45
ARMEN
I don’t needto follow her closely anymore. She knows I’m always watching.
Vi moves through the main corridor like she’s already learned the rhythm of the Rot, not the panicked scramble of a fresh runner, not the defeated shuffle of most Runts, but something deliberate. Head up, shoulders squared despite the limp she’s trying to hide.
She’s wearing the same torn jeans and faded shirt from the Hunt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, hair pulled back tight. No attempt to look smaller. No attempt to disappear.
But there’s something else today. Something wound tighter than usual.
She’s distracted. Her gaze keeps sliding to the walls, the shadows, like she’s looking for someone. Her hands curl into fists at her sides, then relax. Curl again. Herbreathing is shallow, controlled, the kind of control that comes from holding something back.
I know why.
Rogue told me what he walked in on this morning. The image sits in my head like a brand: Vi on the couch, hand between her legs, so close she was shaking with it.
And he stopped her. Left her worse off than we did last night. She needs to understand that her body isn’t hers anymore. Not down here. Not with us.
Men notice. Not just the low-level scavengers sorting crates or hauling water jugs but everyone. Three Rotters near the old escalator rail pause mid-sentence when she passes. One of them, a wiry guy with a fresh homemade tattoo crawling up his neck, tracks her with open interest, mouth curving like he’s already decided she’s fair game.
Another, older, scarred across the cheek, meets my gaze for half a second and looks away fast, shoulders dropping. Smart.
The third isn’t smart.
He steps into her path just as she rounds the corner near the gutted food court barricades. Casual, like it’s an accident. His hand closes around her wrist, light enough to pretend it’s friendly, hard enough to stop her cold.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, voice oily. “You’re the one Sting dragged off the other night, yeah? Heard you’re a keeper. Maybe we should all get a turn before they lock you up permanent.”
The corridor quiets. Not completely, crates still clatter, boots still scuff, but the air shifts. Everyone within twenty feet feels the line being crossed.
Vi doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t yank away. She just looks athis hand on her wrist like it’s something disgusting, then lifts her eyes to his face.
“Let go,” she says. Quiet. Flat.
He laughs. “Or what? You gonna limp away real fast?”
I’m already moving.
I don’t run. Running looks desperate. I walk, long strides, boots deliberate on cracked tile, until I’m close enough that he feels the change in pressure before he sees me. His laugh dies when my shadow falls across both of them.
I don’t speak at first. I just reach out, close my fingers around his forearm, and twist. Not hard enough to break bone. Just hard enough to make the joint scream.
He sucks air through his teeth. His grip on Vi opens instantly. She steps back, rubbing her wrist, eyes flicking between us.
“Walk away,” I tell him. Voice low. Calm. The way I speak when I’m deciding how much blood I want on the floor.
He tries to pull free. I don’t let him.
“You don’t know who I am,” he starts.
“I know exactly who you are, another small-dick rotter who doesn’t know his place,” I say. “You’re the idiot who just put his hand on something that belongs to me.”
The word hits the asshole like a blade.Belongs.
Vi’s breath catches, small, almost inaudible, but I hear it. I feel her gaze burn into the side of my face.
The guy’s bravado cracks. “Sting said?—”
