Feo didn’t move at first. His breathing was still uneven, his wings trembling slightly from the sheer effort of keeping still despite the pain screaming through his body. Every part of him wanted to refuse, to insist that they keep moving, that stopping would only make it worse. That if he let himself rest, even for a second, it would be even harder to get back up again.

But Lucius’s voice was firm, steady, grounding in a way that made it clear he wasn’t about to argue.

With a slow exhale, Feo finally relented, shifting his weight and lowering himself carefully to the ground. The motion alone sent a sharp jolt of pain ripping up his spine, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself through it, carefully maneuvering his wings so they wouldn’t press against anything. The last thing he needed was for them to scrape against the gravel and send another shock of agony through his nerves.

The gravel crunched beneath him as he settled, muscles still tight with tension, body wound up like a coiled spring ready to snap at any moment. His breathing was still uneven, shallow, like he couldn’t quite get enough air into his lungs. Rolling his shoulders slightly, he tested how much movement he could handle before the pain became unbearable. The answer? Not much.

He clenched his jaw. This wasn’t good. He’d been through plenty of injuries before, but this—this was different. He could feel it in the way his body reacted, the way his muscles stiffened every time he so much as twitched. It wasn’t just exhaustion. It wasn’t something he could shake off after a few hours of rest. This was the kind of pain that settled deep, the kind that wouldn’t just fade with time.

Feo exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to shove those thoughts aside. Dwelling on it wouldn’t change anything. What mattered now was staying in one piece long enough to get out of here.

His gaze flicked to Lucius as he rummaged through the suitcase, pulling out food, water, and the small tins of painkillers. The sight made something in Feo’s chest twist—not quite guilt, but something close. He hated this. Hated feeling like a burden. Hated needing help. He was supposed to be stronger than this. He was stronger than this.

And yet, as much as he wanted to refuse, he knew he couldn’t. Not right now.

When Lucius held out the food, Feo hesitated for only a moment before taking it, his fingers stiff and aching as he unwrapped it. He forced himself to take slow, measured bites, even though his stomach felt twisted and unsettled. He needed the energy. They both did.

His eyes drifted to the aspirin bottle in Lucius’s hand, watching as he struggled to get it open with one hand. The sight made something in Feo’s chest clench again—an uncomfortable, foreign feeling he wasn’t sure how to place. Without a word, he reached out, carefully taking the bottle from Lucius. Even with the stiffness in his own hands, he was able to twist the cap off after a moment of effort, shaking out a couple of pills before passing it back.

As he washed them down with a swallow of water, Feo finally spoke, his voice rough, strained. “You really think we can still make it?”

His blue-green eyes flickered toward Lucius, searching his face for something—certainty, reassurance, anything that would make this feel less impossible. “After all this? You still think we can pull this off?”

It wasn’t doubt, not exactly. It was just… everything that had just happened—the earthquake, Tetra’s death, the sheer force of destruction they’d just witnessed—had changed things. It had to. There was no way they could just go back to the plan like nothing had happened.

And yet…

Feo wanted to believe. He wanted to believe they could still move forward, that this wasn’t the end of everything they’d built. That they still had a shot at making it to Florida, at figuring out their next steps, at carving out something real for themselves.

But right now, sitting on the cold ground, his back still bleeding, his wings too damaged to fold away, everything felt uncertain in a way that made his stomach churn.

“…Because I don’t know,” Feo admitted after a long pause, his voice quieter this time, almost reluctant. “I don’t know if anything we planned still matters after this. I don’t know if we’re still heading toward something—or if we’re just running from whatever the hell that was.”

He gestured vaguely toward the ruined city behind them, though he didn’t turn to look. He didn’t want to look.

His fingers tightened around the edge of his sleeve, the tension in his shoulders still refusing to ease. “I just—I need to know if we’re still moving toward something. If this is still worth it.”

Because if it wasn’t…

Feo didn't really know what they'd do.