Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Zac
The wood creaks beneath me as I cross my arms across my chest. The old woman onstage drones through names, but I’m not listening, my eyes scanning over the Enforcers that line the walls instead.
Dark green uniforms, navy State crests, polished boots and batons in hand…
They’re still as statues, ready to pounce on anyone who steps out of line.
My shoulders are tight, spine rigid. The hall feels smaller this year—there’s more people, more Enforcers. Rifles are slung over a few of their shoulders in warning.
One that I don’t feel like heeding.
“I’ve got more important things to do than this fucking shit,” I mutter.
Jordan glances at me, following where my attention lies. “It’s your last year, Zac. You’re going to be paired whether you like it or not.”
I know that. They didn’t even bother forcing me through an in-depth interview this year. I confirmed my age, my family, my medical history, and then they dismissed me. Apparently, I’m too old to bother with the farce of a soulmate.
I don’t care. I have absolutely no interest in being here. They can go fuck themselves if they think I’m going to marry anyone.
“I’m not playing along with their little experiment,” I say under my breath.
He gives me a look that says he’s tired of this argument. We have it every year.
“You might like her,” he tries anyway.
My jaw tightens, teeth clenching so tight, they might shatter.
Jordan got married two years ago to the bright-eyed Claudia White. Before then, he’d had the same attitude as me, but Claudia melted something deep inside him, and now they’re horrifying to watch, climbing over one another, kissing as though they need one another to breathe. It’s nauseating.
Even if Claudia is—admittedly—alright.
The first name is read out, and a preppy, shiny boy quickly stands. He glances over at the girls like he actually cares about this shit.
Idiot.
I tear my eyes back to the edges of the room, counting the Enforcers. How many batons they hold. How many guns.
On stage, Germain continues her list, all tight smiles and stiff posture. She probably salutes her own reflection every morning.
The Enforcers’ hands rest loosely around their weapons, eyes scanning the audience. City Hall isn’t a place for us, it’s for them. Somewhere to cage us in—to parade their upper fucking hand.
The Enforcers were one of the first things to appear once the wall was finished. Almost overnight, the State’s promise of a peaceful post-war utopia became tainted by guards in green uniforms. The only people permitted to carry weapons.
The State told us they were for our protection.
And maybe, back in the beginning, they were.
But those chosen to wear the jumpsuit uniforms are people with cruel, dark, twisted minds, those who have insatiable appetites for violence. Ones who can lawlessly indulge in their most sadistic desires without a single fucking consequence.
Over the years, the Enforcers—able to do whatever the fuck they want—became State loyalists, and their ranks grew. Even if they only number approximately one to every six of us, their weapons mean that in the end, when push comes to shove, they outnumber us all.
I perch on the edge of my seat, not trusting that they aren’t about to turn on us at any moment. There’s a penknife in my boot, the only thing I knew I’d be able to get through their security at this shitshow of a—
“Zac!” Jordan hisses, roughly shoving my shoulder.
“What?”
“They called your name.”
And there it is: the end of any simplicity I still have in my life. It’s about to get complicated.
I look up at Germain to find her glaring, like she already knows I’m a problem. Smart woman.
Slowly, I uncross my arms before rising. My hands hang at my sides as I glare at the woman onstage.
“Shit, sorry.” I don’t mean it.
“Alright,” she snaps, knuckles white around her file, and I fight back a smirk. “You have been partnered with Emilia Burton.”
Whoop-dee-fucking-doo.
I feel a few curious stares from the girls boring into the side of my head. I keep my gaze straight, glaring at the Enforcer nearest the stage.
“Can I sit down now?” I mutter under my breath before peering down at Jordan.
“She’s gorgeous,” he says quietly, nodding somewhere across the aisle.
“I don’t care,” I say flatly.
“You should.”
“Jordan—”
“Fine,” he mutters. “Sit.” I drop back to the bench, arms crossing once more. I don’t need to know what she looks like; she’s going to be a pain in my ass no matter what.
“And that concludes this year’s Matching ceremony,” Germain finally announces, voice bright. “Congratulations to all of our new couples!”
I’m on my feet before the applause even starts, pushing past the guys beside me and storming up the aisle.
The second I step into the corridor, the noise dulls.
The double doors to the Market Square are open, and I walk straight out, bright light slamming into my face.
I rake a hand through my hair, trying to ground myself, but it just makes the anger worse.
My pulse hammers in my temples as I stalk down the steps, the sound of my boots loud against the stone. Every muscle in my body feels like it’s vibrating, full of heat and fury. I drag a hand through my hair again, but it doesn’t help.
All I can see are those Enforcers lined up, owning the place, watching us like we’re damn cattle. I want to turn back, to fight and tear the whole system down piece by piece. Instead, I clench my jaw until it aches and keep walking, away from the lot of them.
“Zac!” my best friend calls, jogging to catch up.
I don’t stop. “Don’t, Jordan—”
“You don’t have a choice,” he snaps. “You have to deal with this.”
“I don’t have to deal with anything,” I retort, turning on him. “I didn’t ask for this. I’m not a puppet for the State to use.”
Jordan holds out a white envelope. “I collected this for you.”
I stare at it, then at him. “Why?”
“You can’t ignore this, Zac.” His tone hardens. “And no matter what you think about this, she didn’t do anything wrong.”
“She is safer away from me.’
“That may be so,” he says. “Doesn’t change anything, though.”
“Fuck,” I snap, turning away and running my hands down my face. “Fucking bullshit.”
“Come on.” Jordan’s voice softens, like he’s trying not to set me off. “Claudia and Kieran gathered your remaining bits from Brook House this morning and took them to the Safe House. We can go collect them.”
“Collect them?” I scoff. “I’m not taking them anywhere.”
