Chapter 46
ARMEN
We’re halfway to the old food court when I see them.
Three of them peel away from the far barricade and walk straight toward us. No detour. No pretense.
The leader is broad, slow-moving, the kind of man who’s learned to rely on size and scar tissue instead of speed.
A fresh cut runs from his temple to ear, still pink at the edges, not quite healed.
I can only imagine what he did to earn that.
His two shadows flank him: one twitchy with a fresh buzz cut and nervous eyes, the other leaner, hands already hovering on his belt buckle.
Masks are half up, showing enough face to make the disrespect intentional.
They stop five feet away. Close enough for words. Far enough to draw steel without crowding.
Vi tenses against my side. I feel it, the instinctive urge to fight.
“Get to work,” I tell her. “I’ll take care of this.”
“But—” she starts to say.
“Go.”
The scarred man speaks first. Voice flat. Practiced.
“Armen. Word’s spreading fast. You’ve got yourself a special little Runt.”
I don’t answer. I just look at him. Let the silence stretch until it feels like pressure on his throat.
He shifts his weight, impatient. “Smart mouth on her. Good with her hands. Doesn’t break easy. Sting dragged her off like she’s already branded. Now, you’re playing guard dog in the open corridor. People are talking.
“Let them,” I say.
“Sure. And they’re saying she’s too good for one crew. Too useful. Too... interesting.” His mouth twists. “We’ve all got Runts. We share the load. Keeps things balanced. You hoarding her breaks the balance.”
The twitchy one snorts. “She’s not even limping that bad anymore. Bet she’d look real pretty reassigned.”
I feel the shift in my blood, cold, focused, the way it gets right before something breaks.
The scarred leader raises a hand, silencing the kid without looking at him. Eyes stay on me.
“Here’s the offer,” he says. “We don’t want trouble. But fairness matters down here. Circulate her. Let her work the hubs, the runs, whatever. Spread the value. Or we take it to the council. Let them decide if one group gets to keep a prize like that.”
The council. Old word. Empty now. Just a ghost people rattle when they want to sound bigger than they are.
I tilt my head. “You think the council will side with you?”
“I think they’ll side with stability,” he replies. “And right now, you look unstable.”
Behind me, movement, soft, deliberate. Rogue steps out from the shadow of an old ladder that leads to nowhere.
Eyes bright with that dangerous amusement he wears when he’s already decided how many bones he wants to break.
He doesn’t speak. Just stands at my left shoulder, his half-mask covering the disdain he holds for these men.
Then Sting.
He comes from the opposite side, boots measured on cracked tile, coat open, hands loose but ready. Stops at my right.
Three on three.
The air thickens. The kid’s hand twitches again. The lean shadow shifts his stance. The scarred leader doesn’t flinch, but I see the recalculation in his eyes, reassessing odds, weighing pride against survival.
I speak before anyone else can.
“She’s not circulating.”
He exhales through his nose. “That’s not how it works.”
“Wrong.”
Sting’s voice cuts in, low and amused. “You want to test it? Go ahead. See how far you get before we start reassigning pieces of you.”
The kid actually takes half a step back. The scarred one holds his position.
Across the food court, near the sorting tables, I catch her. Vi. She’s frozen mid-reach for a crate, eyes locked on us. She heard every word. Her knuckles are white around the crate edge, jaw set so hard I can see the muscle jump.
Our eyes meet for half a second. She doesn’t look away.
The scarred leader follows my gaze. Sees her. Smiles slow. “Look at that. She’s watching. Maybe she’d like a say.”
“She doesn’t get one,” I say.
He laughs once, short, ugly. “You sure about that? Because from where I’m standing, she’s the prize. And prizes get passed around when they’re valuable enough.”
Rogue finally speaks. Voice soft. Almost pleasant. “You keep talking like she’s property. She’s not.”
The leader’s brows lift. “Then what is she?”
“Mine,” I say. The word comes out quieter than I mean it to. But it lands like a blade.
Sting adds, colder, “Ours.”
Silence stretches. The flickering lights buzz overhead. Somewhere, a crate drops—a sharp crack that makes everyone twitch.
The scarred one studies us. One by one. Then looks back at Vi.
She hasn’t moved. Still watching. Still listening.
He nods once. Slow. Reluctant. “Fine. For now.”
He turns. His shadows follow. They don’t rush. They don’t look back. But the promise hangs behind them like smoke: this isn’t over. Balance gets restored one way or another.
Yeah, right.
The food court exhales slowly. Conversations restart at half volume. Eyes slide away, but the weight lingers heavier now. Respect mixed with wariness.
Sting exhales through his nose. “He’s not bluffing about the council.”
Rogue’s smile is thin. “Then we make sure the council never meets.”
I don’t answer. My eyes are still on Vi.
She finally lowers the crate. Slowly. Deliberately. Her limp is more pronounced now, not from the knee, from tension. Shoulders rigid, head high like she’s refusing to let them see her break. She turns and walks the other way, toward the service corridors.
She doesn’t look back. But she knows I’m coming. And she knows why.
The Rot just drew a harder line around her.
And I’m the one holding the knife.