Sting’s voice cuts in, low and amused. “You want to test it? Go ahead. See how far you get before we start reassigning pieces of you.”
The kid actually takes half a step back. The scarred one holds his position.
Across the food court, near the sorting tables, I catchher. Vi. She’s frozen mid-reach for a crate, eyes locked on us. She heard every word. Her knuckles are white around the crate edge, jaw set so hard I can see the muscle jump.
Our eyes meet for half a second. She doesn’t look away.
The scarred leader follows my gaze. Sees her. Smiles slow. “Look at that. She’s watching. Maybe she’d like a say.”
“She doesn’t get one,” I say.
He laughs once, short, ugly. “You sure about that? Because from where I’m standing, she’s the prize. And prizes get passed around when they’re valuable enough.”
Rogue finally speaks. Voice soft. Almost pleasant. “You keep talking like she’s property. She’s not.”
The leader’s brows lift. “Then what is she?”
“Mine,” I say. The word comes out quieter than I mean it to. But it lands like a blade.
Sting adds, colder, “Ours.”
Silence stretches. The flickering lights buzz overhead. Somewhere, a crate drops—a sharp crack that makes everyone twitch.
The scarred one studies us. One by one. Then looks back at Vi.
She hasn’t moved. Still watching. Still listening.
He nods once. Slow. Reluctant. “Fine. For now.”
He turns. His shadows follow. They don’t rush. They don’t look back. But the promise hangs behind them like smoke: this isn’t over. Balance gets restored one way or another.
Yeah, right.
The food court exhales slowly. Conversations restartat half volume. Eyes slide away, but the weight lingers heavier now. Respect mixed with wariness.
Sting exhales through his nose. “He’s not bluffing about the council.”
Rogue’s smile is thin. “Then we make sure the council never meets.”
I don’t answer. My eyes are still on Vi.
She finally lowers the crate. Slowly. Deliberately. Her limp is more pronounced now, not from the knee, from tension. Shoulders rigid, head high like she’s refusing to let them see her break. She turns and walks the other way, toward the service corridors.
She doesn’t look back. But she knows I’m coming. And she knows why.
The Rot just drew a harder line around her.
And I’m the one holding the knife.
47
ARMEN
I findher in the service corridor near the old loading bay, leaning against the concrete wall with her arms crossed tight over her chest. She doesn’t look at me when I approach. Just stares at the cracked floor like she’s trying to decide whether to run or fight.
“Vi,” I say.
“Don’t.”
