Chapter 26
VI
With wrists bound behind my back, the rope’s biting more on the right than the left. My knee has stiffened again, the ache settled deep enough that it doesn’t throb anymore. It’s just there.
Armen stands a few steps away, close enough that I can see the edge of his sleeve when he shifts. He hasn’t said anything to me in a while, which means he’s watching something else.
I don’t ask.
That’s when I notice the man across the corridor.
At first, it’s just the way my eyes land on him and don’t slide off again. He’s standing near a support column, one shoulder against the concrete, posture loose like he’s waiting rather than passing through. Short, cropped hair, wearing another white half-skeleton mask just like Armen’s.
Oh, right. That one’s Sting.
He’s looking directly at me. Not flicking a glance and moving on. Not checking his surroundings. Just watching. His head is angled slightly, chin tipped down, eyes locked on me.
I hold his gaze longer than I should. Something tightens in my chest. Not fear. Awareness. I look away first, fixing my attention on the floor, counting the thin cracks in the concrete between my boots. When I glance back a moment later, he hasn’t moved.
Still watching.
I shift in the chair Armen left me in, adjusting my weight. The rope at my wrists creaks softly. That sound draws attention faster than anything else I could do. I regret it immediately.
Sting’s head tilts.
My mouth goes dry.
I can’t tell what he sees when he looks at me, but it’s like being examined. Like something about me has caught his interest and he’s decided to indulge it.
“Eyes forward,” Armen says.
I startle despite myself and glance up at him. Where did he come from?
He doesn’t look at me. His gaze is fixed down the corridor, expression flat.
“I was,” I say.
“Then keep them there.”
I do. For about ten seconds.
Then a body crosses my line of sight, blocking the view. When it clears, Sting has shifted his weight, one foot braced against the wall now. Still watching.
Someone passes between us and stops near him. I can’t hear what they say, but I see Sting’s head turn briefly, just enough to acknowledge the interruption. He doesn’t look away from me for long. When he does, it’s like a physical thing, a release and then a snap back.
I swallow.
A maskless man I don’t recognize slows as he passes me. His gaze drops to my wrists, lingers, then lifts to my face. He smiles, a quick thing that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“You look comfortable,” he says.
I don’t answer.
He waits a second longer than necessary, then moves on when Armen shifts his stance.
“Don’t engage,” Armen says under his breath.
“I didn’t,” I say.
“I know.”
The fact that he’s watching closely enough to know that makes my skin prickle.
Across the corridor, Sting straightens away from the wall. He doesn’t come closer. He doesn’t leave. He just stands there now, feet planted, shoulders squared.
It feels deliberate.
Another Rotter approaches him. This one taller, bulkier, mask scuffed and mismatched. They exchange a few words. I can’t hear them, but I can see the way the taller man glances in my direction.
Once. Twice.
Sting says something short in response. The taller man laughs and claps him on the shoulder before moving on. Sting doesn’t laugh back. His attention comes back to me immediately, like nothing else matters.
I straighten my spine without meaning to. My shoulders pull back. It’s a stupid instinct, and I fight it, but my body reacts before my brain can override it.
Armen notices. His weight shifts. I hear the faint scrape of his boot against concrete as he adjusts his stance.
“Relax,” he says.
I exhale through my nose. “I am.”
“You’re not.”
I force myself to slump slightly, to look smaller, less aware. The act makes my knee twinge, sharp and sudden. I grit my teeth and keep my expression neutral.
Sting doesn’t break eye contact.
I try to catalog him the way I’ve learned to catalog threats. Height. Build. Distance. Possible weapons. It doesn’t work. The problem isn’t that he looks dangerous. The problem is that he looks interested.
Interested is dangerous. Scary. And I can’t stop staring back, that is, when Armen isn’t noticing.
A woman passes between us, pausing near me long enough to glance at my face. Her eyes flick to Sting, then back to me. She frowns slightly, like she’s confused by something, then keeps walking.
My pulse picks up. I’m not sure why.
Armen turns his head just enough to speak without moving his body. “Do you recognize him?”
“That guy?” I say. “The one looking at me?”
“Mmmm-hmmm.”
I hesitate. “Yeah. It’s Sting. You pointed him out earlier.”
He grunts.
Across the corridor, Sting lifts one hand and adjusts the edge of his mask.
The movement is slow, almost lazy, but it draws my attention instantly.
For a fraction of a second, I wonder if he’s about to take it off.
He doesn’t. Instead, he lowers his hand and folds his arms loosely across his chest. Like he’s settling in.
I feel suddenly, acutely exposed. Not because I’m bound or injured, I’ve felt all of that already. This is different. This is the sense that someone has decided I’m worth their time.
“Why is he staring at me?” I ask.
Armen doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is even. “Because you’re here.”
I glance sideways at him. “Should I be worried?”
“You should be aware.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“I’m not trying to comfort you.”
Sting shifts again, taking one step to the side. The angle changes. He can see more of me now, my profile, the line of my jaw, the way my hair falls forward over my shoulder.
He raises his chin slightly, like he’s testing whether I’ll look at him again.
I don’t. At least, not right away. And when I do, it’s accidental. Someone bumps my chair as they pass, jostling me just enough that my gaze lifts.
Sting is already watching.
Our eyes lock again.
This time, he doesn’t just hold the look. He smiles.
I can’t see his mouth, but I can tell by the way his cheeks lift, by the subtle change in his posture. The smile is slow. Deliberate. Like he knows exactly what effect it’s having.
How strange, to know someone’s smiling when you can’t actually see it.
I look away sharply, heat crawling up my neck. Anger follows close behind it. At him. At myself.
I hear Armen inhale, slow and controlled. “Don’t,” he says again.
“I didn’t do anything,” I snap.
“You looked back.”
“So did he.”
Across the corridor, Sting pushes off the wall. He takes one step forward. Then another. Not toward me. Not directly. Just enough that the distance between us shortens, subtly, like a line being reeled in.
He stops. Still not close enough to touch. Still far enough that nothing has technically happened. But now there’s no mistaking it. He’s not just watching anymore. He’s approaching.
Armen steps closer to me, his presence solid at my side. He doesn’t block my view. He doesn’t move in front of me. He just stands there.
Between us, across the corridor, Sting waits.