Chapter 38
ARMEN
By the time Rogue escorts Vi into the work hub, I’ve already been watching the room for twenty minutes.
Not obviously. I’m standing near the supply coordinator’s station with a clipboard in hand, reviewing intake numbers like I have a reason to be here.
The hub’s lead, a good but annoying guy, is talking at me, something about water filter shortages and delayed shipments from the north access, but I’m only half listening.
The rest of my attention is on her. The troublemaker who threatened Vi.
She’s at a sorting table near the back wall, hands moving through a crate with deliberate slowness. She’s not actually working. She’s waiting.
I see it in the way her shoulders are angled toward the entrance. The way her fingers pause every few seconds, her head tilting slightly like she’s listening for something. She knows Vi is coming. And she’s ready.
Just what we need. A fucking cat fight.
In my previous life, in the days before the Rot, I’d be amused by the thought of two bitches going at it. Hell, I’d probably even egg them on.
But things are different here. There are no petty squabbles in the Rot. Everything is bigger. Everything has higher stakes. Everything costs more.
So to speak.
The lead is still talking. “—and if we don’t get another shipment by next week, we’re going to have to start rationing—”
“Handle it,” I say, cutting him off.
He blinks. “Handle it how?”
“However you need to.” I hand him back the clipboard without looking at it. “I’ll check in tomorrow.”
His mouth opens, then closes. He nods slowly and walks away, quietly understanding he’s been dismissed.
I stay where I am.
The work hub is stripped down to concrete and metal, scavenged tables bolted to the floor, shelves made from empty display brackets, crates stacked into neat columns with chalk marks on the sides. Someone hung a faded sign over the entrance as a joke: RECEIVING.
Like this is a normal operation. Like we’re not an ecosystem feeding itself on scavenged supplies and stolen resources.
People move in steady loops. Two Rotters sort medical supplies into bins. One weighs packets of dried food and ties them off with twine. A few Runts shuffle between tables, carrying crates, never slowing, never speaking unless spoken to.
It’s efficient. Quiet. For now.
Then Vi steps through the doorway. The shift is subtle. Not everyone notices. But enough people do. Heads turn. Eyes flick toward her, then away. Conversations pause for half a beat before resuming. The Runts nearest the entrance slow their movements, watching.
Vi doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she does and refuses to show it.
She stands just inside the threshold, her posture straight despite the limp she’s trying to hide. Her hair is pulled back, sleeves rolled up, wrists still marked with faint red lines where the rope bit in yesterday. Her expression is guarded, chin lifted, eyes sweeping the room methodically.
Rogue appears behind her briefly, says something low near her ear, then disappears back into the corridor. Vi’s shoulders tighten for a fraction of a second before she forces them to relax.
Then her gaze finds mine. We hold it for a beat. Two.
I don’t move. Don’t nod. Don’t acknowledge her beyond the weight of my attention.
She looks away first and steps farther into the room.
The hub lead intercepts her almost immediately, gesturing toward an empty spot at one of the sorting tables. He’s talking, explaining something, pointing at crates, probably giving her the same speech he gives every new Runt about organization and efficiency.
Vi listens. Nods once. Moves to the table. She doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t hesitate. Just starts working.
Her hands are quick, precise. She picks up an item, checks the label, places it in the correct bin. Repeats. The rhythm is steady, controlled, like she’s done this before.
She hasn’t. But she’s good at reading patterns.
At mimicking competence until it becomes real.
I’ve seen this before. A Runt who learns the rhythms doesn’t stay a Runt, not in the traditional sense.
Not because someone promotes them. Because they become the kind of person others either protect or destroy.
The troublemaker hasn’t moved from her table. But her gaze is locked on Vi now, sharp and unwavering. Her hands have stopped moving entirely. She’s just... watching. Calculating.
I see the exact moment she makes her decision.
Bitch must have a death wish.
Her mouth curves slowly, not a smile, something colder, and she sets down the crate she was pretending to sort. Then she stands. And walks directly toward Vi’s table.
Rogue materializes at my side, silent as always. He’s watching too, his arms crossed loosely, his expression unreadable behind the mask.
“This is going to be a problem,” he murmurs.
“I know.”
“You going to stop it?”
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because Vi needs to see what happens when she doesn’t listen.”
