I look away, staring at the flickering bulb until spots dance in my vision. “I came for the Favor. To forceanswers about my father. To make someone pay for what happened to him.”
Rogue goes still.
When I look back, his expression hasn’t changed, but something in his eyes has. Guarded. Careful.
“That road,” he says slowly, “is closed, Vi. You know that.”
My heart kicks hard. “You keep saying that. All of you. Like it’s a rule.”
“It’s not a rule. It’s reality.” He steps closer, still not touching, but the space between us feels smaller. “Digging into what happened to your father doesn’t get you justice. It gets you disappeared. The people who brought Rothwell down didn’t vanish when the lights went out. They just went quiet. And they stay quiet by making sure no one asks questions. They don’t give a shit about us. Never did.”
I feel the words land like a slap. “You know who they are.”
“I know enough.” His voice drops. “And I know what happens when someone starts pulling threads. Your father pulled. Look where it got him.”
I push off the crate, stepping into his space now. “So you’re telling me to stop? To just… accept that I’m stuck here forever and the truth dies with him?”
Rogue doesn’t back up. He meets my eyes, steady, unblinking.
“I’m telling you, the only way you stay breathing long enough to matter is if you use what you have now.” He lifts a hand, slow, and brushes a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers linger against my cheek. “You’re not invisible anymore. You’re seen. That’s dangerous. But it’s also power. Leverage. If you want answers, you get them by being indispensable. By being ours. Not by chasing ghosts.”
My pulse is everywhere. Anger. Grief. Something hotter underneath.
“And if I don’t want to be yours?” I whisper.
He leans in, mouth close to my ear. “You already are. You know that.”
The words should terrify me. They don’t.
They burn.
52
VI
The work hubfeels smaller after Rogue’s words. The air is thick with the smell of cardboard, iodine packets, and the metallic bite of old metal pipes. Tables stretch in long rows under strings of salvaged bulbs, some steady, some flickering like they’re on their last breath. Runts move in quiet loops: sorting, labeling, stacking. No one speaks above a murmur. The quiet isn’t peaceful. It’s careful.
I’m back at my station before I even realize my feet carried me here. The crate in front of me is half full of sealed medical gauze, white packets stamped with faded expiration dates that don’t matter anymore. My hands move on autopilot: pick up, check seal, set in bin, chalk mark on the side. Mechanical. Safe.
Except nothing feels safe now.
Rogue’s voice keeps looping in my head. Leverage. Prize. Target. The words sit heavy in my chest, pressingagainst my ribs every time I breathe. I keep my head down, but I can feel the shift in the room. Eyes slide over me longer than they used to. Not hostile, not yet, but curious. Calculating. Like I’ve become something to weigh and measure.
Across the hub, near the far wall, a girl no older than nineteen is stacking water filters into a cart. She’s small, dark hair chopped short and uneven, probably with a knife. Her hands shake as she works. Every few seconds, she glances toward the main corridor entrance, like she’s waiting for something bad to walk through.
I know that look. I see it daily.
A low murmur ripples through the room. Heads turn.
Two enforcers step in, broad shoulders, masks pulled low, sleeves rolled to show amateur ink crawling up their forearms. They don’t speak. They just walk straight to the girl with the cart.
She freezes. The filter in her hands slips. It clatters to the floor, sharp, echoing.
One enforcer grabs her upper arm. Firm. Not cruel. Just final.
“Come on,” he says. Voice flat.
She jerks once, instinct, then goes still. Her eyes dart around the hub, wide and wet, searching for someone to help. No one meets her gaze.