“Alright, alright,” Jordan says, hands lifting in surrender. “We can at least get you a bottle of something, though. A drink?”
“Now you’re talking,” I say, tone curt.
He holds out the envelope again, and I snatch it, hard enough that he flinches. As I head down the street, the noise from City Hall disappears—the chatter and laughter—but I still want to turn back and burn the place to the ground.
When we reach our Safe House, I still haven’t calmed down.
The door bounces against the wall as I shove it open. I head straight for the sink, duck down below, and rip a bottle of whiskey from our stash. I twist off the lid and throw it, huffing as it clatters across the counter before rolling out of sight.
I take a long swig, the burn wrecking my throat.
I embrace it.
Claudia appears in the doorway of the drawing room, and her eyes immediately dart between Jordan and me. “Zac?” I don’t reply. I just drink. “How did it go?” she asks.
Jordan shifts, leaning against the counter across from me.
“Fantastic,” I mutter.
“She’s called Emilia,” Jordan says, and Claudia’s lips twitch into a smile. “She’s a blonde bombshell. Looks like she’ll keep Zac on his toes.”
“Did I hear something about Zac’s new wife?” Kieran’s voice drifts in before our friend appears behind Claudia. “Is she hot?”
“He didn’t even look at her,” Jordan tells them.
Claudia’s smile fades. “Zac.”
“The way she was looking at him, though…” Jordan whistles. “The fact that he didn’t look at her pissed her off.”
“Good.” Kieran grins, slouching against the doorframe. “It was getting boring around here.”
My jaw clenches. “She’s not going to be here,” I growl through gritted teeth.
“Jordan said the same thing,” Kieran shoots back. “Now look.” He nods at Claudia, who rolls her eyes before her lips quirk up at the corners.
“I mean, it’s true,” she says softly. “Maybe this could be the same.”
My head tilts back, eyes locking on the dried water stain on the ceiling.
“We all hate the State,” Jordan starts, his tone too damn reasonable. No shit, it’s the exact reason we’re all standing in this self-made Safe House right this very fucking second. “But it really was the best thing to ever happen to me—”
“This isn’t a fucking fairytale,” I snarl. Stalking forward, heat ravages my chest as I point to each of them, one by one. “And I’ll die before I tell her about this place.”
Kieran’s brow lifts. “She might also hate the—”
“Give it a fucking rest,” I snap, voice deadly low.
The air in the room stills. My glare lands on him, then Claudia, then Jordan.
All of them stare, completely quiet. Kieran frowns.
Jordan looks at the floor. But Claudia… she just stands there, arms crossed, chin high, looking at me like she knows something I don’t.
If I stay here, they won’t stop; they’ll keep talking, keep trying to reason with me.
I need out.
I need space before I do something I can’t take back.
“I need a break from you all,” I mutter, voice hoarse.
Bottle still in hand, I swipe my envelope from the counter, ignoring the way Jordan reaches for me.
“Zac—” he starts, but I’m already moving, the front door slamming behind me.
“Fuck,” I exhale.
Lifting the alcohol, I let it saturate my tongue, holding it in my mouth before swallowing. It burns all the way down.
Good.
Pain is real. Everything else is a fucking lie in this dictator run hellscape.
I step into the alleyway beside the house, shoulders tight, and walk back to the main street. With the bottle still in my left hand, I tear at the envelope with the other, shredding it with my thumb. A single, dull key tumbles out, and I manage to catch it between two fingers.
My mouth twists into a grimace.
There’s a booklet tucked inside, glossy paper and printed bullshit. I ignore it and yank the small slip of paper free instead. The address is typed, and beneath it, as if I should be grateful, in swirling font, it reads, ‘Welcome to your new home.’
My blood boils, and I crumple the envelope and its contents until it’s a ball.
“Waste of space,” I mutter, tossing it into the gutter just as I step onto the next street.
Shoving the address into my pocket, I take another sip from the half-empty bottle, each shot blurring the world more and more.
My boots lead me forwards—towards the address—and before I know it, I’m on the narrow, terraced street.
Maybe it’s the whiskey.
Maybe it’s the damn key burning a hole in my hand.
Or maybe it’s that small, festering part of me that has to know what the State think they’re doing. What they want from me. Utter rage and dangerous curiosity pushing me forward when I should run the other way.
My eyes run over the row. Black doors, grey doors, white doors, even a red one in the middle. The street is clean, swept and free of muck. Mismatched bricks are the only hint of where the State—or their free labour, rather—have rebuilt.
My boots thud heavy against the road, each step loud in the silence. I scan the numbers as I walk, gaze darting from one side of the street to the other until it lands on the right one.
It’s a black door. Figures.
Number 8.
My jaw tightens. Somewhere down the street, laughter bursts out, the sound slicing straight through me. I move fast, shoving the key into the lock before anyone can see me, twisting until the door clicks open and pushing it shut behind me.
It’s deadly quiet.
Cream-carpeted stairs rise in front of me, a living room open on my left. There’s a fake fireplace against the far wall, a cheap plastic mantel above it. And on top, there’s a single pink card.
My boots trail gravel and dirt across the carpet as I reach out, tearing the card from the mantle and staring down at the smiling sun that illustrates the front of it. My gaze slips to the text beneath.
‘Congratulations to the happy couple.’
An unamused laugh slips through my lips before the sound twists into a snarl. I spin, hurling the half-empty bottle across the room just as the front door opens.
It smashes against the wall above the stairs, glass shattering everywhere. Amber liquid streaks down the cream walls.
And there she is.
Blonde. Wide-eyed. Lips parted. Frozen in the doorway like she wasn’t ready to face this shit.
I didn’t expect her to be here so soon.
“Thanks for the welcome home party,” she says dryly. Her eyes flick to the whiskey trailing down the wall. “Husband.”