Chapter 46
The Sanctuary’s main hall feels different when you sober up and the music has dropped away.
It’s like coming down off a month-long stimulant bender—every pulse of light is too bright, every laugh too sharp, every face suddenly in focus where the hour before it all bled together.
The benches are packed, some with old hands in threadbare jumpsuits, others with fresh-bloods who haven’t learned the etiquette of staring with your mouth shut.
The lanterns overhead burn hotter than before, turning every sweat-damp forehead and scar into a glowing brand.
The air is dense with vapor and cigarette smoke, a haze that tastes of vinegar, onions, and yeast.
Kang slipped away ten minutes ago to fetch drinks from the back bar, leaving me perched on a crate with my bad arm pressed tight to my ribs.
I watch him weave through the crowd, his shoulders set like a man carrying something precious in his ribcage.
The line at the bar is a dozen deep, and everyone’s shouting over each other, but Kang’s voice—calm, steady, Authority even now—cuts through.
I watch him pay with two cigs and a stick of gum, then wait while the bartender fills a pair of grimy glasses with a syrupy red.
It’s not until I look back to the floor that I notice the guy staring at me.
He’s slouched on the next bench over, clutching a bottle with both hands like it’s the only thing keeping his bones from leaking out.
He has the kind of face that never learned the geometry of beauty—nose broken too many times, lips flat and bloodless, ears that stick out just a little too far.
His hair is a stripe of Authority white down the middle, grown out into a greasy mop.
He’s wearing what might have been a nice shirt, once, but it’s sweat-stained and open at the chest, the Authority brand burned off with acid.
He notices me noticing him, and bares his teeth in something that aims for a grin but lands closer to a threat.
“Hey,” he says, voice a gravel drag. “Didn’t know they let lab rats out this late.”
I ignore him, but he keeps going.
“Nice dress,” he sneers, eyes flicking over the lace at my thighs. “Someone die for it?”
My first instinct is to pull the hem lower, but I don’t. I meet his stare, cold and flat, and say, “Get lost.”
He cocks his head, takes a long pull from the bottle, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Not a people person, huh? Thought all the doc types were desperate for company.”
“I said, get lost,” I repeat, voice harder.
He laughs, sloshing the drink onto his shirt.
“You hear that? She thinks she’s still Authority.
” The table around him joins in, not quite with enthusiasm—more like hyenas sensing blood but too lazy to commit.
He stands, swaying, and takes two steps toward me.
“C’mon, sweetheart. No one’s gonna hurt you. ”
He’s close enough now that I can smell the rot on his breath. I keep my hands in my lap, every muscle tight. I glance around, but the nearest group is too deep in their own argument to care. My heart hammers, not with fear, but with rage.
“Fuck off,” I say. “Last warning.”
He leans in, elbow on the crate beside me, voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. “What’s the matter? You need a minder? Or are you just lonely? I could—”
Before he can finish, Kang’s shadow falls across both of us.
The drunk’s eyes flick up, and he actually flinches. Kang is holding the two glasses in one hand, the other curled into a fist so tight the knuckles are white. He doesn’t say a word. He just stares, and for a moment, the only sound is the band at the far end of the hall, tuning their instruments.
The drunk recovers quick. He straightens, chin high, and says, “Easy, Authority. Just making conversation.”
Kang’s voice is a blade: “You’re done.”
The man doesn’t move. I watch his throat work, the Adam’s apple bobbing. “You can’t talk to me like that,” he says, but it comes out weak.
Kang sets the glasses on the crate beside me, slow and deliberate. “You’re done,” he repeats, louder this time.
The man’s face goes red, then purple. For a second, I think he’s going to swing.
His hand twitches at his side. But then he looks at me, really looks, and sees the way my shoulder is pressed tight, the faint line of dried blood peeking from the bandage.
He does the math. He spits on the floor, then backs away, muttering curses that are swallowed by the crowd.
Kang stands over me a moment longer, his hand hovering in the air between us. I think he wants to touch my shoulder, but he doesn’t. Instead, he sits beside me, the wood creaking under his weight. He slides one of the glasses my way. “You okay?”
I nod, but the word sticks in my throat.
Maven appears out of nowhere, like they always do. They perch on the edge of the crate, knees splayed, grinning at both of us. “Saw that,” they say, voice pitched low. “Could’ve gone worse.”
I glare at Maven. “You recruit from the bottom of the barrel these days?”
Maven shrugs. “He’s got his uses. Tunnel maps. Old Authority layouts.” They glance at Kang, eyebrow arched. “Sorry about the drama. He’s not usually so… forward.”
“He’s drunk,” Kang says.
“He’s alive,” Maven replies, and for a second I see something hard flicker in their eyes.
The conversation is interrupted by a scream from the far end of the hall—a child, laughing, not pain. But it makes my heart skip. I press my good hand to my sternum, counting beats, waiting for the adrenaline to ebb.
Maven watches me. “You want out, just say so.”
I shake my head. “We’re fine.”
“You’re not fine,” Maven corrects, “but you’re better than last week.”
Kang’s hand is on my thigh, not high, not sexual, just there. I stare at it, the way the fingers spread, the nails bitten down to the quick.
