Chapter 52
VI
The work hub feels smaller after Rogue’s words.
The air is thick with the smell of cardboard, iodine packets, and the metallic bite of old metal pipes.
Tables stretch in long rows under strings of salvaged bulbs, some steady, some flickering like they’re on their last breath.
Runts move in quiet loops: sorting, labeling, stacking.
No one speaks above a murmur. The quiet isn’t peaceful. It’s careful.
I’m back at my station before I even realize my feet carried me here.
The crate in front of me is half full of sealed medical gauze, white packets stamped with faded expiration dates that don’t matter anymore.
My hands move on autopilot: pick up, check seal, set in bin, chalk mark on the side. Mechanical. Safe.
Except nothing feels safe now.
Rogue’s voice keeps looping in my head. Leverage.
Prize. Target. The words sit heavy in my chest, pressing against my ribs every time I breathe.
I keep my head down, but I can feel the shift in the room.
Eyes slide over me longer than they used to.
Not hostile, not yet, but curious. Calculating.
Like I’ve become something to weigh and measure.
Across the hub, near the far wall, a girl no older than nineteen is stacking water filters into a cart.
She’s small, dark hair chopped short and uneven, probably with a knife.
Her hands shake as she works. Every few seconds, she glances toward the main corridor entrance, like she’s waiting for something bad to walk through.
I know that look. I see it daily.
A low murmur ripples through the room. Heads turn.
Two enforcers step in, broad shoulders, masks pulled low, sleeves rolled to show amateur ink crawling up their forearms. They don’t speak. They just walk straight to the girl with the cart.
She freezes. The filter in her hands slips. It clatters to the floor, sharp, echoing.
One enforcer grabs her upper arm. Firm. Not cruel. Just final.
“Come on,” he says. Voice flat.
She jerks once, instinct, then goes still. Her eyes dart around the hub, wide and wet, searching for someone to help. No one meets her gaze.
The second enforcer picks up the dropped filter, sets it back in the cart like nothing happened, then takes her other arm. Together, they steer her toward the exit.
She doesn’t scream. Not at first.
But when they reach the corridor mouth, she starts to struggle, small, frantic twists against their grip. “Wait, please, I didn’t—”
The words cut off when the first enforcer tightens his hold. Not enough to bruise. Just enough to remind. They disappear around the corner.
The hub exhales. Crates clatter again. Conversations restart in low tones. Like nothing happened. But something did.
I stand frozen, gauze packet crushed in my fist. My pulse hammers in my throat. I can still hear her voice, small, pleading, echoing down the corridor until it fades.
Reassigned. That’s the word they use. Clean. Professional. Like moving inventory from one shelf to another.
I look down at my hands. They’re shaking.
Across the room, the Rotter who runs this hub meets my eyes for half a second. His expression is blank, but there’s something tired in it. Resigned. He looks away first, back to his clipboard.
A woman sorting beside me, older, shaved head, scar across her cheek, leans in just enough for me to hear.
“Lucky bitch has guardians,” she mutters. “Most don’t.”
I turn to her. “What?”
She doesn’t look up from her work. “You. The way Armen stepped in earlier. The way the whole corridor went quiet when he said you’re his. That’s not normal. Most Runts don’t get that. They just… disappear.”
My mouth goes dry. “Disappear where?”
She snorts softly. “Wherever they’re needed. Kitchens. Runs. Beds. Private quarters. Depends who claims them.” She finally glances at me. “You’ve got three high-level Rotters watching your back. That’s not luck. That’s a fucking miracle. Enjoy it while it lasts.”
I don’t answer because I can’t.
I’m seeing it now, the thin line I’ve been walking without realizing how razor-sharp it is. Every time Armen stepped in. Every time Sting’s hand found my waist in public. Every time Rogue pulled me aside to talk. They weren’t just protecting me.
They were marking me.
And marking me is the only thing keeping me from being the girl dragged out of here with shaking hands and wide eyes.
My pulse lurches. I set the crushed gauze down, wipe my palms on my jeans. The hub keeps moving around me, crates shifting, chalk scratching, boots scuffing, but I feel like I’m standing still while everything else spins.
I think about the Favor again. The contract I signed in that glassed-in room behind the tax office.
The lipstick I put on in the mirror, knowing they were watching.
I thought I was being clever. Calculating.
I thought winning would force the truth out, about my father, about the men who let Rothwell fall apart while they lined their pockets.
But I lost. And now, the truth is locked behind doors I can’t open, and the only currency left is the protection of three men who won’t let me chase it.
I look toward the service corridor. The one that leads up. Toward the Skylight Room.
My knee aches when I take a step. I ignore it. I need to see them. Need to hear them say it out loud again, that this is truly permanent. That the Favor is gone forever. That the girl who just got dragged away could’ve been me.
That I’m only still here because they decided I was worth keeping. The thought should make me angry. It does. But underneath the anger is something colder. Clearer.
Gratitude. And fear. Because gratitude means I’m already starting to accept this place. And fear means I know how easy it would be to lose what little I have left.
I slip away from the table. No one stops me. No one has to. The corridor swallows me. And I walk toward the stairs, toward the only place in the Rot that feels like it might still hold answers.
Even if they’re not the ones I came for.