The fourth glass arrives with a slight nod from Diesel, the barest acknowledgment that I'm exceeding expectations. The whiskey no longer burns—it warms, spreading through limbs that have been cold since Cash dragged me away from Legion at the silo.
And finally… it fades.
All of it.
it just fades and… it feels good.
Legion leans in as the men get rowdy. I think maybe they might like me. I think maybe I did OK.
And as these words form in my head, my mouth does something weird.
It smiles.
Not the smile my mother taught me—perfect teeth, practiced dimples, eyes that crinkle just enough to seem genuine on camera.
This smile is wilder, looser at the edges.
It belongs to the girl who used to meet Legion in secret, who gave herself to him under stars and grain dust while a dynasty waited at home.
This smile says: I'm not done yet.
This isn't over yet.
I'm here.
The whiskey settles into my bones, making everything soft at the edges. The room doesn't spin exactly, but it feels like I'm watching it through water. Colors blur. Sounds stretch. I lean against the bar, feeling the press of Legion's body beside me.
Across from us, Diesel laughs at something Legion says. I don't catch the words, just the low rumble of Legion's voice andthe answering bark from Diesel. Their camaraderie feels strange—intimate in a way I've never understood.
Brotherhood, maybe.
Whatever it is, it makes Legion's face relax. The hard lines around his mouth soften.
He looks... happy.
And that—that single moment of seeing joy crack through his mask—makes something in my chest uncoil. If he can be happy here, with these men, maybe I can too. Maybe this isn't just survival. Maybe it's something else.
The music changes, shifting from something angry and pounding to a slower beat that feels like honey in my veins. I sway slightly, letting the rhythm catch me.
That's when I notice him.
A man materializes beside Legion like he's been summoned from smoke. Older than the others, with a face weathered into permanent vigilance. His leather cut is different—heavier with patches, worn like a second skin rather than a uniform. The patch at the top reads "President" in faded stitching. Below it, "Brick."
The man who holds Legion's loyalty.
He's speaking to Legion, but his eyes are fixed on me. Not examining my body like the others. Not assessing my worth or my use. He's looking atme, like he's trying to read what's written under my skin.
"What do we call her?" Brick asks Legion, his voice cutting through the murmur of conversation.
The room goes silent.
Everyone is watching us. Waiting. I realize with sudden clarity that this is some kind of test or ritual. My name—my real name—doesn't matter here. What matters is what Legion claims me as.
Legion doesn't hesitate. Doesn't even blink.
"Mine," he says, pointing to his chest. Simple. Direct. Like it's the only answer that could ever exist. "You will all call herMine."
The word drops between us, heavy with meaning. Not a question. Not a request. A statement of fact.
