My sniffles follow us through the dark streets.
I mean, I guess they are streets, because that was the last thing I saw around me, apartment buildings and storefronts—
Then Samick reached down my wrist for the torch and switched it off.
No command, no order, just did it himself.
I prefer that.
Something about orders…
Ugh, they knead into my spine, a tension that burrows too deep in me.
A natural resistance.
I could barely hold down a job for more than a couple of months in the Before. As soon as I started getting too many commands from whatever boss I had, that was it. My resolve was chipped away, piece by piece, order by order.
But with Samick… it feels different sometimes. Like I can just exist, switch off, operate on autopilot, and he guides the way.
Like he guides me now through the dark.
We follow the sound of Arwyn’s bootsteps on the hard road, hearing the jangling and clanging of his weapons with each rushed step.
To them, it’s just long, swift steps—but to me, it’s a jog, and I can hardly keep up.
Those ragged breaths return, raspy and sandpapery down my chest.
I suck my breaths out of the inhaler.
I hope Samick has another in his satchel, because I’m running this one dry just trying to keep up.
But my lungs haven’t properly rested from before. I need them to soothe—more than what the inhaler can offer.
Whatever that virus did to me, it’s more than constricted, crackling lungs. It’s exhaustion in my bones, fatigue in my muscles, a tiredness that fogs my mind—and sometimes, at its absolute worst, hacking up blood.
That hasn’t happened in so long.
But it doesn’t mean it won’t happen again—and I don’t want to find out what comes after.
So I whisper in the dark, without the prying ears of a unit’s worth of warriors, “I need to stop.”
I need to pause.
To rest.
To sit down.
My boot scuffs over the road—and that’s all, before Samick’s solid arm swoops through the dark for me.
I’m hoisted off my feet.
For the countless time in his impatience, I take the rest of the journey slung over his shoulder.
The muscle of his firm shoulder presses into my belly and chokes the air out of me, but I’m grateful for the ride—because the rush through the blackout goes on a while longer.
It’s at least another half-hour before my hair whips my cheeks and my neck sways to the side, and so I know Samick has taken a hard turn off the road.
The rattle of a door comes before bootsteps are muffled on carpeted floors.
