I meet his gaze, refusing to look away first. “If I’m not being punished, and I’m not being released… what am I?”
The question hangs between us, heavy and unanswered. For a moment, I think he won’t respond at all.
Then he says, “You’re being assessed.”
“For what?”
His eyes linger on me a second longer than necessary. “That,” he says, “is still being decided.”
He leaves after that and this time, I don’t watch him go.
I stay where I am, spine straight, shoulders aligned theway he corrected them. My knee throbs. My hands ache. My body hums with awareness I don’t want to admit.
Around me, the Rot continues its steady pulse. Somewhere down the corridor, someone laughs softly. Somewhere else, a door closes. The mall settles into its new configuration.
I sit there, contained but not collapsed, replaying the feel of his hand at my back, not the touch itself but the intent behind it. And the unsettling realization that part of me wants to know what else he could correct if he decided I was worth the effort.
The thought lingers long after he’s gone. And it scares me more than being bound does.
24
ARMEN
She asksthe first question without looking at me.
That’s how I know this won’t go the way it’s supposed to. She hasn’t slumped. She hasn’t leaned forward either. Balanced. Alert. Watching.
“You said I’d be moved,” she says. “You didn’t say when.”
I don’t answer immediately. That’s deliberate. Questions are a kind of reach. Most Runts reach too fast, too often. They flood us Rotters with noise to fill the space and soothe their nerves. But Vi lets the quiet sit. Lets it stretch. She isn’t trying to fill it. She’s using it.
That’s already a problem.
“Things will happen when necessary,” I say.
She nods once, like she expected that non-answer. Like she’s filing it away instead of bristling at it. “And what determines necessity?” she asks.
I step closer before I respond. Not abruptly. Not enough to startle her. Just enough that the space between us tightens. She has to tilt her head slightly to keep eye contact now. Her breathing changes — not faster, not slower. Deeper.
She doesn’t lean back. She doesn’t lean away.
Most people do one or the other when you crowd their space. Even the defiant ones. They give ground, even if it’s only a fraction of an inch. She doesn’t.
Fuck me.
What can I say? I love a ballsy chick. The guys tell me it will someday be my undoing.
Over my dead body.
“Behavior determines necessity,” I say. “Utility. Risk.”
She smiles faintly at that. “Which am I? Useful or risky?”
Unsure whether her questions are sincere or if she’s fucking with me, I halt a foot in front of her. Close enough that I can see the faint sheen of sweat at her temple. Close enough that I can hear the subtle hitch in her breath she doesn’t quite manage to suppress. Her body knows I’m here even if her expression refuses to acknowledge it.
“You’re asking questions,” I say. “That answer your own.”
She lifts her chin another fraction. “So I should stop asking them.”
