CHAPTER 271: OLD FOUNDATIONS

The walk east took me through roads I hadn’t touched in over two years.

There was something surreal about it—seeing the sidewalks crack in the same places, the walls still bearing old graffiti under new coats of paint. Buildings had gone up. Others were gone. But memory was stubborn. It filled in the blanks. Even when the world tried to move on, some part of you still saw the scaffolding like it was yesterday.

I stopped at the edge of the construction lot.

The gate had been replaced—newer, taller, coated in a soft matte grey. There were scanners now, motion lights, and a printed sign with the words Authorized Entry Only – Site Under Development.

Figures.

I stepped forward.

"Hey! You can’t be here!"

A voice rang out over the gravel.

I turned slightly.

The guy was young—barely nineteen if I had to guess. Messy brown hair, lanky frame under a high-vis vest. He had the kind of cautious swagger that came from being new enough to care about rules but not jaded enough to ignore them.

He jogged over, boots crunching with every step.

"This site is restricted, sir," he said. "You can’t be—"

Then he stopped. Eyes widened. Mouth opened just a little too wide.

I braced myself.

"You’re—you’re—oh God, you’re him."

Here we go.

"Reynard Vale?" he half-whispered, like it might summon paparazzi from the dust. "I didn’t—I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—"

I lifted a hand. "It’s fine. You’re doing your job."

"I didn’t know—no one told me anyone was coming today. Are you doing an inspection? Or—wait, is this for the delays in construction?"

"No," I said gently. "Just visiting."

His eyes darted like he wasn’t sure if he should salute or faint. "You’re not here to... file a complaint, are you?"

I let out a breath of a laugh. "No complaints. Just wanted to see the place again."

He nodded fast, almost bowing as he stepped aside. "Right. Sorry again. I’ll, uh—I’ll just pretend I didn’t almost yell at the Jobmaster."

"Good plan."

I walked past him and onto the lot.

The gravel crunched beneath my boots, the smell of damp concrete and rust still somehow unchanged. The layout was familiar—partially because I’d memorized it back when memorization meant survival. The storage crates were shifted, new safety signs had been added, and someone had installed a portable cooling shelter near the south side. But beneath it all, it was still the same place I used to carry rebar, pour cement, and spend twenty-minute lunches sitting on the steel frame of what would become someone’s home.

And then I heard it.

A shout, half-laughing, tossed out like it belonged in a sitcom rerun.

"Well, well. Look what the fame dragged in."

I turned.

Omar.

Same broad-shouldered frame, same worn cap, same voice that had once carried across six floors of steel and wind like it was nothing. He was holding a clipboard and a bottle of water, one eyebrow arched.

"I thought you’d gone too fancy for places like this," he said.

"I thought you’d retired."

He smirked. "I tried. Turns out golf’s boring and my wife only likes me in short bursts."

I grinned. "Still drinking tap water like it’s holy?"

"Still not dead, aren’t I?"

We met halfway and bumped shoulders.

Omar chuckled, shaking his head as he looked me over. "Gods, Reynard. You’re like a myth now. People think you glow in the dark."

"Only when Alexis overdoses me on stabilization serums."

"Is that the scientist one? The pretty one with the neurotic energy? I saw some girls in the background during your broadcast."

"That’s the one."

He laughed again and handed me the bottle of water.

"I’ll get you your own, but you used to steal mine anyway."

"Old habits."

We walked the perimeter slowly, past half-set support beams and a rigged concrete mixer that looked one bad fuse away from detonating. He updated me on the crew—how most of the old team had moved to different zones. A few had transferred to material logistics. One guy left to become a licensed welder. Two girls apparently started their own renovation company and had a surprisingly successful stream going.

"And Sienna?" Omar asked.

I raised a brow. "I thought she’d be the first person you’d ask about."

He said nothing.

"She’s living with me," I continued. "Life been more calming with her being there. I think she does more house work than anything else now though."

"I guess the girls were right about you two," he laughed under his breath "—they used to tease her nonstop about you. Even when you were still working here."

I sighed. "Of course they did."

"She’d pretend to ignore it, but every time someone said ’your boyfriend’s late,’ she’d check her watch like she was keeping score."

I chuckled despite myself. "Wish I’d known."

"Nah, you were too busy being half-dead carrying four crates at once."

We stopped near one of the original corner pylons—the one I remembered pouring by hand when the mixer jammed during a storm.

Omar’s tone softened.

"Did you see the news clip they cut from my statement?"

I nodded slowly.

"I worded it wrong," he said. "When they asked if I knew who you really were—I didn’t. Not the titles, not the politics. But I knew you. And I made it sound like I didn’t. That’s on me."

I looked at him, eyes steady.

"You didn’t mean it maliciously. I know that."

"Still. You deserved better than me trying to play neutral to save face."

"You don’t owe me anything."

He gave me a long, even look.

"I owe you plenty. You’re the reason I stayed. The reason half of these kids still have jobs. You made this site run when Nathan was burning it to the ground."

"I was just trying to survive."

He shook his head. "You led, Reynard. You taught people how to work smarter. Hell, you made sure people went home every night when the government didn’t care if they did. That one week where you took charge was the best week for everyone here."

I didn’t have an answer for that.

We stood there in silence a while longer.

The wind stirred the air, bringing with it the low scent of solder and sun-warmed plastic. Somewhere off to the west, a crane bellowed.

Finally, Omar clapped me on the back.

"Glad to see you again, Vale. You look taller."

"I’m pretty sure I’m the same height."

"You carry yourself different now and...I don’t know how but your definitely much more muscular."

I paused, then smiled faintly.

"Yeah. I guess I do."

We walked back toward the exit. The nineteen-year-old from earlier did a double take when he saw Omar and me talking, and Omar muttered something about kids these days needing better training.

We reached the gate.

"I’ve gotta head off," I said, pulling my coat tighter. "One more stop to make today."

"Let me guess—one of the old sites you used to work as a member of the Masked Syndicate?"

"Pretty much."

Omar grinned.

"Alright, but don’t forget that technically I know the real Reynard, not some Mr. Fot, Dutch and what was it...Angle?"

"You mean Fox, Dust and Angel?"

"Yeah those guys, I knew you way before you became any of those."

I gave a mock salute.

He returned it with a tired smile.

"Take care, Reynard."

"You too."

And then I turned, walking back toward the fire station.

Towards memory.

Towards the next piece of the life I’d once lived before anyone cared who I was.