The pressure helps. A little.
I lean my head back against the wall. Just for a second. I know I should elevate my leg, at least until it stops bleeding, but who has time for that shit?
Concrete presses cold against my skull as I try to relax. My eyes burn from sweat and dust. My throat tastes likemetal. The back of my neck is soaked, hair sticking to skin. My legs tremble now that I’m not moving, like they’re trying to keep going. Reminding me that this is no time to slack off.
I want to slide down the wall. To close my eyes. To let my body go slack and disappear into a dream. But the Hunt doesn’t pause just because I’m tired. Just because I’d give almost anything for a peaceful little nap.
And neither can I. I just need a minute. Really.
Wait.
Words, old words from long ago, land in my head without sound. Not shouted. Never shouted.
My father’s voice, low and controlled, as if calm could hold the city together by itself. His hand on my shoulder, fingers digging in just enough to hurt. The pressure meant something then. It meant he was there, and I wasn’t alone, and that there was still a plan.
Wait here.
The memory isn’t warm. It’s sharp. It cuts straight through the noise in my skull, and the pain in my leg and drags up everything I’ve kept buried under motion.
I blink hard, and the boutique I’m hiding in snaps back into place with its dark corners, warped tile, the smell of damp and rot. My chest tightens, but not from the running.
I grind my teeth and shove the memory down. It refuses to go away. Refuses to give me a fucking break.
Another fragment from the past breaks loose.
The conference room, years ago, before the Rotter Hunt was a thing anyone said out loud. Before the town of Rothwell admitted what it had become. A folding chairunder me. Cold metal against the back of my thighs. The hum of fluorescent lights. People talking in clipped voices, too polite, too careful.
“Your father’s done a lot for this city.”
“Your father understands what’s necessary.”
“Your father will cooperate.”
Words that sound respectful until you realize what they really are.
Threats.
My father across the room, face still and tight. He looks smaller than he should. He keeps his hands flat on the table as if any movement will be used against him. He meets my eyes once. Just once.
Wait.
Then someone shuts a folder. Someone stands. Someone says, “That’s all.”
The rest of it fractures.
I don’t know what he says after that. I never have. My brain refuses to hand it over cleanly. All I’ve got is the weight of that moment and the way the room smells like cheap coffee and old paper and authority.
And betrayal. So much betrayal.
My knee throbs harder, yanking me back to the Rot. I press my palm against the wall and push myself upright, careful with my weight. The fabric bandage holds.
Barely.
I take two steps toward the gate and stop again, listening.
Footsteps. Not close. But moving. Not running. Not frantic. Measured. Designed to be terrifying. The sounddrifts from the corridor outside the storefront, passing by, then fading. A sweep, not a chase. I count the beats between steps the way I did before. My breath steadies a fraction.
They’re not panicking. Which means they’re not losing.
