He turns, framed in the dark. “What’s wrong?”

Thora faces him, old bloodstains under her feet. Too much has happened between them in this place. She bites her lip. “We both think this is the right thing to do.”

Santi tilts his head, almost laughing. “If we agree for once, isn’t that a good thing?”

Thora’s eyes travel up the tower, the clock face unreadable at this angle. “This could be our last chance. If we’re doing this, I don’t want us to just agree. I want us to agree on why.”

Santi spreads his arms as if it’s obvious. “We know it worked before.”

“For a second,” Thora says. “But then the simulation just reset. What makes you think it’ll be different this time?”

“Back then, we didn’t know what we were seeing. This time, we’ll know it’s reality. We’ll recognize ourselves, and we’ll be able to hold on.”

“How can you know that?”

He shrugs. “I can’t. But I’m willing to hope.” Thora’s heart sinks. Santi steps out of the tower. “I don’t understand. If you’re not sure, why do you think we should do it?”

She leans back against the stones, feeling like a cornered animal. “Because we’re not going to think of anything else. This is all we’ve got.”

Santi comes to face her. “That’s the wrong reason.”

“So is yours,” she argues. “We can’t just try the same thing again out of misguided hope it’ll turn out differently.”

“We can’t do it out of desperation either.”

Dread settles in Thora’s stomach. An easy solution gone, and nothing to replace it. She sits down against the tower, picking at the grass that grows between the cobbles. “It’s all right for you,” she says sourly. “You probably believe you’re going somewhere else after you starve to death inside a tin can.”

“I do,” Santi admits, sitting down next to her. “But I don’t want to die without seeing what we came here to see.” Thora follows his gaze across the square to the hanging sign of Der Zentaur. “Last time,” he says. “When I was dying. It was hard for me to accept that we might not make it. But in the end, I chose to believe that we will. I chose hope.”

“But hope isn’t always a good thing,” Thora argues. “Hope can paralyze you. Make you wait around for salvation instead of seeking it yourself.” She looks at him, pleading. “We might not make it, Santi. We have to accept that.”

He shakes his head, stubborn as always. “And if we’re sure we won’t make it, then we won’t be able to see a way out. Even if it’s right in front of us.”

Thora feels the void in her belly spreading out through the rest of her. “You’re right,” she admits.