Maven leans in, voice soft. “Take a walk. Get some air.”
I look at Kang. He nods, and I realize how badly I want to leave.
I stand, the dress catching at the back of my knees. My shoulder screams as I push up, but I hide it. Kang’s hand hovers, but he lets me move on my own. We walk, side by side, through the rows of benches and out into the corridor. The noise falls away, replaced by the hum of the tunnel fans.
Before the door closes behind us, I look back. Maven is already talking to the drunk, their hand on his shoulder, voice too low to hear. The drunk’s head is down, eyes fixed on the floor. I wonder if Maven is threatening him, or just explaining the rules.
I decide it doesn’t matter.
The tunnel is empty, the only light from a row of dying bulbs overhead. The air is cool, and the silence is a balm.
We walk, neither of us speaking. Kang’s pace matches mine exactly. I can feel the heat coming off his body, even though we’re not touching.
When we reach the end of the corridor, I stop and turn. Kang stops, too, facing me square.
“Thanks,” I say, voice quiet.
He tilts his head, “You didn’t need me.”
“Maybe not,” I say. “But it was nice.”
He smiles, just a little. “Let’s get you back.”
The tunnel to the quarters is always longer at night.
Each step away from the hall makes the world a little colder, a little emptier.
The hum of air exchangers is the only sound, unless you count the echo of my own heartbeat.
Kang walks beside me, close but not touching, his presence the one warm thing left in the dark.
We don’t say anything. We don’t need to.
We’re halfway home when we hear the scuffle.
At first, it’s just shuffling—someone unsteady, shoes scraping concrete.
Then a wet cough, the kind of sound you make after a punch to the gut.
Kang goes instantly rigid. His pace slows to a controlled stalk, and I match him step for step, the hairs on my arms raising.
The drunk is waiting for us at the corner, leaning with his back to the wall like he’s holding it up with sheer spite. His bottle is gone, replaced by an ugly scowl and a limp. He spots us and straightens, wiping spit from his chin.
“Well, look who it is,” he slurs, the words slick with venom. “Queen bitch and her Authority dog.”
Kang stops dead. His eyes narrow into slits of emerald fire, and his entire body locks down, a predator coil-tight before the strike. He doesn’t say a word, but the silence radiating from him is a physical threat.
The drunk points at Kang, wavering. “How does it feel, huh? Being a traitor? Licking boots for the lab coat?”
Kang’s fists flex at his sides, a twitch of muscle I know too well. He’s seconds from tearing the man’s throat out, and I can’t say I’d blame him.
The drunk’s attention swings to me. “What’s it like, doc? Taking orders from a soldier? Bet he fucks like a machine—straight in, straight out, doesn’t even say your name.”
I step forward, closing the space between us. The stink of old beer and rotting teeth is almost enough to make me gag.
“Back off,” I say, voice flat.
He laughs, spraying flecks of saliva onto my dress. “Or what? You gonna stick a needle in me? Make me forget I ever met you?”
My blood freezes. Needle. Forget. The words hit a nerve so raw it sings with guilt.
My fragmented memories of the lab, of the things I studied, the things I authorized, the way I left my own mind like a bombed-out structure—it all surges up.
The experiments. The forgotten lives. His mockery isn’t wrong; I am the reason people forget… at least I think so.
Kang surges forward, a low, feral sound escaping his chest. But I stop him with a hand pressed hard to the slab of muscle at his chest. “I got this,” I whisper, my eyes locked on the drunk’s face. The tension under my palm is volcanic.
The drunk sneers, eyeing Kang over my shoulder. “He lets you fight your own battles now, huh? Must be nice. Real partnership.”
He leans in, face inches from mine. “You think you’re better than us? You’re nothing. Just a pretty cunt in a black dress, hiding behind Authority muscle.”
The words are designed to hurt, to bait, to get a reaction. I give him one.
He reaches for me, hand closing over my breast with the casual entitlement of someone who’s gotten away with worse. I let him, just long enough for his fingers to curl.
Then I hit him.
My fist snaps up, powered by every ugly memory I’ve ever had, every fucker who ever thought my body was a prize for the taking. The impact cracks across his jaw, knuckles meeting bone with a wet, sickening pop. His eyes go wide, and for a second he looks at me with something like wonder.
Then he drops. His knees buckle, and he crashes face first to the concrete floor, a final, wet thud echoing in the tunnel.
Silence. Kang stares at me, his mouth slightly open, not quite believing.
I flex my hand, shake out the sting, ignoring the radiating pain in my arm. “Let’s go,” I say, and step cleanly over the body.
Kang follows, his breath sharp and ragged, lips parted, eyes on me like I’m the last thing in the world worth watching.
As he falls into step beside me, I can’t help but notice the distinct, large bulge tightening the fabric of his black Authority pants.
The sight is a jolt of raw, carnal heat that cuts right through the adrenaline and the fury.
We don’t stop walking until the tunnel bends out of sight, and the sound of the man’s snoring is lost in the air. The atmosphere has fundamentally changed: now, it’s not just anger that coils between us, but a desperate, mutual hunger.