Still watching.
I shift in the chair Armen left me in, adjusting my weight. The rope at my wrists creaks softly. That sound draws attention faster than anything else I could do. I regret it immediately.
Sting’s head tilts.
My mouth goes dry.
I can’t tell what he sees when he looks at me, but it’s like being examined. Like something about me has caught his interest and he’s decided to indulge it.
“Eyes forward,” Armen says.
I startle despite myself and glance up at him. Where did he come from?
He doesn’t look at me. His gaze is fixed down the corridor, expression flat.
“I was,” I say.
“Then keep them there.”
I do. For about ten seconds.
Then a body crosses my line of sight, blocking the view. When it clears, Sting has shifted his weight, one foot braced against the wall now. Still watching.
Someone passes between us and stops near him. I can’t hear what they say, but I see Sting’s head turn briefly, just enough to acknowledge the interruption. He doesn’t look away from me for long. When he does, it’s like a physical thing, a release and then a snap back.
I swallow.
A maskless man I don’t recognize slows as he passes me. His gaze drops to my wrists, lingers, then lifts to my face. He smiles, a quick thing that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“You look comfortable,” he says.
I don’t answer.
He waits a second longer than necessary, then moves on when Armen shifts his stance.
“Don’t engage,” Armen says under his breath.
“I didn’t,” I say.
“I know.”
The fact that he’s watching closely enough to know that makes my skin prickle.
Across the corridor, Sting straightens away from the wall. He doesn’t come closer. He doesn’t leave. He just stands there now, feet planted, shoulders squared.
It feels deliberate.
Another Rotter approaches him. This one taller, bulkier, mask scuffed and mismatched. They exchange a few words. I can’t hear them, but I can see the way the taller man glances in my direction.
Once. Twice.
Sting says something short in response. The taller man laughs and claps him on the shoulder before moving on. Sting doesn’t laugh back. His attention comes back to me immediately, like nothing else matters.
I straighten my spine without meaning to. My shoulders pull back. It’s a stupid instinct, and I fight it, but my body reacts before my brain can override it.
Armen notices. His weight shifts. I hear the faint scrape of his boot against concrete as he adjusts his stance.
“Relax,” he says.
