Every survival instinct I own is fully lit now, screaming at me to run, to hide, to get as far away from this not-man as possible.
None of them are telling me how.
None of them are telling me where.
And none of them are telling me that he’s lying.
The pressure in my chest flares faintly again, low and strange and inexplicable.
I ignore it.
I have never been more aware in my life that I am injured, alone, and at the mercy of a being I do not understand.
Every survival instinct I own lights up at once. None of them are offering me a viable exit strategy.
None of them are explaining how I’m supposed to outrun someone who tore through armed men like they were wet cardboard.
And none of them—traitorous, inconvenient little assholes that they are—are telling me that he’s lying.
The silence between us stretches until it starts to feel like pressure on my eardrums.
“So,” I say finally, my voice hoarse and dry and sharper than I intend it to be, because if I don’t keep talking I might start screaming. “Oversight. Surveillance drones. Mob firebombing. Bone spurs. Glowing eyes. You not having a good answer forwhat you are. I feel like there is a whole lot of context missing from this situation.”
He inclines his head slightly, like he’s acknowledging a valid customer complaint.
“There is,” he says quietly.
“Cool,” I mutter. “Love that for me.”
I shift on the cot, immediately regret it as pain rips through my arm and down my side, and hiss through my teeth while my vision goes sparkly at the edges.
He moves without thinking.
One step toward me.
I tense so hard it feels like my muscles are trying to crawl off my skeleton.
“Don’t,” I snap, my voice going sharp and ugly. “Do not take another step toward me.”
He freezes instantly, like I just slammed a switch in his spine.
“Okay,” he says. “I won’t.”
Good.
Good.
My pulse is still roaring in my ears, but at least my nervous system stops trying to eject my soul out through my mouth.
“Talk,” I say, because if he doesn’t start explaining things right now, I am going to invent explanations that are going to make this situation much worse for both of us. “Slowly. In real words. No apocalypse poetry.”
Something like relief flickers across his face, quick and gone.
“I’m a Reaper,” he says.
The word hits the room like a dropped plate.
Not loud.
