.
And now they were broken.
"You shouldn't be here," Maya said, appearing at his elbow. "You need to stay hidden."
"I needed to see them."
"Why? To torture yourself?"
"To remember what my choices cost."
Nico moved to the next bed. A young woman, maybe twenty-five, with burns across her arms from an improvised explosive.
"Uncle Nico," she said when she saw him. Her voice was weak, pained. "We did it. We protected you."
"You shouldn't have. I wasn't worth it."
"Don't." Her good hand grabbed his. "Don't you dare say that. We didn't fight for you. We fought for what you gave us. For the idea that we mattered. That we could have dignity."
"And it got you burned."
"And I'd do it again." She coughed, winced. "When SSS came, when they started arresting people, it wasn't about free meals. It was about refusing to go back to being invisible. Disposable. We fought because you showed us we didn't have to accept that."
Nico had no words.
She let go of his hand. "Don't let our sacrifices be for nothing. Keep fighting. Keep showing them we matter."
He moved on to the next bed. And the next. Every person had a similar message:
Don't give up.
Keep going.
We'd do it again.
By the time he reached the end of the clinic, Nico was hollow. Empty. Unable to process the weight of it.
Outside, Kade was waiting. "You done?"
"Never."
They walked in silence back to the safe house. The streets were quieter now. SSS had imposed a strict curfew. Anyone out after dark got arrested.
Level 8 felt like an occupied zone. Which it was.
"How are you holding up?" Kade asked.
"I'm not."
"Yeah. Me neither."
At the safe house, Lin had prepared food. Nico couldn't eat. Kade forced down a few bites out of necessity.
"We need to talk about next steps," Lin said.
"There are no next steps. We lost. Corporate won. Forty-seven people are dead and hundreds more are hurt. What's left to talk about?"
"What comes next," Lin said firmly. "The raid broke our physical infrastructure. Seized generators, water tanks, supplies. But the networks persist. The cooperatives are still running. People are still organizing. We didn't lose—we just lost a battle."
"Feels like we lost the war."
"Wars don't end with one battle. Not real ones." Lin pulled up her tablet. "Listen. In the three days since the riot, seventeen new cooperatives have formed. Food, housing, medical cost-sharing. The people who fought? They're not giving up. They're building."
"Without my money. Without my infrastructure."
"Exactly. They're learning to sustain themselves. Isn't that what we wanted?"
Nico looked at the data. She was right. The cooperatives were growing. Organizing. Becoming independent.
His failure was their success.
"I don't know what to do now," he admitted.
"You support them. Fund the cooperatives that are forming. Teach organizing skills. Help them become self-sufficient. The era of Uncle Nico solving everyone's problems is over. Now we build power that doesn't require a benefactor."
"With what money? Corporate's going to come after me again. Probably freeze whatever accounts they can find."
"Then we move the money. Hide it. Distribute it to trusted people who can fund operations without tying back to you directly." Lin's voice gentled. "Nico, you need to accept that your role is changing. You can't be the visible king anymore. You're a fugitive. But you can be the hidden hand that funds the revolution."
"I never wanted a revolution."
"Neither did most revolutionaries. But here we are."
Nico took out his vape pen. Hands shaking. He needed relief from the weight.
Four hits. Five. Enough to dull the edges.
Not enough to forget the forty-seven names.
"I visited them," he said. "The injured. Every one of them said the same thing. Don't give up. Keep fighting. Make their sacrifices matter."
"Will you?"
"I don't know how."
"One day at a time," Kade said. "One decision at a time. Today, we mourn. Tomorrow, we plan. The day after, we build."
"And the forty-seven dead?"
"We honor them by making what they protected last."
That night, Nico couldn't sleep. He lay in the dark, reciting names:
Mrs. Huang.
Terrence Rodriguez.
Marcus Liu.
Ana Chen.
David Okoye.
Forty-seven names. Forty-seven lives. Forty-seven people who'd believed in something enough to die for it.
He hadn't earned that faith. Didn't deserve that sacrifice.
But they'd given it anyway.
The weight should have crushed him.
Instead, it hardened into something else.
Purpose.
If they'd died believing this mattered, then he had to make it matter. Had to ensure their deaths weren't just casualties of a failed charity operation.
Had to build something that lasted.
Tomorrow, he'd start distributing money to the cooperatives. Teaching organizing. Becoming the invisible support instead of the visible king.
Tonight, he mourned.
And recited the names.
Forty-seven times.
Until he finally fell asleep.
And dreamed of ghosts.