“No.”
She faces me fully. “I’m not crossing blindly into something. I want data.”
“You can’t have data from there.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know what’s there.” The admission costs something.
She studies my face. “You’re afraid.”
“Yes.”
That stops her. Silence settles heavy.
Then she nods once. “Take me to the boundary.”
I let her go hesitantly, feeling the physical pull stretch like a rubber band. If she feels it, she says nothing.
We don’t speak as we walk. The path to the eastern wash feels narrower tonight. The hum grows denser with each step.
Not violent. Anticipatory.
She stops just short of the boundary marker. “You won’t let me cross,” she says quietly.
“No.”
“Because it’ll hurt me?”
“Because it won’t just be you.”
Her eyes flick to mine. “Are there others?”
“Theoretically.”
Her eyes are sharp. “You don’t know?”
“I have my suspicions.”
She arches an eyebrow. “You think they’ll feel it?”
“They already do.”
Her breath slows. “Show me.”
I hesitate. This is the line. Wildbloods don’t reveal.Containment endures. But containment is failing.
I unbutton my shirt slowly. Pull the fabric aside just enough. The ink beneath my skin isn’t glowing. But it’s darker here. Sharper. Alive.
Her breath catches. She steps closer. Her fingers hover.
“Can I?”
“Yes.”
She touches it. Bare skin to bare skin. The reaction is immediate. Not pain. Not heat. Pulse.
The tattoo throbs once beneath her fingertips.
