I can feel her taking it all in, trying to make sense of it. The way people reorganize themselves around us. The way people’s eyes track the guys and then find me and then findher, an unfamiliar face, the new body.
A big-ass question mark.
I start narrating. I don’t plan to. It just happens, like there’s a void I need to fill with chatter.
“That’s a work hub over there,” I say, nodding toward a former electronics store where sorting tables have replaced display cases. “Labor shifts run six hours. You get assigned based on what’s needed.”
Mara says nothing. Her eyes move.
“That corridor leads to the neutral zone. Old food court. It’s supposed to be safe ground with no territory claims, no crew business. In practice, it’s where people go to trade information and test boundaries without technically breaking rules. At least, that’s how I see it.”
Still nothing. I keep going.
“The second floor is mostly residential. Partitioned. You earn your space or you’re assigned it. Third floor is restricted to operations, storage, places you don’t go unless someone brings you.”
I hear myself talking and something cold moves through my stomach. I sound like a guide. I sound like someone who knows this place, its rhythms, its rules, its invisible lines, the way you know a city you’ve lived in for years. Not weeks.
Weeks. That’s all it’s been, really. Hard to believe.
And I’m explaining the hierarchy of an abandoned mall turned closed society to my best friend the way someone else might explain a new apartment.Here’s the kitchen. Here’s where we keep the towels. Don’t go in that room.
How the fuck did this become normal?
Who says it is?
We pass a cluster of Rotters standing near what used to be a jewelry store. Mid-level, I can tell by their ink and posture. One of them glances at us, sees Armen, and nods once. A greeting. An acknowledgment. The others don’t look at all, which is its own kind of acknowledgment.
“Those men,” Mara whispers. “They’re afraid of your guys.”
“Respectful,” I correct. “Fear and respect are different here. You’ll see.”
The words are out of my mouth before I hear them.You’ll see.As if she’s staying long enough to see all the shit I have. As if this is a skill set she’s going to need.
She is. She will. But hearing myself say it, that casual, matter-of-fact assumption that Mara is now part of this world, makes my throat tight. I wouldn’t wish this on her. Hell, I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
We turn down another corridor. The lighting here is warmer. Someone strung amber bulbs along the ceiling, and the effect is almost soft. Almost, since it’s a residential section. The partitions are denser here, fabric walls creating the illusion of rooms. Behind them, I can hear the sounds of people living—low conversations, the clatter of something being moved, a baby crying somewhere.
Mara’s hand touches my elbow. Light. Brief.
I slow down.
“Vi.”
I turn to look at her. The light catches her face and for a second, she looks almost like herself, the Mara from before, the one who sat across from me and argued about movies and stole fries off my plate right in this very mall. Then the light changes, and I see the hollows under her cheekbones, the grime in the creases of her neck, and the expression she’s wearing that I’ve never seen on her before.
Horror. Controlled but unmistakable.
“How do you live in this place?” she whispers.
The question is simple. The answer should be simple.
But I stand there in the amber light of a corridor built from curtains and salvage, and I don’t know what to say. Because the answer is that I got used to it. We’re all built for adaptation, and I adapted because what the hell else was I going to do?
Awhile back, I stopped noticing the things that should horrify me because noticing them wasn’t useful for survival. I got used to the work hubs. The hierarchy. The body language. The men who own me. The fact that I can’t leave.
I got used to all of it.
And standing here with Mara looking at me with that expression on her face, the one that saysthis is not okay, none of this is okay, how can you not see that this is not okay, I can’t tell if that adaptation saved me or buried me.
