“Down here?” Rogue says. “You do. The rules are different. You should know that by now, for Christ’s sake. I’m not telling you this to blow hot air. I’m serious. You need to fucking listen, Vi. This isn’t the outside. It’s a different world with different rules. You don’t want to piss anyone off, least of all Armen, Sting, and me.”
Then he steps aside and gestures toward the doorway. “Go on. Armen’s already in there. He’ll keep an eye on you.”
I pull my shoulders back, my pulse racing, my hands curling into fists at my sides. Then I step past him into the work hub.
The noise hits me first, voices overlapping, the clatter of supplies being sorted, the low whine of activity that never quite stops in this place.
And then I see her. She’s at one of the tables near the back, her hands moving slowly through a crate of supplies. But her eyes aren’t on her work. They’re on me. Her mouth curves slowly. Not a smile. Something colder.
While my palms itch to smack that look off her face, I succeed in forcing myself to look away. Small victories.
That’s when I see Armen. He’s standing near the center of the room, half-skeleton mask in place, armscrossed over his chest. His posture is relaxed, but his gaze is sharp, focused.
On me. Watching. Always watching.
Rogue’s voice comes from behind me, low and amused. “Good luck, Vi.”
Then he’s gone.
38
ARMEN
By the timeRogue escorts Vi into the work hub, I’ve already been watching the room for twenty minutes.
Not obviously. I’m standing near the supply coordinator’s station with a clipboard in hand, reviewing intake numbers like I have a reason to be here. The hub’s lead, a good but annoying guy, is talking at me, something about water filter shortages and delayed shipments from the north access, but I’m only half listening.
The rest of my attention is on her. The troublemaker who threatened Vi.
She’s at a sorting table near the back wall, hands moving through a crate with deliberate slowness. She’s not actually working. She’s waiting.
I see it in the way her shoulders are angled toward the entrance. The way her fingers pause every few seconds,her head tilting slightly like she’s listening for something. She knows Vi is coming. And she’s ready.
Just what we need. A fucking cat fight.
In my previous life, in the days before the Rot, I’d be amused by the thought of two bitches going at it. Hell, I’d probably even egg them on.
But things are different here. There are no petty squabbles in the Rot. Everything is bigger. Everything has higher stakes. Everything costs more.
So to speak.
The lead is still talking. “—and if we don’t get another shipment by next week, we’re going to have to start rationing?—”
“Handle it,” I say, cutting him off.
He blinks. “Handle it how?”
“However you need to.” I hand him back the clipboard without looking at it. “I’ll check in tomorrow.”
His mouth opens, then closes. He nods slowly and walks away, quietly understanding he’s been dismissed.
I stay where I am.
The work hub is stripped down to concrete and metal, scavenged tables bolted to the floor, shelves made from empty display brackets, crates stacked into neat columns with chalk marks on the sides. Someone hung a faded sign over the entrance as a joke: RECEIVING.
Like this is a normal operation. Like we’re not an ecosystem feeding itself on scavenged supplies and stolen resources.
People move in steady loops. Two Rotters sort medical supplies into bins. One weighs packets of dried food and ties them off with twine. A few Runts shuffle betweentables, carrying crates, never slowing, never speaking unless spoken to.
