A/N: THIS IS THE FOURTH CHAPTER OF THE REWRITE, you don't have too but It might help to read the first 3 chapters again as I've updated and rewritten them all. Sorry for the confusion.

Chapter 4: Blood in the Smoke

The van rolled through the outskirts of the city like a blunt instrument with headlights.

Rain clung to the windshield in streaks, catching streetlights and turning them into blurred halos. The fog hadn't lifted since the morning—it just got heavier, thicker, clinging to the buildings like a second skin.

Nico drove with one hand on the wheel and the other holding a half-empty coffee thermos. Her boots were kicked off, legs folded under her, because of course they were.

"So," she said, between sips, "we're really doing this, huh?"

Nero didn't answer right away. He stared out the window, Blue Rose resting across his lap. The black card with Cinder's coordinates sat in the cup holder between them like a silent dare.

"She wanted a meeting," he said finally. "Let's see what she thinks a conversation looks like."

Nico snorted. "Bet she brought wine and candles."

"Wouldn't be the weirdest thing someone's pulled out of a summoning circle."

"You want backup?" she asked, half-serious.

"You're driving backup."

"Cute. You planning to flirt back this time, or just shoot her before she can say 'hello'?"

"I'm not ruling out both," Nero muttered.

They passed under a series of low bridges, the city growing quieter, less lit. Commercial buildings gave way to shuttered lots and half-renovated warehouses. Industrial ghosts. The kind of place the world forgot, and people like Cinder remembered.

"Coordinates put it just up here," Nico said, squinting at her GPS. "Abandoned railyard. No cameras. No foot traffic. Prime spot for a not-at-all-suspicious meeting."

Nico pulled the van into the cover of a collapsed loading ramp and cut the lights. "Alright," she said, kicking the gear into park, "you sure about this?"

"Nope," Nero replied, opening the door. "That's why I brought everything."

As he stepped out, his gear came with him in full: Red Queen sheathed along his back, Blue Rose holstered at his hip, and a fresh Devil Breaker locked in place with a mechanical hiss.

This one was Obera—a hybrid between the Gerbera and Overture models. Reinforced plating. Electric payload. Enough punch to rocket a guy through a brick wall or fry a mid-tier demon to ash.

Nico leaned out the window. "You're dressed like you're heading into a boss fight."

"I am," Nero muttered, and shut the door behind him.

The gravel crunched beneath his boots as he made his way through the old freight yard. The fog clung to the ground like smoke, swirling between rusted train cars and sagging containers. His breath came slow and steady, every footfall deliberate.

Then—like a stage light hitting center—

She appeared.

Cinder stood near a derailed train car, backlit by the soft amber glow of a fire conjured into the air behind her. Her outfit was sleeker now: a fitted crimson coat, high boots, a corseted silhouette that somehow balanced menace with elegance. Her golden eyes shimmered, reflecting both flame and malice.

When she saw him, her smirk was immediate. Calculated.

"My, my," she said, voice honeyed and edged with humor. "Look at you. Sword, gun, gauntlet... Did I interrupt your cosplay convention?"

Nero stopped a few paces away, hand resting casually near Blue Rose. "Didn't know what dress code you were planning. Figured I'd bring everything."

"Oh, I'm flattered," Cinder purred, circling slowly. "You came armed to the teeth for me. What a gentleman."

He didn't move.

"You always meet women like this?" she added. "Guns drawn, devil gear glowing, eyes cold?"

"Only the ones who send monsters to my doorstep."

Cinder paused, that same half-smile playing at her lips.

"I didn't send the creatures," she said calmly. "But I've… observed them. Watched them evolve. Learn. Spread." Her fingers danced with fire at her side. "They fascinate me."

"Yeah? Most people don't call 'death maulings' fascinating."

"Most people lack vision."

"You said you wanted to talk."

"I did." Her golden eyes gleamed in the dark. "Still do."

"I'm listening."

Cinder tilted her head, lips curling into something just short of a smirk.

