Chapter 22
VI
They don’t leave me alone for long, but they also don’t rush back.
That’s how I know this isn’t neglect.
Time in the Rot stretches differently once the Hunt ends, at least for my part in it.
Not in clean units like minutes or hours but in subtler shifts, the way footsteps thin out, the way voices drop from shouts to murmurs, the way guards stop reacting and start anticipating.
The mall seems a quieter, heavier version of itself, like a satisfied predator settling down after a kill.
I’m still sitting on the concrete planter when Armen returns and as cold and hard as the damn thing is, heat washes over me so bad, I look down in case I’m turning red. My body betraying me is one thing. His finding out would be worse.
He doesn’t announce himself. No barked order, no sudden movement meant to remind me who’s in charge. One moment, I’m watching a pair of guards reposition at the far end of the corridor, the next, he’s simply there, standing in front of me like he stepped out of space itself.
He’s alone this time.
Rogue and Sting aren’t hovering nearby, though I’ve learned enough already to know absence doesn’t mean disinterest. Armen carries himself differently without them.
He stops close enough that I have to arc my head back uncomfortably to look at him, and I’m acutely aware that he’s chosen that position deliberately.
“That was fast,” I say, because silence feels like something I’ll regret later.
“For you?” he asks mildly. “Or for them?”
I follow his gaze without turning my head. Two women are being escorted down a side corridor, restraints adjusted, posture already shifting as reality sinks in. One is crying openly now, sobs catching on each breath. The other is quiet, face locked down so tight it almost looks like discipline.
“For them,” I say.
He nods once, like that confirms something he already knew. “They always think the worst part is the Hunt.”
“It isn’t?” I ask.
“The Hunt is simple. Motion. Outcome. Rules that don’t pretend to be anything else. It’s just the beginning.”
I wait, because I’m learning that Armen leaves space on purpose. Like silence is part of his power. “And after?” I finally ask when he doesn’t continue.
His eyes settle on me again, steady and unreadable. “After is about usefulness.”
The word lands harder than I expect. Not because it’s cruel but because it’s said like a fact no one’s bothered to dress up. It’s stony, harsh, and ugly.
“Usefulness to whom?” I ask.
Instead of answering, he shifts slightly to the side. Not enough to touch me. Not enough to threaten. Just enough that the corridor behind him is no longer accessible. “That depends,” he says, “on who’s asking. Whether you’re talking about losers or winners.”
“The winners?” I ask.
That gets a pause. Not long. Not dramatic. But real. He studies me like I’ve finally asked something that matters. “What about them?” he asks.
“You tell me,” I say. “Why not?”
“Because explanations create expectations,” he replies. “And expectations make people careless.”
“So you’d rather we stay afraid.”
“I’d rather you stay accurate.”
I shift my weight, my knee flaring in protest before I can stop it. His eyes flick down instantly, then back up. Not concern. Accounting.
“You keep doing that,” he says calmly.
“Doing what?” I ask.
“Testing space you don’t have.”
I look at him. “You going to stop me?”
“I already am.”
The realization settles slowly: this isn’t about restraint. It’s about deciding how much of the world I’m allowed to reach, how much of him I’m allowed to read, how close I can come without being permitted closer.
Casual. Efficient. Cruel in the way systems are cruel.
He looks into the distance. “Most women beg by now,” he adds, like he’s commenting on something inevitable. “They ask how to earn better treatment. They ask how long they’ll be here. They ask what they can give us to make it stop.”
“And what do you tell them?” I ask.
“That begging is information,” he says. “Not currency.”
I swallow, throat suddenly dry. “And the ones who don’t beg?”
His gaze sharpens, just a fraction. “Those are the ones we watch.”
That hits me somewhere low and dangerous.
“I noticed you don’t like the other guys,” I say after a moment. “The ones with the Halloween masks.”
A flicker of irritation crosses his face before it’s smoothed away. “They mistake spectacle for authority,” he says. “Noise for power. They act like it’s dress-up day at school. They’re performative and frivolous. There are better uses for masks. As you will see.”
“Really?”
“Masks are for erasing the man inside,” he says almost dreamily, looking up at a dingy, cracked skylight coated in bird shit.
Silence stretches between us, long enough to stop feeling empty and start feeling charged.
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask finally.
He considers me, head tilted slightly, as if the answer isn’t simple.
“Because you brought it up,” he says. “And because I’d rather you hear it from someone who doesn’t enjoy watching you misunderstand.”
That feels like a warning. Or an offer.
He shifts again, subtly adjusting his stance so the space between us narrows without changing the fact that he still hasn’t touched me. The proximity makes my breath hitch despite myself.
It grinds on me that he notices.
“Be careful,” he says. “You’re starting to confuse proximity with permission.”
“And you’re starting to confuse self-restraint with kindness,” I reply.
For the first time, something sparks behind his eyes. Not anger. Interest. “Kindness,” he says, “is expensive.”
“And self-restraint?”
“Self-restraint is free.”
We hold each other’s gaze, the moment stretching thin and dangerous. Then he steps back. Just like that. The corridor opens again. Air rushes into the space he vacated, and I feel the absence more sharply than the closeness.
“You’ll be moved later,” he says. “Until then, stay where you are.”
“Or?” I ask.
He glances back over his shoulder as he turns away. “Or you’ll learn the difference between being noticed and being protected.”
He leaves without another word.
I sit there, pulse still elevated, skin buzzing, aware of every inch of space where he stood.
No touch. No threat. Just containment—and the unsettling knowledge that part of me wants to know exactly how far his control extends.
Because whatever this is—
It’s deliberate. And it’s only just begun.