Tòumíng stood on the top floor of the building, leaning over the metal railing, staring down at the concrete eight stories below. The night sky stretched above him, polluted by city lights, stars barely visible through the orange glow of urban sprawl.
He leaned forward slightly, testing the railing's stability, calculating whether the height was sufficient to turn him into a puddle upon impact.
Testing whether Schrödinger's Heart would save him from that or if the quantum superposition would finally collapse in a way that stuck.
Then he sobbed.
Not quietly.
Not with dignity.
Full, body-wracking sobs that shook his newly-regenerated frame, tears streaming down his face, snot running from his nose, the kind of crying that came from three years of suppressed trauma finally breaking through.
He cried for over ten minutes.
For his parents.
For the life they'd tried to build.
For the secrets they'd kept. For the debt they'd left him. For the fact that his entire existence had been shaped by decisions made before he was even born.
Korean. He was Korean. His name wasn't even real.
Min-woo and Ji-yeon had given him a Chinese name, Tòumíng, transparent, to hide him. To make him invisible.
And it had failed spectacularly.
Eventually, the sobs tapered off.
Not because the pain had lessened, but because his body simply ran out of energy to sustain that level of emotion. He just stood there, leaning on the railing, staring at nothing, his mind blank and exhausted.
Then he felt a hand on his shoulder.
He didn't jump. Didn't turn. Just acknowledged the presence.
Ghost Claw stood beside him, not saying anything.
Not offering platitudes about "it gets better" or "you'll be okay" or any of the meaningless comfort that people usually tried to provide in situations like this.
She just... stood there. Solid. Present.
After a moment, she reached into one of her tactical vest pockets and pulled out a box of Great Wall cigars, the cheap Chinese brand that tasted like burning cardboard but cost almost nothing.
She extracted one, brought it to a small breathing hole in her gas mask without removing the mask itself, Tòumíng still hadn't seen her actual face, and lit it with a silver zippo lighter.
She took a drag, the ember glowing orange in the darkness.
"Want one?" Her voice was muffled by the mask and smoke.
Tòumíng had never smoked in his life. Couldn't afford the habit. Had avoided it specifically because cigarettes were expensive and his lungs were already compromised from years of mine work.
But in this moment, after everything, it didn't matter.
"Yeah."
Ghost Claw handed him a cigar and the lighter. Tòumíng put the cigar to his lips, flicked the lighter, and inhaled as the flame touched the tip.
Immediately, he started coughing like crazy. Violent, hacking coughs that doubled him over, his newly-regenerated lungs rejecting the smoke with extreme prejudice. His eyes watered. His throat burned.
Ghost Claw chuckled, a genuine sound of amusement. "First time?"
Tòumíng managed to laugh between coughs, the absurdity of the situation briefly overriding the emotional devastation. "Yes... fuck... yes it was..."
He tried again, taking a smaller drag this time, letting the smoke sit in his mouth rather than inhaling deeply.
The taste was awful, bitter, acrid, like licking an ashtray, but there was something about it that felt... grounding. Real. A sensation that pulled him out of his spiraling thoughts.
Eventually, his coughing subsided. He stood there smoking badly, his technique improving slightly with each attempt, feeling oddly calm despite everything.
The door to the roof access stairwell burst open.
Polo emerged, carrying a case of beer in one hand and several folding chairs tucked under his other arm. He stopped when he saw Ghost Claw and Tòumíng smoking.
"Are we having a smoke party without me?!" His voice carried mock offense. "That's fucked up! I'm hurt! Devastated!"
He set down the beer case and started setting up folding chairs with practiced efficiency. "If we're having a crisis smoke session, we're doing it properly. With seating. And alcohol."
Ghost Claw raised an eyebrow behind her mask. "Who said this was a party?"
"I did. Just now. It's a party." Polo cracked open a beer and handed it to Tòumíng. "Here. Drink. You look like you need it."
Tòumíng took the beer, some local brand he didn't recognize,and stared at it.
"I'm already slightly drunk from earlier. And I just got my organs regenerated. Is this medically advisable?"
"Absolutely not," Polo said cheerfully. "CHUG! CHUG! CHUG!"
Ghost Claw joined in the chant. "CHUG! CHUG! CHUG!"
Tòumíng looked at both of them, then at the beer, then said "fuck it" and started chugging. The liquid was cold, bitter, carbonated, and went down way too fast. He finished the entire can in one continuous gulp and crushed it against his forehead—immediately regretting that decision as pain shot through his skull.
"YEAH!" Polo cheered. "That's what I'm talking about!"
The door opened again. Svetlana emerged, ducking slightly to clear the doorframe, carrying her own case of beer, this one labeled in Cyrillic, clearly imported from Russia.
"I heard chanting. Is drinking contest?" Her eyes lit up with competitive energy.
"It's a drinking party," Polo corrected.
"Even better." Svetlana cracked open what looked like a 500ml can, significantly larger than everyone else's, and downed half of it in one pull without any visible effort.
Marco appeared next, immediately spotting his twin. "You started without me? Asshole move, Polo."
"You were too slow!"
"I was checking on the patient!"
