Or maybeleave.
Orfuck off.
It doesn’t matter which. The effect is the same. The group breaks.
Not running. Not panicking. Just… leaving. Backing out of the corridor one careful step at a time, eyes locked on Rogue like he might move if they look away. They retreat the way they came, faster once they’re out of sight, and the sound of their boots fades into the mall’s low hum.
Gone.
I exhale and straighten, rolling my shoulders once. The catwalk creaks faintly under my weight but holds.
Below me, she’s still crouched behind the vending machine. She didn’t see Rogue. Didn’t see the group get turned around. She just knows the noise that was closing in on her… stopped.
Her head lifts. She scans the corridor, slow and methodical, trying to piece together what just happened. Her gaze sweeps the space where the rival group was standing, then higher, checking the levels above. Looking for answers.
I stay where I am, pressed into shadow, perfectly still. She doesn’t see me. But shefeelsme. I can tell by the way her shoulders draw back, the way her hands tighten around that piece of metal she’s been carrying. She knows someone intervened. She just doesn’t know who. Or why.
Her mouth moves—just barely, like she’s talking to herself. Or cursing.
Then she stands. Slow. Careful. Testing her weight on the injured leg. She grimaces but doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t let the pain show beyond that brief flicker across her face.
Control layered over desperation. That’s what keeps catching me.
Most runners break under pressure. Fear or pain or exhaustion cracks them open, and what’s left is instinct and survival, followed by bad decisions. She’s running on all three, but she hasn’t cracked. Hasn’t softened. Hasn’t started making the mistakes desperation forces.
She’sthinking. Even now. Even hurt. Even when she should be collapsing into the fact that she’s losing.
I shift my weight, leaning forward just enough to get a better angle on her face. And that’s when the attraction hits properly. Not abstract. Not curiosity.
Recognition.
She looks like someone who’s been cornered before. Someone who learned early that waiting for rescue doesn’t work, that the only person who shows up is you. There’s no plea in her posture, no performance. Just a bone-deep refusal to fold.
I’ve seen that look in the mirror.
Years ago, back when the city was still pretending it gave a shit about places like this. Back when I was the one running, the one calculating angles, the one who learned that control isn’t about being the strongest—it’s about deciding where the room ends.
She’s doing that now.
It matters more than it should.
Attraction’s supposed to be simple. Physical. Immediate. Something you can use or ignore depending on whether it’s useful.
This isn’t that.
This isinterest. The dangerous kind. The kind that makes you start tracking details you don’t need, like the way her hands stay steady even when she’s bleeding, orthe way she hasn’t cried once, or the fact that she signed that contract without hesitation, like she knew exactly what she was trading and decided it was worth it anyway.
I don’t need this.
I don’t need a runner who makes me think in terms ofkeepinginstead ofsorting. Who makes me recalibrate the endgame because some part of me wants to see what she does when the board shifts again.
I push the thought down, hard and deliberate, and focus on her movement instead.
She’s scanning the corridor one more time, checking for threats, for exits, for anything that makes sense. When she doesn’t find it, she makes a decision.
She moves. Not back toward the open spaces. Not toward the routes that feel safer. Forward. Deeper into the narrow corridors, the service halls, the parts of the Rot where retail died first and infrastructure’s all that’s left.
Straight toward the choice I’m about to give her.
