Chapter 25
ARMEN
I take her through the west-access corridor.
This stretch of the mall was built to move people fast and push them through without thinking.
No benches. No storefront glass. No places to stop and look at yourself reflected back.
The walls are unfinished concrete scarred by old impact marks and half-scraped signage.
A dead escalator sits locked at an angle, frozen mid-command, railings cold to the touch.
The lighting is harsher here, with white strips instead of ambient glow, meant to keep bodies moving, not comfortable.
This is not a place for conversation. Which is exactly why I bring her here.
She limps slightly as we walk. Not enough to ask for help. Enough to remind me she must have smashed the hell out of her knee at some point. So, I match her pace without commenting on it. If I acknowledge the injury again, it becomes something else. Something closer than I want.
Her wrists are still bound behind her back. I don’t offer an arm. I don’t guide her elbow. She manages on her own, shoulders set, chin level, posture still corrected the way I left it. She remembers.
That should not irritate me but it does.
We stop near the base of the escalator where the corridor narrows. Anyone watching from a distance would see us clearly. Anyone passing would understand, immediately, who holds authority.
I keep my body angled so I’m not blocking her completely. I want the illusion of space, even if there isn’t any.
She’s the one who breaks the silence. “You didn’t answer my question.”
I don’t pretend to know which one.
“How many leave?” she asks. Not loud. Not confrontational. Just direct.
I watch her face while I answer. I’ve learned to do that. People tell you more with their reactions than their words. “Very few. None, really.”
She absorbs it. A small tightening at the corner of her mouth. Her breathing slows instead of catching.
“And the rest?”
I don’t answer immediately. I let the hum of the generators fill the space between us. Let her feel what silence sounds like in a place like this.
“They stay,” I say finally.
She nods once. Not in acceptance. In confirmation.
“So when I signed the contract,” she says carefully, “that wasn’t a misunderstanding. It was an omission that I’m here… forever.”
“Language is precise,” I reply. “Interpretation is optional.”
Her eyes sharpen. “That’s a neat way to avoid responsibility.”
“It’s an accurate one.”
She shifts her weight. Her knee protests. I see it even though she doesn’t vocalize it. The restraint forces her to adjust awkwardly, shoulders tightening again despite herself.
“You feel the city deserved this,” she says suddenly.
The words land wrong. Not because they’re accusatory. Because they’re familiar.
I still don’t touch her. I don’t move closer. But something in me tightens all the same. “What city?”
She tilts her head, studying me. “The one before. The one that fell. Rothwell? Remember?” she says like a smartass.
Of course I fucking remember. But I say nothing.
“My father used to say collapse wasn’t an accident,” she continues. “That systems disintegrate long before they fall. That pretending otherwise just lets the damage spread.”
There it is. The line she didn’t know she was crossing. My hand moves before I decide to let it. I grab her wrist. Harder than I intend. Tight enough that I feel bone under skin. Her breath snaps in, sharp and startled, and she stumbles a half step toward me before she catches herself.
The contact is immediate. Electric. Wrong. I tighten my grip without meaning to. Not to hurt her. To stop her. To stop myself.
Her pulse hammers under my thumb. Fast. Alive. Defiant. She doesn’t cry out. She doesn’t plead. She looks up at me, eyes wide but clear, and in that second, I see it, not in her face but in the way she holds herself when confronted.
The belief that systems can be argued with. The belief that truth should matter. The belief that restraint and humanity are proof of decency.
I release her abruptly. Too abruptly.
She stumbles back, catching herself against the cold metal of the escalator rail. I step away at the same time, like the contact burned us both.
My hand curls into a fist at my side. I don’t apologize. I don’t explain. I’m furious—with her, yes, but mostly with myself.
“Talk of him doesn’t belong here,” I say, voice controlled through sheer will.
“Who? My father?” she asks.
“Yes.”
She straightens despite the restraints. Despite the pain. Despite the fact that I just put my hands on her in a way I promised myself I wouldn’t.
“He believed people should be held accountable,” she says. “Does that scare you?”
I laugh once. Short. Humorless. “Accountability is a luxury,” I say. “Order isn’t built on fairness. It’s built on enforcement.”
“And yet,” she says, “you’re standing here arguing with me instead of walking away.”
“You don’t understand what you’re invoking,” I tell her.
“Then explain it,” she says. “Explain why you sound like someone justifying a fire instead of preventing one.”
“You think the city fell because we failed it,” I say. “It fell because it refused to adapt. Because it clung to structures that benefited a few and crushed the rest. Because it believed restraint was the same thing as mercy.”
She watches me closely now, eyes intent. “And you think what replaced it is better?”
“I think it’s honest,” I say. “I think it doesn’t lie about the cost of survival.”
She considers that. Too calmly. Too intelligently. “And my father?” she asks. “Was he a cost?”
The question is quiet. It still slices. I turn away before I answer. Take three measured steps down the corridor. Put space between us before I do something worse than touch her.
“I have no idea. Nor do I care. Stop using him to goad me,” I say.
“I’m not using him,” she says. “I’m telling you why I won’t shut up.”
I look back at her. “Careful,” I warn.
She meets my eyes. “You first.”
I stop. I don’t turn back. Not because I don’t want to see her. Because I do. “This conversation is over.”
“For now,” she says.
I walk away before she can say anything else. Behind me, I know she’s watching. Not afraid. Not hopeful. Learning.
And the worst part is, I know she’s right about one thing. I didn’t grab her wrist because of what she said. I grabbed it because for a second, I saw exactly who she could have been in another version of this city.
And I couldn’t afford to let her finish the thought.