I wince as my weight shifts, pain blooming sharp in my ribs and thigh. “Ugh. Okay. Everything hurts. Is that normal?”
He still doesn’t speak.
But he moves to one of the walls and pulls a small med-pack from a niche. Tosses it toward me.
I catch it—barely. “Thanks,” I say, then add dryly, “Wow. Youdoknow how to communicate.”
Still nothing. Just a faint huff through his nostrils. Not quite a laugh, but not hostile either.
I open the med-pack, start patching up my arm with shaking hands. There’s antiseptic in here, bandage wrap, even a little tube of regen gel. High-quality stuff. Not pirate-tier garbage.
“You’ve been here a while, huh?” I murmur. “Got your own setup. Kinda cozy, in a post-apocalyptic war-tomb sorta way.”
He sits against the far wall, arms folded, watching.
Not threatening.
Just...watching.
“I was trying to make content,” I confess. “That’s why I came. For views. Hype. You know... risk = reward, right?”
My voice cracks.
“Didn’t think I’d almost get raped for it.”
There. I say it. Out loud.
It feels awful. Like something poisonous finally clawed its way out of my throat.
His gaze sharpens. His jaw flexes.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “That’s what I thought.”
Silence again.
I lean my head back, stare up at the warped ceiling of his bunker.
“Can’t go back to Meyer’s crew,” I say. “Even if I wanted to.”
A pause.
Then, he shakes his head. Intelligence gleams in those eyes.
“You... you understand me,” I say stupidly. “Holy crap. I was starting to think you couldn’t.”
He says nothing else. Just watches.
I don’t need more.
Because in that one second—when he finally spoke—I heard something in him that wasn’t brutality or anger. It waspromise.
I curl up tighter on the makeshift bed, holding the med-pack to my ribs.
“You gonna stay?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer.
But he doesn’t leave, either.
