I said what I needed to say. I meant every word. And he gave me nothing.
56
VI
I don’t wantto be in my room. The walls are too close and the bed is too empty. My shaking has stopped but the raw feeling hasn’t, like a layer of skin got peeled off and everything is too bright, too loud, too much. So I go for a walk.
The Rot is busy. People are heading to their stations, traders are moving through the neutral zone, and the community hums while doing its daily thing. Nobody looks at me twice. That’s the nice thing about this place. Everyone’s got their own problems and most mind their own business. Most, but not all.
I pass the work hub and the communal tables. I pass the corridor where Rogue pinned me to a wall last week and made me almost forget my damn name. That memory arrives uninvited, and I let it in because right now I need to remember that not everything about my life here is a fight.
Rogue makes me laugh and that matters a lot to me. In a place like this, with everything I’m carrying, a man who can make me laugh while he’s fucking me is not a small thing. It’s huge, actually. It’s oxygen, a lifeline, if I’m honest.
And Armen. Yesterday on the couch, how he touched me and held me after. How he holds me, period. Armen is the ground I stand on when everything else is wobbly. I didn’t have that before I came here.
Even Sting, God, even Sting. The man who listened while I bled my heart out is also the man who kneeled in front of me at the club and wordlessly bared his soul. The man who led me to his room and locked the door and let me be the first person inside his private space. The man who said “stay” like it was the only word left in his vocabulary.
I care about these men. That’s the thing I can’t outrun, no matter how pissed I am. I walked into the Rot as a captive and somehow ended up attached to three people who would walk through fire for me. I know that. I’ve seen it. Sting came running when I was in the east wing. Armen’s been building bridges on my behalf for weeks. Rogue put himself between me and danger without hesitation more than once.
How lucky am I?
They care about me. I’m not confused about that. The caring isn’t the problem. The problem is that caring about someone and actually communicating with them are two different skills, and Sting only has one of them.
I’m trying not to let that be my problem and let it be just his. It’s a lot of work.
I’m crossing the atrium, deep in my own head, when I hear my name.
“Vi! Hey.”
That guy Tommy, the one Mara’s gotten chummy with is coming from the west corridor with an easy stride, and a friendly face. He waves and I almost keep walking. I’m not in the mood for conversation. But he’s already closing the distance, and ignoring him would be rude. Maybe the guy just wants somefriends. I can’t blame him for that. The Rot can be pretty damn lonely if you don’t have your own posse.
“Hey,” I say, flat, not inviting.
He reads it and I see him clock my tone, my posture, the fact that my eyes are probably red. He adjusts. The bright smile dials down to something more subdued. Concerned.
“You okay?” he asks. A little too familiar for how well we do—or don’t—know each other.
“Fine, thanks for asking. Just tired.” I force a lame little smile.
“Yeah, you look—” He stops himself. Laughs. “I was about to say you look like you’ve been through something, but that’s probably not helpful.”
“It’s not.”
“Fair enough.” He falls into step beside me. I didn’t ask him to walk with me. He just does it. Natural. Like we’re friends who stroll together. “Listen, I don’t want to pry. But if you ever need someone to talk to who isn’t…” He gestures vaguely. “Involved. I’m around. Sometimes it helps to vent to someone who’s got no stake in it.”
“Appreciate that,” I say. I don’t mean it. In fact, it feels really obtrusive, and that bugs the shit out of me. It reeks of manipulation, someone trying too hard.
We walk. He doesn’t push. We talk about nothing. The weather, which is irrelevant because we live in a mall, some issue with the water filtration, and funny thing that happened in the supply room yesterday.
Then he says it.
“Mara mentioned you’ve been going through your father’s papers. She said it’s been tough. Especially the parts that don’t add up.”
Fuck me.This isn’t good. There’s no way it can be. I keep walking and don’t change my pace, but something is off, really off.
“What parts?” I ask.
“Oh, I don’t know the specifics. She just said there were gaps. Things that didn’t make sense. Like the story wasn’t finished.”
