FOUR
KAITO
Stranger looks from me to the street and then right back again. I’m almost certain I see the exact moment they decide the Biters are currently the bigger problem. Not by much, judging by the gun still firmly pointed at my forehead, but it’s enough.
Like I’ve personally inconvenienced their entire existence by bleeding near their hideout, they snap, “Fuck. Fine. Goddamn it. You can come in, but if you try anything, I’ll shoot you. We clear?”
“Crystal,” I agree quickly.
“Good. Because warning shots don’t exist in my world.
One wrong move and I’ll skull-fuck you with an army’s worth of bullets,” they threaten again, and I swallow before nodding, even though I’m pretty confident this small stranger doesn’t possess that many bullets.
Something tells me they’re not being entirely truthful about warning shots, either.
After all, it seems their instinct leans more toward survival rather than cruelty.
They could have easily left me stranded in the alley, but they didn’t.
They threatened those guys who had them cornered, but didn’t shoot to kill first. The way they threw those knives at the Biters was better than most trained soldiers I’ve known, but there’s a very big difference between efficiency and bloodlust.
I don’t point that out, though. Not when I’m so close to getting off the street and away from the Biters nearby. So, I nod as though I believe every single word, because whatever the hell this stranger is, they need me to believe the threat.
Slowly, they move back from the window, gun steady as they give me enough room to climb through.
It’s not at all graceful, and I make a whole lot of noise doing it.
My side burns hot as I haul myself into the classroom, boots clomping onto the damp carpet.
I’m barely upright when the barrel of the gun is pressed under my chin.
Damn, whoever this stranger is, they’re fast. Much faster than they should be, especially for a Beta.
I freeze instantly, inhaling with shock, only to turn to stone for a whole other reason. Up close, the scent of this stranger is much harder to ignore. There’s the expected smoke, mud, old fabric, bitter blockers, blood. Fear. And under all of that, something soft and sweet hides like a shadow.
My breathing changes before I can stop it, completely out of control, and the stranger notices straightaway. They press the gun harder under my chin, digging into my skin, and whisper, “Don’t.”
One single word and I feel as though they’ve flayed me open without a single blade.
Dragging my gaze away from their eyes still hidden in the shade of their ball cap, I train it on the faded alphabet poster over their shoulder and hold it there before muttering, “I won’t.”
“You don’t even know what I’m talking about,” they counter, the gun nudging my chin again.
I pause before answering quietly, “Yeah. I do.”
The air around us seems to thicken, the groaning of Biters moaning in the distance.
But in here, the only sounds are my breathing, Stranger’s breathing, and the slow drip of blood that falls from my side onto the ruined carpet.
That’s all it takes to charge the air, unspoken words forming a strange electricity between us.
Swallowing hard, Stranger takes a calculated step back, gesturing the gun to the floor, before they order, “Sit.”
I sit. Not because of the gun, but because they asked like someone who expects me to fight every request. I’m not that person, especially to those who help me out of tight situations like the one I was trapped in.
So, I lower myself to the floor right next to a tiny table painted with sad, faded handprints, keeping my back against the wall and my hands where they can see them.
The gun remains trained on me the entire time while they move to the window to peer outside.
Their shoulders remain tight, drawing my attention to the torn sleeve that exposes a flash of skin along their upper arm.
Olive complexion under the blood, marked with pale patches that look like spilled moonlight.
Vitiligo.
It disappears the moment they tug the fabric higher. Another thing hidden, and another answer I don’t have. It’s maddening.
“They’ll pass,” Stranger comments after a beat. “That is, if you don’t keep bleeding all over the place. You’re practically a neon sign that signals dinnertime,” they note, unimpressed, as if my bleeding profusely is ruining their plans for the day.
Ducking my head, I mutter, “I’ll do my best to bleed quietly.”
“You do that,” they quip, turning back to me before their eyes drop to my wound despite their painfully obvious attempts not to give a shit.
For a split second, I think they might actually help.
It was a momentary lapse in judgment, because the next second, their expression shuts down entirely and they nod to my side. “Patch yourself up while you’re at it.”
I reach for my own bag that miraculously survived the whole Biter encounter, only for Stranger to lift their gun toward me once more.
