It’s efficient. Quiet. For now.
Then Vi steps through the doorway. The shift is subtle. Not everyone notices. But enough people do. Heads turn. Eyes flick toward her, then away. Conversations pause for half a beat before resuming. The Runts nearest the entrance slow their movements, watching.
Vi doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she does and refuses to show it.
She stands just inside the threshold, her posture straight despite the limp she’s trying to hide. Her hair is pulled back, sleeves rolled up, wrists still marked with faint red lines where the rope bit in yesterday. Her expression is guarded, chin lifted, eyes sweeping the room methodically.
Rogue appears behind her briefly, says something low near her ear, then disappears back into the corridor. Vi’s shoulders tighten for a fraction of a second before she forces them to relax.
Then her gaze finds mine. We hold it for a beat. Two.
I don’t move. Don’t nod. Don’t acknowledge her beyond the weight of my attention.
She looks away first and steps farther into the room.
The hub lead intercepts her almost immediately, gesturing toward an empty spot at one of the sorting tables. He’s talking, explaining something, pointing at crates, probably giving her the same speech he gives every new Runt about organization and efficiency.
Vi listens. Nods once. Moves to the table. She doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t hesitate. Just starts working.
Her hands are quick, precise. She picks up an item, checks the label, places it in the correct bin. Repeats. The rhythm is steady, controlled, like she’s done this before.
She hasn’t. But she’s good at reading patterns. At mimicking competence until it becomes real. I’ve seen this before. A Runt who learns the rhythms doesn’t stay a Runt, not in the traditional sense. Not because someone promotes them. Because they become the kind of person others either protect or destroy.
The troublemaker hasn’t moved from her table. But her gaze is locked on Vi now, sharp and unwavering. Her hands have stopped moving entirely. She’s just... watching. Calculating.
I see the exact moment she makes her decision.
Bitch must have a death wish.
Her mouth curves slowly, not a smile, something colder, and she sets down the crate she was pretending to sort. Then she stands. And walks directly toward Vi’s table.
Rogue materializes at my side, silent as always. He’s watching too, his arms crossed loosely, his expression unreadable behind the mask.
“This is going to be a problem,” he murmurs.
“I know.”
“You going to stop it?”
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because Vi needs to see what happens when she doesn’t listen.”
Rogue huffs a quiet laugh. “You think she’s going to learn from this?”
“No,” I admit. “But I’m going to make sure she survives it.”
The girl reaches Vi’s table and stops just behind her, close enough that their shoulders nearly brush. Vi’s lips press together tightly, but doesn’t turn around.
Good. She’s been listening.
Then the girl leans in, her mouth near Vi’s ear, and says something I can’t hear from this distance.
But I see Vi’s reaction. Her hands stop moving. Her spine goes rigid. The muscle in her jaw jumps once, then locks.
Whatever she said, it landed.
