18
ARMEN
Sorting doesn’t happen all at once.
That’s the mistake outsiders make when they imagine the Rot. They think it’s chaos, or cruelty for its own sake. They picture men dragging women down corridors, shouting orders, blood on tile.
That would be wrong.
Sorting is quiet. Administrative. Almost gentle if you don’t know what you’re looking at.
The Runts are moved in waves, not lines. One at a time. Two at most. Never all together. Noise is a contagion, panic spreads faster when bodies can see each other break.
I don’t interfere. I observe. That’s my role here as one of the original Rotters. Not execution. Not comfort. Pattern.
The first woman is ignored.
She’s left where she is, long enough for hope to bloom and then decay on its own. No one speaks to her. No one looks at her. Her restraints are loose enough that she can shift, tight enough that she can’t go anywhere. She calls out once. Then twice. Then not at all.
By the time someone comes for her, she’s already hollowed out, eyes glassy, relief and terror tangled together. Her kind doesn’t last. If that sounds fucked up, that’s because it is.
The second is comforted. Some might say that’s even worse. Someone kneels in front of her, murmurs reassurance, loosens a binding that never needed tightening. Touches her hair. Tells her she did well. Tells her she’s safe now. She clings.
I watch her grab at the sleeve like it’s a lifeline, the way her whole body folds forward, desperate for connection. She’ll comply early. She’ll confuse kindness with survival. She’ll break when the kindness stops. They always do.
The third is isolated. Taken out of sight, out of sound, out of context. No explanation. No witnesses. No sense of scale. She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t resist. She walks stiff-backed, eyes fixed straight ahead like she’s decided not to see what’s coming. That kind lasts longer.
None of them are her.
I track Vi the whole time without looking like I am.
She stays where I left her. That’s important. They all try to shift once the first woman is moved, test the margins, lean toward the sound, whisper questions. Vi doesn’t, just like a lone wolf.
She adjusts her weight once, slow and deliberate, redistributing the pressure on her wrists. Someonenotices. A guard shifts position. Another steps closer, not touching, just occupying space.
That’s the second tell.
They’re already responding to her presence.
When the second woman is comforted, Vi doesn’t look away, but she doesn’t lean into it either. Her eyes narrow just enough to show she understands what she’s seeing.
Not mercy but manipulation.
When the isolated woman is taken, Vi’s shoulders draw back, spine lengthening like she’s bracing against a wind only she can feel. She exhales once, through her nose, controlled. She’s not hoping. She’s calculating.
I move farther down the corridor, slow enough that no one reads it as interest. From here, I can see the whole spread: Runts arranged along the wall at uneven intervals, guards stationed where views overlap. No one’s allowed a clear exit or a clear ally.
That’s when someone checks Vi’s bindings again.
They’re already secure. Clean work. No slack. No circulation loss.
The guard kneels, fingers brushing her wrist, tugging once. Then again. A second set of hands appears, verifying the knot at her ankles.
Redundant. Unnecessary.
Irritation sparks low in my chest before I can stop it. Not jealousy. Not possession. Pattern disruption.
Why her? No one checks the others twice.
