Chapter 7
VI
We enter through one of the former mall’s service corridors, yet another musty passage behind what was once a loading dock for a fancy department store.
Armen goes first. Then Mara and me. When she hesitates, I give her a little shove.
No turning back now, I tell her with my gaze.
Sting and Rogue are in the rear like we’re going into battle or something.
Maybe we are.
Mara slows down. “Oh my god. This place,” she breathes, looking around.
She stops and once again, I give her a little push, my knee faintly aching on the uneven floor like the Hunt souvenir that it is. I’m mostly healed from the fall that smashed it up, but the lingering pain likes to remind me of that night. Another thing the Rot gave me that I didn’t ask for.
I know how Mara feels, the first time experiencing what the former Rothwell Galleria has become, having gone from its former glory, the pride of the town, to a broken-down shell of itself.
I’m used to it now, I suppose, but when I look around with fresh eyes like Mara is right now, I see the stuff of nightmares just like I did when I first arrived.
Dismembered mannequins litter the place, as well as other junk like a pretzel shop sign hanging from one corner, and cracked plexiglass shelves that once held scarves or handbags, or something else the ladies of Rothwell couldn’t live without.
It’s all been pushed aside and out of the way for the convenience of its current-day tenants, the Rotters and of course Runts like myself, but these and other mementos sum up the mall’s past lives.
It’s just background for me, but not for Mara.
She gapes at the old fountain in the central atrium where we used to make a wish and toss pennies.
Someone has filled it with sand and gravel, and now it’s a message drop, notes and small objects left and collected on a schedule I haven’t figured out.
The escalators, not having moved in years, are worn smooth by foot traffic going in both directions.
The second-floor railing is lined with sheets, tarps, and old curtains hung to create partitions and privacy where the original architecture was open and breezy.
The old glass elevator is smashed to bits and surrounded by caution tape, presumably so no one gets hurt messing with it. She takes it all in.
“It’s okay, Mar. Let’s keep going,” I say.
I don’t look at her directly because that would signal to anyone watching that the new person is uncertain, and uncertainty here is blood in the water.
“Yeah. Sorry.” She keeps moving.
People are hustling about like they always are here, and Mara’s gaze follows that, too.
It’s early enough that the corridors have traffic, Rotters heading to work hubs, runners carrying supplies between levels, a handful of Runts walking in pairs with their heads angled slightly down.
The body language is specific and learned.
Who looks at who. Who steps aside for who.
Who walks in the center of the corridor and who hugs the walls.
They step aside for us.
Not dramatically, no one flattens themselves against the wall or drops their gaze to the floor.
It’s subtler than that, a slight drift to the left, a half step slower, a conversation that pauses mid-sentence and resumes once we’ve passed.
It’s a deference that’s built into daily movement so deeply that most people probably don’t notice they’re doing it.
Mara notices right off the bat. I knew she would. Not much gets past her.
I can feel her taking it all in, trying to make sense of it. The way people reorganize themselves around us. The way people’s eyes track the guys and then find me and then find her, an unfamiliar face, the new body.
A big-ass question mark.
I start narrating. I don’t plan to. It just happens, like there’s a void I need to fill with chatter.
“That’s a work hub over there,” I say, nodding toward a former electronics store where sorting tables have replaced display cases. “Labor shifts run six hours. You get assigned based on what’s needed.”
Mara says nothing. Her eyes move.
“That corridor leads to the neutral zone. Old food court. It’s supposed to be safe ground with no territory claims, no crew business. In practice, it’s where people go to trade information and test boundaries without technically breaking rules. At least, that’s how I see it.”
Still nothing. I keep going.
“The second floor is mostly residential. Partitioned. You earn your space or you’re assigned it. Third floor is restricted to operations, storage, places you don’t go unless someone brings you.”
I hear myself talking and something cold moves through my stomach. I sound like a guide. I sound like someone who knows this place, its rhythms, its rules, its invisible lines, the way you know a city you’ve lived in for years. Not weeks.
Weeks. That’s all it’s been, really. Hard to believe.
And I’m explaining the hierarchy of an abandoned mall turned closed society to my best friend the way someone else might explain a new apartment. Here’s the kitchen. Here’s where we keep the towels. Don’t go in that room.
How the fuck did this become normal?
Who says it is?
We pass a cluster of Rotters standing near what used to be a jewelry store. Mid-level, I can tell by their ink and posture. One of them glances at us, sees Armen, and nods once. A greeting. An acknowledgment. The others don’t look at all, which is its own kind of acknowledgment.
“Those men,” Mara whispers. “They’re afraid of your guys.”
“Respectful,” I correct. “Fear and respect are different here. You’ll see.”
The words are out of my mouth before I hear them. You’ll see. As if she’s staying long enough to see all the shit I have. As if this is a skill set she’s going to need.
She is. She will. But hearing myself say it, that casual, matter-of-fact assumption that Mara is now part of this world, makes my throat tight. I wouldn’t wish this on her. Hell, I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
We turn down another corridor. The lighting here is warmer.
Someone strung amber bulbs along the ceiling, and the effect is almost soft.
Almost, since it’s a residential section.
The partitions are denser here, fabric walls creating the illusion of rooms. Behind them, I can hear the sounds of people living—low conversations, the clatter of something being moved, a baby crying somewhere.
Mara’s hand touches my elbow. Light. Brief.
I slow down.
“Vi.”
I turn to look at her. The light catches her face and for a second, she looks almost like herself, the Mara from before, the one who sat across from me and argued about movies and stole fries off my plate right in this very mall.
Then the light changes, and I see the hollows under her cheekbones, the grime in the creases of her neck, and the expression she’s wearing that I’ve never seen on her before.
Horror. Controlled but unmistakable.
“How do you live in this place?” she whispers.
The question is simple. The answer should be simple.
But I stand there in the amber light of a corridor built from curtains and salvage, and I don’t know what to say. Because the answer is that I got used to it. We’re all built for adaptation, and I adapted because what the hell else was I going to do?
Awhile back, I stopped noticing the things that should horrify me because noticing them wasn’t useful for survival. I got used to the work hubs. The hierarchy. The body language. The men who own me. The fact that I can’t leave.
I got used to all of it.
And standing here with Mara looking at me with that expression on her face, the one that says this is not okay, none of this is okay, how can you not see that this is not okay, I can’t tell if that adaptation saved me or buried me.
“You get used to it,” I say.
Mara stares at me. “Are you kidding?”
I shrug.
She holds my gaze for a moment, then looks away. She doesn’t say anything else. She doesn’t need to. Her face says it all and the worst part isn’t the horror.
I wore that expression too, at the beginning. But the Rot sanded it off me and replaced it with something more practical. I looked at this place the way Mara is looking at it now, with the clear view of someone who still remembers what normal looked like.
But I don’t remember that shit anymore. What would be the point?