The flickering fluorescent lights of the warehouse hummed a low, discordant note that mirrored the tension in Elias’s chest. He looked at the bruised knuckles of his hands—a "Nameless Servant" in a city that forgot its heroes before the ink on the morning paper even dried. "You’re still here," a voice cut through the shadows.
Crum didn't believe in wasted breath. He was the anchor, the one who saw the cracks in the foundation before the building ever shook. To him, to "Endure" wasn't just to survive the night; it was to build something that the morning couldn't tear down. "They're coming," Elias said, finally looking up.
Elias didn’t turn. He knew the cadence. It was Ada. She moved with a grace that defied the grit of the district, her eyes holding the kind of fire that kept the cold at bay. "I told you, Ada," Elias muttered, his voice raspy. "I don’t leave until the job is done."