“Slowly,” they instruct, and I nod my understanding before moving cautiously.
The first-aid kit I pull free is pretty damned pathetic compared to what I’ve seen in some military packs, but it does the trick for now.
It has to do the trick. I clean the wound through gritted teeth, doing my very best to ignore the way my unlikely companion watches every single move I make.
They’re not watching with concern, but more like they’re studying whether I’m about to become more trouble than I’m worth.
I’ve been sized up by enemies, soldiers, raiders, and desperate survivors with nothing else to lose.
Those moments are nothing compared to this one, being watched by someone like this stranger, who intermittently checks every exit while watching me.
Their gaze jumps from my hands to the window, to the classroom door to the gun, to my boots to the blood on the floor.
Not only are they afraid of me, but they’re prepared for every single version of me that could potentially become a threat.
There isn’t a soul left in this world that becomes that careful without a reason.
“You have a name?” I ask carefully, keeping my voice neutral in hopes it doesn’t raise the hackles on this stranger’s back.
“Nope,” they answer without hesitation.
“Huh,” I mumble. “Interesting name. First person I’ve met with such a unique name.”
“It’s served me well,” they retort, and my lips twitch again with amusement I never expect.
Swallowing it back, I glance up at Stranger from beneath my eyelashes before going back to the job at hand, fixing myself up as I say, “I can’t keep calling you Stranger. Or the person who saved my life.”
They shrug. “You don’t have to call me anything. We’re not friends. We’re not even acquaintances.”
“We could be,” I try, immediately regretting the words the moment they slip free, because the look I receive in return would have surely turned me to nothing but ash with one look alone. Biting my lip, I nod in understanding, muttering, “Okay, then. Maybe not.”
“Good idea,” they conclude, and I eye them warily.
“Are you always this warm and welcoming?” I ask, genuinely curious.
I’m pretty sure they raise an eyebrow. “Are you always this chatty while bleeding?”
I snort. “Only when I’m doing my very best not to pass out.”
Something flickers in their eyes again, almost despite their efforts.
Amusement tries its best to surface and gets promptly strangled before it can fully appear.
That’s interesting. Really interesting. Especially since the bandana hides their mouth, but not their eyes.
There’s too much going on in those eyes for someone trying their damned best to appear unreadable.
I finish wrapping my side as best as I can, tying the bandage tight enough that I groan.
It needs stitches more than it needs wrapping, but this will have to do until I can get my hands on a suture or sewing kit.
I’m fairly confident I won’t be getting one of those from the masked stranger with a chip on their shoulder, trust issues a mile wide, and a gun.
Breaking the silence after a small while, I point out, “You should clean your arm.”
“I did,” they answer shortly, unimpressed with my advice.
“Not very well, because it’s still bleeding,” I tell them.
I receive a daggering glare before they drawl, “Is that concern I hear?”
“Yeah,” I answer, eyeing the arm that is now covered by their jacket.
“Ew,” they retort, and this time, I can’t fight the smile that splits my face, shaking my head at the ridiculous response. Unfortunately for me, Stranger looks deeply offended by it, but that only makes me smile harder, the absurdity hitting a funny bone I can’t escape.
Still smiling, I drop my head back against the wall and roll it until I’m facing Stranger, muttering, “I have antiseptic you can use.”
“So do I,” they say.
“Then you should use it,” I prod, unsure why I’m even pushing the issue.
Not that they’re making it easy, their response coming quickly. “I’m not one to take advice from Alphas who find themselves trapped in alleys and bleeding enough to lure in enough Zeds that they need rescuing from.”
Zeds. That’s actually a kind of cute name for them.
With a sigh, I nod and say, “Then how about you take the advice from a strange Alpha who’s just grateful you didn’t leave him there to be eaten?”
My words kind of just float there between us with a lot more weight than I intended, and it forces Stranger to look away first, toward the drawings still pinned to the wall.
A family of five stick figures stand under a three-colored rainbow, wax smiles drawn in a way that tells me the kid that drew it believed the world would always be filled with happiness.
Stranger’s eyes linger on that drawing for a full breath before turning away and muttering, “Don’t make it a thing.”
“What? Saving my life?” I push, tilting my head as I watch them.
They pause before answering. “I didn’t do it for you.”