She believed competence would carry her through. That if she ran hard enough, thought fast enough, lasted long enough, the world would eventually have to reward her.
It’s a dangerous belief in the Rot. Because here, competence doesn’t save you. It just makes you interesting after you lose.
I watch the way the guards adjust when she shifts her weight. The way someone checks her bindings twice when no one’s looking. The way space subtly tightens around her without anyone giving an order. She notices it too—I can tell by the flicker in her eyes—but she hasn’t named it yet. She thinks this is still a game she can outthink.
It isn’t.
And the fact that she hasn’t accepted that yet—hasn’t folded, hasn’t hollowed, hasn’t given herself over to the shape they’re offering her—that’s what unsettles me. Not strength. Not defiance. Expectation. She expected to walk out of here owed.
Now, the Rot is deciding what to do with her instead.
I feel my attraction sharpen, unwanted and intrusive, like a blade pressed too close to skin. Not just her bodybut also her mind. The refusal. The refusal to give up interior ground even now. It feels like betrayal because it is. Order depends on distance. Desire collapses it.
I force myself to keep moving.
Behind me, someone checks her bindings a third time. I don’t turn around.
But I don’t miss it either.
19
ARMEN
I make myself useful.That’s how I justify it.
Sorting is finished. Placement is stable. The corridors have settled into their new configuration with guards where they’re meant to be, Runts where they’ll stay until someone decides otherwise. This is the part after panic, after adrenaline, when hands still need to move even though the danger’s passed.
Routine keeps people from thinking too hard.
I stop in front of the first woman down the line.
She’s the one who cried earlier. Loud, wet sobs that scraped at the air until they dulled into hiccups. Her wrists are red where the restraints have rubbed raw. She keeps trying to sit up, like posture might change the outcome.
It won’t.
I adjust the binding at her ankles. Not tighter. Notlooser. Just centered. My fingers are efficient, detached. I don’t look at her face. I don’t need to.
“Stay still,” I say.
She freezes instantly.
I move on.
The next Runt doesn’t react when I stop in front of her. She’s already gone somewhere else, eyes unfocused, mouth slack, breathing shallow like she’s trying to disappear from the inside out. Her restraints are too loose. Someone wanted her pliable. That won’t help her.
I tighten them a fraction. Enough that she has to stay present. She flinches, whimpers, but doesn’t come back all the way. That’s fine.
I keep going.
Each adjustment is clean. Impersonal. Correcting imbalances before they become problems. No lingering. No commentary. This is what I do. This is what I’m good at.
Then I reach Vi.
I stop. Not because anything’s wrong with her restraints. They’re fine. That’s the problem.
Her wrists are bound evenly. No longer reclined, her ankles are set at a distance that keeps her upright without strain. Whoever did it knew exactly what they were doing. No shortcuts. No cruelty. No slack.
She’s exactly where she’s supposed to be. And yet.