Rogue huffs a quiet laugh. “You think she’s going to learn from this?”
“No,” I admit. “But I’m going to make sure she survives it.”
The girl reaches Vi’s table and stops just behind her, close enough that their shoulders nearly brush. Vi’s lips press together tightly, but doesn’t turn around.
Good. She’s been listening.
Then the girl leans in, her mouth near Vi’s ear, and says something I can’t hear from this distance.
But I see Vi’s reaction. Her hands stop moving. Her spine goes rigid. The muscle in her jaw jumps once, then locks.
Whatever she said, it landed.
The girl steps around to Vi’s side now, positioning herself so they’re face-to-face. Her posture is casual, arms loose, but there’s something predatory in the way she moves. Like she’s circling.
Other Runts at the table have stopped working. They’re watching now, eyes flicking between Vi and the girl, waiting to see what happens.
She says something else. Louder this time.
I catch the tail end of it. “—limping around like you matter.”
Vi’s hands curl into fists at her sides.
“Don’t,” I mutter under my breath.
Rogue glances at me. “You talking to her or yourself?”
I don’t answer.
The girl keeps going. “You’re still just a Runt.” She leans closer, her voice dropping again. “You think spreading your legs for them makes you special?”
Vi’s face flushes.
The other girl smiles. Then she delivers the last line, louder now, meant to carry: “I’m going to make you regret ever walking into this place.”
Silence drops over the table like a weight.
Vi’s breathing changes. Faster. Shallower.
Her hands uncurl slowly, fingers flexing once before she takes a single step forward. Toward her. Not away. Her body is coiled, tense, ready to explode.
“Shit,” Rogue says.
I’m already moving.
So is he.
We cut across the room in perfect sync, weaving between tables, our presence drawing immediate attention. People step aside without being asked. Conversations die mid-sentence.
By the time we reach them, Vi and the girl are inches apart, chest to chest, hands clenched, eyes locked.
Neither of them has thrown a punch yet. But they’re about to.
I step between them. Not gently. Not asking permission.
I place myself directly in Vi’s line of sight, blocking the girl entirely, my body a wall she can’t see past.
“Not here,” I say. “Not now.”
Vi’s gaze snaps to mine, her eyes blazing. “She—”
“I know,” I interrupt. “I heard.”
“Then let me—”
“No.”
“Armen—”
“No,” I repeat, firmer this time.
Behind me, I hear Rogue’s voice, low and flat. “Walk away.”
The girl doesn’t respond immediately.
Rogue steps closer. I don’t turn around, but I can feel the shift in the air, the weight of his presence settling like a threat.
“I said walk away,” Rogue repeats.
A beat passes. Then I hear footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. The troublemaker is moving.
But not before she delivers one last line, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “See you around, sweetheart.”
Vi’s body jerks forward, and I lift one hand, pressing it lightly against her shoulder. Not hard. Just enough to stop her momentum.
“Don’t,” I say.
Her breathing is ragged now, her whole body vibrating with barely controlled rage. “She can’t just—”
“She can,” I interrupt. “And she did.”
“And you’re going to let her?”
“For now,” I reply.
Vi’s eyes flash. “That’s not good enough.”
“It has to be.”
She stares at me for a long moment, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her hands still clenched into fists.
Then, slowly, she forces herself to step back. One step. Then another. Her shoulders drop slightly, the tension bleeding out of her in increments. But the anger doesn’t leave her eyes.
“Good,” I say.
“Don’t patronize me,” she snaps.
“I’m not.” I glance around the room. Every eye is still on us. “But you just gave everyone here a show. And now they’re wondering if you’re worth the attention.”
“I didn’t start this.”
“You kind of did,” I say. “But you almost finished it, too. And that would’ve been a mistake.”
Rogue reappears at my side, his gaze still tracking the girl as she disappears into the back corridor. “She’s gone,” he says. “For now.”
I nod once, then turn back to Vi. “Come with me.”
“I’m working, Armen,” she says stubbornly.
“You’re done,” I reply.
“I just got here.”
“And now you’re leaving.” My voice drops. “That wasn’t a request.”
She holds my gaze for another beat, defiance flickering in her eyes. Then she exhales sharply and steps past me, heading toward the exit.
I follow.
Rogue stays behind, his presence a silent reminder to everyone in the room: this isn’t over.