Kade hid it well.
The nightmares. The shaking. The way he couldn't close his eyes without seeing Terrence Rodriguez bleeding out. Mrs. Huang going down under stampeding feet. The moment he'd fired a Molotov cocktail and watched SSS officers scream.
He'd helped organize the defense. Had taught people how to make improvised weapons. Had planned the barricades and choke points.
Had gotten people killed.
Effectively. Tactically. Necessarily.
He told himself it was war. That casualties were inevitable. That he'd done the best he could.
The nightmares didn't care about his justifications.
The Veil helped. Of course it helped.
Three cartridges became five. Five became eight.
He was using more than Nico now. More than he had before the overdose that almost killed him.
But this time was different. This time, he was being careful.
(That's what he told himself. Every addict tells themselves that.)
"You okay?" Nico asked during a supply run.
"Fine. You?"
"I asked first."
Kade forced a smile. "Just tired. Three weeks of hiding you, coordinating security, managing safe houses. It's a lot."
"You can take a break. Let someone else—"
"No." Too sharp. Kade softened his tone. "No, I've got it. You need someone you trust. I'm that someone."
Nico studied him. "You look worse than I do."
"Competition?"
"Concern."
"Don't." Kade grabbed the supply bag. "I'm handling it. You focus on your shit, I'll handle mine."
He left before Nico could push further.
The safe house was empty when Kade returned.
He should eat. Should sleep. Should do any of the hundred maintenance tasks that kept him functional.
Instead, he pulled out his vape pen.
One hit to steady himself.
Two hits to quiet the screaming in his head.
Three hits to stop seeing the bodies.
Four hits—
The cartridge ran empty.
Kade loaded another.
The next hit didn't land right. Too harsh. His lungs rebelled.
But the fifth hit smoothed it out. The sixth made the world softer. The seventh made him forget what he was trying to forget.
By the tenth hit, he couldn't remember why he was upset.
By the fifteenth, he couldn't remember much at all.
Maya found him slumped against the wall at 0300, barely conscious.
"Kade! Shit—Kade, can you hear me?"
He mumbled something. Not words. Not coherent.
She checked his vitals: pulse weak, breathing shallow, pupils pinpoints.
Another overdose. Not as bad as the last one, but bad enough.
Maya grabbed her medical kit, prepped naloxone. "This is going to suck. I'm sorry."
She injected him.
Kade convulsed. Vomited. Came back gasping and miserable and alive.
"Fuck. Fuck. Why'd you—I was fine—"
"You were dying."
"Same thing."
Maya sat beside him while he shook through the beginning of withdrawal. "This is the second time. You know that, right? Second time I've pulled you back from overdose."
"Not keeping score."
"Maybe you should. Because three strikes and you're dead, Kade. Naloxone doesn't work if there's no one around to administer it."
"Then maybe next time, don't."
The words hung in the air.
"You want to die," Maya said quietly.
"I want to not hurt."
"That's not the same thing."
"Close enough."
They sat in silence. Kade shaking. Maya waiting.
Finally: "I can't stop seeing them. The people who died. The ones I helped kill."
"You didn't kill them. Corporate did. SSS did."
"I made the Molotov cocktails. Taught people how to use them. Planned the defense that got people shot. I pulled the fucking trigger, Maya. Don't tell me it's not my fault."
"It's not your fault that Corporate decided to massacre people for eating free food."
"But it's my fault they had weapons. My fault they fought instead of surrendering. My fault—" His voice broke. "Terrence Rodriguez was nineteen. He came to me asking how to help. I handed him a bottle full of cleaning solution and told him where to throw it. And now he's dead."
"He chose to fight."
"Because I showed him how!"
Maya had no answer for that.
They sat in the pre-dawn darkness, two broken people in a broken world.
"You need treatment," Maya said finally. "Real treatment. Not me hitting you with naloxone every few weeks. Actual detox, therapy, support."
"Where? Corporate controls all addiction services. I walk into a treatment center, I'm arrested."
"Then we find another way. Underground support groups. Informal therapy. Something."
"Or I just keep using until it kills me. Saves everyone the trouble."
"Don't." Maya's voice cracked. "Don't you dare. Nico needs you. The operation needs you. I need you."
"You need someone competent. Someone who isn't one bad hit away from dying in a corner somewhere. That's not me anymore. Maybe it never was."
"You're one of the best people I know."
"I'm a junkie and a killer. That's what I am. That's all I'll ever be."
Maya grabbed his face, forced him to look at her. "You're an addict who saved hundreds of lives during the riot. Who organized defense that prevented total massacre. Who has spent the last four years helping Nico help people. You're allowed to be broken, Kade. You're allowed to hurt. But you don't get to decide you're worthless."
"Why not? Everyone else has."
"I haven't. Nico hasn't. Lin hasn't. The hundreds of people you've helped haven't. The only person who thinks you're worthless is you."
Kade pulled away. "You don't understand."
"You're right. I don't understand military trauma or survivor's guilt or what it's like to make impossible choices in combat. But I understand addiction. I understand pain. And I understand that you using until you die helps no one."
"It helps me not feel this anymore."
"For a few hours. Then you feel it worse. That's not a solution—that's a spiral."
Kade knew she was right. Of course she was right.
But right didn't make the pain stop. Didn't make the ghosts go away. Didn't change the fact that he'd armed teenagers and watched them die.
"I don't know how to live with this," he admitted.
"One day at a time. Same as everything else."
"That's not enough."
"It's all we have."
They sat until dawn.
Kade shaking through withdrawal.
Maya keeping watch.
Neither knowing if he'd survive the next week.
Both knowing he'd try anyway.
Because what else was there to do?