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"Cheers?" Goldenloin's usual bravado sounds wistful.
Ballister grunts and their bottles clink.
One beer becomes two then three and maybe four, and while Ballister traces new constellations with a prosthetic finger — his back against the roof — another light appears much closer.
Two lights, actually — one flame flickering over the number three and the other over a zero.
"Make a wish," Zee whispers.
Seven years ago, Ballister would have wished for revenge. And while vengeance still drives most of his actions, it's no longer (only) about the arm.
He makes a foolish wish — an impossible wish — and blows out the candles.