"Good," she said. "Because it's time we stopped pretending your new houseguests are just victims of circumstance."

Cinder began to circle slowly, not stalking—gliding, like a dancer tracing the edge of the stage. The flicker of her conjured flame lit the edge of her cheekbones, but her eyes stayed locked on Nero's, gold and unblinking.

"She's not innocent," she said softly. "Neither of them are."

Nero didn't move. "They're not killers."

"Not yet," Cinder replied. "But the thing growing inside her? That reflection? It doesn't care about innocence. It only cares about what's owed."

Nero's eyes narrowed. "Reflection?"

A smile curled at her lips—smug, indulgent. "You've seen it already, haven't you? In her eyes. In the air around her. That subtle pull—like gravity's just a little heavier when she walks into a room."

"She's scared," Nero snapped. "She's grieving."

"Exactly," Cinder whispered. "Grief is fertile ground. For guilt. For legacy." She tilted her head. "For power."

Cinder stopped circling and faced him fully, folding her hands neatly behind her back like a queen addressing a court.

"She's not just some stray," she said. "Not just some girl who fell into the wrong world."

Nero didn't move.

Cinder's voice dipped, silk over steel. "There's power in her blood. Not borrowed. Not learned. Inherited. Old blood. The kind that doesn't go quiet just because someone tells it to."

Nero's grip on Blue Rose tightened.

"She doesn't even know what she is," he said flatly.

"Maybe not," Cinder agreed, smiling wider. "But that doesn't mean it isn't waking up."

She stepped forward again, boots whispering over gravel. The flames behind her danced, casting long shadows across the derailed train car and cracked concrete. Her eyes glinted in the light.

"She's cracked, Nero," she said. "Held together with grief and guilt and expectation. And something's watching through that crack. Something that remembers."

His jaw worked slowly. "You came here to warn me?"

Cinder chuckled, low and melodic. "No. I came to inform you."

She stopped a few feet away, just close enough for the heat of her presence to tickle his skin.

"Because when it breaks loose—when the girl with the quiet rage and the perfect posture splinters—you'll be the one standing in the way. And you'll have to decide: are you a hunter, or are you just another fool clinging to sentiment?"

Silence stretched between them, thick with fog and the subtle hiss of her dying fire.

Nero didn't blink. "If you think I'll let you lay a hand on her—"

"Oh, Nero," Cinder cooed, tilting her head. "I won't have to. You'll do it for me."

She turned, slowly, with a whisper of scorched air trailing behind her. The fire surged once—brighter than before—and then vanished, collapsing inward like a flame snuffed between fingers.

Cinder was gone.

But her words stayed.

And so did the cold.

The kitchen was too quiet.

The children had scattered outside after breakfast, Kyrie was folding laundry down the hall, and for the first time all morning, Weiss was alone.

She didn't like it.

Not because of the silence—but because she could hear too much beneath it. The beating of her own heart. The whisper of her breath. And… something else.

She didn't remember walking to the hallway mirror. She'd covered it yesterday, just before sunset—an odd instinct, but a strong one. Kyrie had said nothing, only offered a nod, like she understood the need without the explanation.

Now Weiss stood in front of it again. Her fingers reached for the cloth.

Don't.

She froze.

The voice was her own—but cracked, like frost creeping across glass.

Her hand trembled at her side.

"No," she whispered to herself. "No, not again."

But the cloth was already slipping through her fingers.

It fell to the floor with a soft flutter.

And there she was.

Weiss.

Same white hair. Same pale skin. Same icy eyes.

But wrong.

The eyes were too wide. The smile too calm. The posture too poised—like a porcelain doll made to imitate a person. Her reflection didn't blink. Didn't breathe.

Didn't follow her.

Weiss took a shaky breath.

"You're not real," she said. "You're just in my head."

The reflection tilted its head in mock curiosity.

"If I'm in your head… what does that make you?"

Weiss recoiled a step. "Shut up."

