Chapter 44
The tunnels are supposed to eat sound, but tonight they magnify everything.
The Sanctuary’s shindig has bled out from the big hall and into the arteries of the camp—laughter and argument and the patter of running feet echoing off every slab.
I follow the buzz, dress clinging cold and damp to my thighs, hair still wet at the tips.
I expect people to stare, but mostly they don’t.
A few do double-takes, eyes flicking from the black lace to my bandaged shoulder to my face, trying to decide which story to believe. I let them wonder.
Halfway to the hall, I run into a knot of children clustered at the end of a side passage.
There are maybe a dozen, ages five to twelve, all in hand-me-downs and bare feet, their faces streaked with grime and something sugary.
They’re staring up, rapt, at something out of sight.
Some of the older ones snicker and elbow each other, like they know a secret and can’t decide if it’s safe to share.
One of the girls—a skinny thing with a mop of brown curls—spots me. Her eyes go wide, and she hisses at her neighbor, who turns and instantly starts to giggle.
“Look, look, it’s the doctor lady,” the girl stage-whispers. “She’s wearing a dress.”
Her friends snort and shove each other, but the girl doesn’t move. She watches me with the cool intensity of a predator.
I walk past, curiosity prickling at my neck. At the end of the corridor, the space opens out into a makeshift rec area. It’s nothing but a patch of level concrete, a few folding chairs, and a stack of battered plastic crates arranged into something that could, in another life, be a jungle gym.
On top of the crates: Captain Kang. Or, more accurately, Kang at the center of a mass of children using him as a human climbing wall.
He’s seated, back straight, one arm braced on a crate for balance.
Three kids hang from his shoulders, two more straddle his legs.
Another is perched on the top of his head, using his close-cropped hair as handholds.
His uniform is half-unzipped, the Authority insignia slashed out with black marker, but the bones of command are still there—rigid spine, squared jaw, every muscle poised to take a bullet.
It would be funny if it wasn’t so completely at odds with anything I’d ever seen him do.
Kang’s face is impassive. Not annoyed, not amused, just letting it happen.
Every so often he lifts an arm and hoists a kid up higher, or steadies one about to tip off.
One of the little ones—maybe five, with a gap-toothed grin—leans over and whispers something into his ear.
He nods gravely, as if the fate of the world hinges on her words.
A group of adults lingers at the periphery, some watching with a kind of wary pride, others shaking their heads and pretending not to care. No one intervenes. In the weird gravity of Sanctuary, this is as close to normal as things get.
I hang back, hidden in the shadow of a door frame, and watch.
For a long minute, nothing happens except the slow, methodical rearrangement of kids on Kang’s frame. The ones up top want to see who can stay the longest; the ones down low use him as a ladder. The game is simple, brutal, and hilarious.
Then one of the older girls, maybe twelve, shouts: “I bet you can’t even move, mister!” Her tone is half challenge, half dare.
Kang doesn’t answer, but the corner of his mouth twitches.
Another boy pipes up: “He could if he wanted. He’s Authority.”
“That’s not even a real Authority uniform,” the first girl scoffs. “It’s all scribbled.”
Kang glances down at the insignia, then at the kids. “Authority’s gone,” he says, voice flat. “Just a suit now.”
“That means you’re nobody,” the girl fires back, triumphant.
The boy shrugs. “He’s still the tallest.”
“Doesn’t count if you’re sitting.”
This logic is apparently unassailable. The girl wriggles around the side of the crates and shimmies up Kang’s arm until she’s crouched on his shoulder, right next to his ear. She leans in, stage-whispering: “You know, I could be Authority if I wanted. My uncle was a guard before they caught him.”
Kang nods. “Could be,” he agrees, deadpan.
The girl beams, but then immediately looks suspicious. “You’re not going to arrest anybody, are you?”
He shrugs, as if it’s not worth answering.
That sets off a new round of debate among the kids, which devolves quickly into a series of dares and insults. One of the smaller boys, sick of the chatter, grabs both of Kang’s ears and yanks backward like he’s steering a horse.
Kang’s only response is a grunt. He lets the kid do it. Doesn’t even flinch.
A ripple of laughter from the adults. I realize that the weirdest part isn’t that Kang is letting the kids climb him—it’s that he doesn’t seem to hate it.
The stiffness in his shoulders is less about bracing for attack, more about not wanting to snap the kids in half if he moves too fast. His face is set, but his eyes flicker with a kind of raw, startled gentleness I’ve never seen before.