"Excuses!"
They started bickering while simultaneously opening beers, their argument having zero effect on their ability to drink.
Ben emerged from the stairwell, still holding his tablet but looking interested in the gathering. "Is this a party? I like parties. Parties are fun."
His tone was completely flat, suggesting either sarcasm or genuine psychopathy,with Ben, it was impossible to tell.
Think Tink The Tinkerer burst through the door with manic energy, clearly having sprinted up the stairs. "I HEARD THERE WAS ALCOHOL AND SOCIAL GATHERING!"
Ghost Claw immediately held up a hand. "You're seventeen. No."
"AGE IS A SOCIAL CONSTRUCT!"
"The law disagrees."
"THE LAW IS ALSO A SOCIAL CONSTRUCT!"
Polo tossed him a root beer. "Here. Drink this and pretend it's real beer."
Think Tink The Tinkerer caught it, looked at the label, and his face twisted with rage. "ROOT BEER?! THIS IS DISCRIMINATION! THIS IS AGEISM! THIS IS—"
"Delicious and non-alcoholic," Marco finished. "Drink it or don't. Your choice."
Think Tink The Tinkerer grumbled but cracked open the root beer and sat down in one of the folding chairs, muttering about "arbitrary age restrictions" and "neurochemical development thresholds being overestimated."
Lucy emerged next, her purple hair catching the dim light from the city below. She assessed the gathering with her usual expression of mild annoyance. "You people are having a rooftop party and didn't invite me? Rude."
"It's an impromptu crisis party," Ghost Claw explained. "Tòumíng had emotional trauma. We're helping him cope through socially-sanctioned substance abuse."
"Ah. Standard procedure." Lucy grabbed a beer and sat down, pulling out her phone to scroll while drinking.
Sasha appeared in the doorway, looking nervous as always. "Is... is it okay if I join? I don't want to intrude if this is a private thing..."
Svetlana waved her over. "Come! Tiny nervous girl needs drink too! Build courage!"
"I'm not really supposed to drink while on medical duty..."
"You're off duty now," Ghost Claw said. "Hǔtān is stable. Tòumíng is regenerated. Nobody's dying. Take a break."
Sasha hesitantly joined the group, accepting a beer from Polo and sitting in one of the folding chairs with visible anxiety about whether she was doing this correctly.
Sven emerged last, holding his mop like a security blanket. "I vas cleaning floors und heard noise. Is party?"
"Is party!" Svetlana confirmed. "Swedish boy, drink!"
Eventually, everyone except Melvin, who was presumably still sleeping somewhere, and Eric, who was probably at his actual home, had gathered on the rooftop.
They drank. They talked. They laughed.
Polo told an elaborate story about how he and Marco once accidentally set fire to their apartment while trying to cook a Thanksgiving turkey, and they'd had to put it out using nothing but beer and a fire extinguisher that had expired three years earlier.
Marco countered with a story about Polo getting food poisoning so bad he'd hallucinated that the toilet was trying to communicate with him telepathically.
Svetlana described her first bounty hunt, which had involved chasing a target through the Moscow metro system while both of them were on rollerblades for reasons she could no longer remember.
Ben casually mentioned the time he'd stabbed someone at a art gallery opening and nobody had noticed for forty-five minutes because everyone thought the blood was part of the installation.
Lucy talked about tracing a skip to a furry convention and having to go undercover in a full fursuit for three days.
Think Tink The Tinkerer enthusiastically explained his failed experiment to create "weaponized mayonnaise" which had resulted in the evacuation of an entire city block. (no this will never be expanded upon)
Even Ghost Claw shared a story, though she kept it vague, about a mission that had required her to pose as a wedding photographer and how she'd accidentally become the most popular photographer in the region because her tactical precision made for perfect shots.
Tòumíng laughed. Actually laughed. The weight of Hǔtān's revelation was still there, still heavy, but for these moments it was bearable.
They encouraged him to chug more beers. "CHUG! CHUG! CHUG!"
He did. He was getting better at it. Or maybe just drunker.
Hours passed. The night deepened. The city below continued its endless movement, completely unaware of the group of vigilantes and criminals and outcasts drinking on a rooftop.
For a while, they forgot about Hǔtān. Forgot about the Four Constellations. Forgot about debts and death and revelations.
They were just people. Sharing drinks and stories and laughter.
Meanwhile, seven floors below, in the dimly lit medical room, Hǔtān sat up in his bed.
The bandages still covered most of his body, but he'd managed to prop himself into a sitting position despite the pain. His single visible eye stared blankly at the wall, unfocused, looking at nothing and everything simultaneously.
He was pondering. Contemplating.
Atonement.
What did atonement even look like when you'd destroyed someone's entire family? When you'd betrayed your best friend, caused his death, and then spent three years extracting money from his orphaned son?
What could possibly balance those scales?
Hǔtān didn't have answers. Just questions. And the weight of guilt that had been building for years, now finally acknowledged, pressing down on him like the weight of the building collapse.
He sat in silence, alone with his thoughts, while above him, the people he'd hurt—directly and indirectly—laughed and drank and lived.