"Why?" the reflection asked, tilting its head the other way. "You finally stopped pretending. I've waited so long for you to stop playing perfect."

"I'm not playing anything."

"Oh, please." The reflection's smile widened, dark glee curling at the edges. "Look at you. Pretending to be normal. To belong here. Cooking breakfast like you didn't leave a trail of blood behind you."

Weiss's chest tightened.

"You let Ruby die."

"No—"

"Blake bled out alone."

"Stop it—!"

"And your precious partner? She's in a coma because you were too slow. Too soft. Too human."

Weiss stumbled back, hand gripping the wall like the ground had shifted beneath her.

"No," she said again. "I—We were outnumbered. We didn't know. I did everything I—"

"Everything you could do?" the voice crooned. "Poor little Schnee. All that training. All that pride. And still, all you did was scream and run."

Tears burned at the corners of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

Her reflection didn't cry. It just stared, unblinking, voice as smooth as falling snow.

"But you can be more, Weiss. You can be stronger. You just have to stop pretending you're only human."

She lunged.

With a shout, she slammed her palm against the mirror, hard enough to send cracks spidering through the glass.

The reflection didn't flinch.

It just smiled wider—serene. Pleased.

Weiss backed away, her hand shaking, her breathing ragged.

Behind her, footsteps approached.

"Weiss?" Kyrie's voice, muffled but concerned. "Everything okay?"

Weiss looked down. The cloth lay at her feet.

She kicked it over the base of the mirror and crouched quickly, gathering it up and throwing it back over the frame with shaking hands.

"I'm fine," she called back. "Just slipped."

A pause.

Then Kyrie's footsteps faded.

Weiss stood in the hallway, the mirror now shrouded once more.

But she could still feel it.

Her.

Just beneath the surface.

Waiting.

She woke up choking on her own breath.

No easing in. No gentle return to the world. Just a violent, snapping gasp like surfacing after being held underwater far too long.

Her eyes shot open—and the world was wrong.

Bright, too bright. A white ceiling she didn't recognize. Buzzing lights overhead. A rhythmic beep to her left. Sheets tucked too tight. A strange weight on her chest. Pain everywhere.

And her right arm was gone.

"No—!"

The scream tore itself from her throat before she could stop it. Her whole body jerked upward, but the pain in her side lanced through her like lightning and sent her crashing back into the bed.

Voices scrambled outside the room. Footsteps. The door burst open.

Too many shapes. Too fast.

White coats.

Voices she didn't know.

"Ma'am, please—calm down—"

"Vitals spiking—"

"Yang?" one of them tried, cautiously stepping closer.

She snapped.

Her left fist swung without thought, catching a tray stand and sending it crashing across the floor. Her legs kicked off the bed, tangling in wires and cords. Something ripped. She didn't care.

A nurse tried to approach from the side, hands up, soft-voiced.

She threw the nearest object at them—an IV stand.

"Where is she?!" Yang's voice cracked, raw and burning. "Where's Weiss?! Where are they?!"

The staff retreated. One called for a sedative. Another reached for a call button. Yang's blood roared in her ears like thunder.

They're dead.
I was too slow.
I watched them die.
And now they're trying to finish the job.

She dropped to the floor, dragging herself away from the bed, wild-eyed and shaking. Her bare left hand touched cold tile. Her breathing was ragged, chest heaving. Her entire right side felt empty. Like a phantom limb was screaming.

One of the nurses tried again—closer this time. "You're in a hospital. You're safe. No one's going to hurt you."

"Liar!" she snapped.

The nurse flinched—but didn't back away.

Yang curled in on herself, cornered, every muscle locked in a losing battle between fight and collapse. Her vision swam.

"Where's Weiss…" she whispered again, the fury breaking.

No answer.

Only the shrill beeping of machines, the hum of fluorescent lights, and the blood in her mouth where she'd bitten her cheek.

She didn't know if she was safe.

She didn't know where she was.

She only knew that when she woke up, everyone she loved was dead.