The second enforcer picks up the dropped filter, sets it back in the cart like nothing happened, then takes her other arm. Together, they steer her toward the exit.
She doesn’t scream. Not at first.
But when they reach the corridor mouth, she starts tostruggle, small, frantic twists against their grip. “Wait, please, I didn’t?—”
The words cut off when the first enforcer tightens his hold. Not enough to bruise. Just enough to remind. They disappear around the corner.
The hub exhales. Crates clatter again. Conversations restart in low tones. Like nothing happened. But something did.
I stand frozen, gauze packet crushed in my fist. My pulse hammers in my throat. I can still hear her voice, small, pleading, echoing down the corridor until it fades.
Reassigned. That’s the word they use. Clean. Professional. Like moving inventory from one shelf to another.
I look down at my hands. They’re shaking.
Across the room, the Rotter who runs this hub meets my eyes for half a second. His expression is blank, but there’s something tired in it. Resigned. He looks away first, back to his clipboard.
A woman sorting beside me, older, shaved head, scar across her cheek, leans in just enough for me to hear.
“Lucky bitch has guardians,” she mutters. “Most don’t.”
I turn to her. “What?”
She doesn’t look up from her work. “You. The way Armen stepped in earlier. The way the whole corridor went quiet when he said you’re his. That’s not normal. Most Runts don’t get that. They just… disappear.”
My mouth goes dry. “Disappear where?”
She snorts softly. “Wherever they’re needed. Kitchens. Runs. Beds. Private quarters. Depends who claims them.” She finally glances at me. “You’ve got three high-levelRotters watching your back. That’s not luck. That’s a fucking miracle. Enjoy it while it lasts.”
I don’t answer because I can’t.
I’m seeing it now, the thin line I’ve been walking without realizing how razor-sharp it is. Every time Armen stepped in. Every time Sting’s hand found my waist in public. Every time Rogue pulled me aside to talk. They weren’t just protecting me.
They were marking me.
And marking me is the only thing keeping me from being the girl dragged out of here with shaking hands and wide eyes.
My pulse lurches. I set the crushed gauze down, wipe my palms on my jeans. The hub keeps moving around me, crates shifting, chalk scratching, boots scuffing, but I feel like I’m standing still while everything else spins.
I think about the Favor again. The contract I signed in that glassed-in room behind the tax office. The lipstick I put on in the mirror, knowing they were watching. I thought I was being clever. Calculating. I thought winning would force the truth out, about my father, about the men who let Rothwell fall apart while they lined their pockets.
But I lost. And now, the truth is locked behind doors I can’t open, and the only currency left is the protection of three men who won’t let me chase it.
I look toward the service corridor. The one that leads up. Toward the Skylight Room.
My knee aches when I take a step. I ignore it. I need to see them. Need to hear them say it out loud again, thatthis is truly permanent. That the Favor is gone forever. That the girl who just got dragged away could’ve been me.
That I’m only still here because they decided I was worth keeping. The thought should make me angry. It does. But underneath the anger is something colder. Clearer.
Gratitude. And fear. Because gratitude means I’m already starting to accept this place. And fear means I know how easy it would be to lose what little I have left.
I slip away from the table. No one stops me. No one has to. The corridor swallows me. And I walk toward the stairs, toward the only place in the Rot that feels like it might still hold answers.
Even if they’re not the ones I came for.
53
VI