He is, against all evidence, not completely dead inside.
The girl with the Authority obsession notices me then, and points. “She’s here!” she yells. “The doctor lady! She’s coming to arrest you, mister!”
All the kids turn at once, like a school of fish pivoting on instinct. Kang follows their gaze. For a second, our eyes meet. His mouth twitches again, this time closer to a smile, then he looks away.
I step out from the shadows, hands on my hips. “Am I interrupting?”
“Only a mutiny,” Kang deadpans.
The girl on his shoulder crosses her arms and glares. “We’re not mutineers. We’re engineers. We’re building a lookout.”
One of the younger ones shouts: “Yeah! We can almost see outside from up here!”
“Almost,” echoes another.
I walk closer, careful not to disrupt the delicate balance of bodies. “Is that so? And what’s the plan once you see outside?”
They all talk at once: “Escape!” “Throw stuff!” “Signal the birds!” “See if the sun is real!”
Kang sits through the chaos, unmoved. The kid on his head is now trying to braid the ends of his hair into a makeshift antenna.
I stop at the base of the crates, arms folded. “Sorry to spoil the fun,” I say, “but I need the big Authority man for a top-secret mission.” I pitch my voice in full Authority mock-serious, the way they used to in the block.
The kids groan. The girl with the Authority uncle pouts. “Can’t he stay a little longer?”
“Orders are orders,” I say, stone-faced.
They grumble, but one by one they start to detach. Some slide down Kang’s arms, others jump off the crates and run giggling into the tunnels. The boy who’d grabbed his ears gives him a high-five on the way down, and Kang, after a microsecond of hesitation, returns it.
Within a minute, the rec area is empty except for me, Kang, and the girl with the mop of brown curls. She stands at the edge, hands on hips, appraising.
“You were the best Authority,” she announces to Kang, matter-of-fact. “You didn’t yell or shoot or anything. You just… held still.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Thanks,” he says.
She nods, satisfied, then vanishes into the tunnels.
Now it’s just us.
Kang stands, stretching the kinks out of his back. For the first time, I see how battered he is—sleeves rolled up, bruises blooming along his forearms, a fresh scrape on his knuckle. He looks down at his hands like he’s not sure how they got there.
I sit on the crate beside him. “You’re a hit,” I say, grinning.
He shakes his head. “I think they just liked climbing.”
I watch him, the way his whole body seems lighter after the kids leave, but not relaxed. Just—different. Like he’s still bracing for the impact, but it doesn’t hurt as much.
“You always like kids?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Don’t think about them much.” A pause, then: “They don’t care about the uniform. Or the history. They just want up.”
I consider that. “And you let them.”
Another shrug, but this one’s softer. “They weigh less than a gun. Easier to hold.”
It’s the closest thing to a joke I’ve ever heard from him. I can’t help it—I laugh. Not a snort, not a smirk, but a real laugh, loud and ridiculous, echoing off the ceiling.
Kang stares at me, bemused, and for a second I think he might laugh too. Instead, he looks away, mouth twisted in something between embarrassment and amusement.
I lean closer, my shoulder brushing his. “You’re not bad at this, you know,” I say. “Being a person.”
He gives me a sidelong look. “Don’t get used to it.”
But he doesn’t move away.
The rec area is empty now, the echo of laughter lingering in the air. I let myself enjoy the quiet, the weird afterglow of the scene.
Then Kang turns to me, voice low. “You ready for the party?”
I blink. “You want to go?”
He shrugs, almost sheepish. “Figured we should make an appearance.”
I stand, smoothing the dress over my hips. “You going to wear that?” I ask, pointing to his ruined uniform.
He glances down, then back up. “Didn’t have time to change.”
I grin, tugging at the sleeve of his jacket. “Maybe that’s for the best. Makes you easy to find in a crowd.”
He grins back, just a little. “You too.”
I let him lead the way, the two of us walking side by side into the tunnel. For a second, it almost feels like freedom.
Almost.
We don’t get twenty meters before Kang slows, glancing over his shoulder like he’s checking for pursuit. There’s nobody—just empty passage and the echo of our own boots. I wonder if he’s changed his mind about the party, but when I look up, his eyes are locked on me.
Not just on me. On the dress. On the line of my shoulder, the curve of my ribs, the exposed seam of thigh where the lace rides high and the bandage cuts white beneath. For the first time since I met him, he looks lost.
He stops. I stop, too.
“Fuck, Dee…” he says, so low it’s almost inaudible.