Chapter 48
The first thing I notice is the taste of ozone on my tongue, cold and sharp, like the air in the sub-basement where they used to keep the more dangerous solvents. Then the pressure, a static field gathering at the base of my skull, each pulse snapping off a memory that isn’t quite mine.
I’m running a centrifuge—no, running from a centrifuge—its whine rising as the sample tubes blur, then shatter, spraying iridescent liquid across a bank of blank monitors.
The liquid pools into a word, a sigil, but as I reach for it my hand is wrapped in someone else’s glove.
A woman’s voice, so familiar it aches, calls my name—Diana, Diana—but I can’t see her face, only the shimmer of her lab coat as she walks away.
The corridor she disappears down is lined with doors, each stamped with a different number, each one opening as I pass: a nursery, a firing range, an operating room with a dog on the table and a child’s face watching from the window.
I try to follow the woman, but the hallway tilts and the numbers reset.
Then I wake.
Or think I do.
The ceiling above is a ragged patchwork of concrete and scavenged plastic, light bleeding in from the gap at the top of the door.
My left arm is numb, pins and needles chasing up from the elbow.
The rest of me is a tangle of sweat-damp blankets, the wool scratchy and sour against my skin.
Kang is next to me, the weight of his thigh pressing hard against mine, both of us still tangled in last night’s exhaustion.
I let myself float for a second, listening to the silence. The Sanctuary is quiet in the pre-dawn—no music, no yelling, just the occasional rumble as someone stokes a distant generator. I try to hold onto the remnants of the dream, but they slip away, replaced by the sticky reality of my own body.
I shift, careful not to jar my shoulder. The bandage has slipped, and I can see the raw seam of the wound, stitched tight and angry. The sight of it makes my stomach turn, though the pain is almost comforting. A proof of life.
Kang mutters in his sleep, breath hissing through his teeth. He’s twisted away, back to me, but I can see the tension in his jaw, the sweat on his neck. His hand twitches, fingers curling into a fist, then splaying open again. The movement is rhythmic, almost deliberate.
Another dream, I think. Or maybe just the residue of being hunted.
“Kang,” I whisper, voice barely there.
No response. He jerks, legs kicking at the blankets, breath coming faster.
I reach out, my good hand brushing his shoulder. He’s burning up, the heat radiating off him in waves. I try again, louder.
“Kang. Wake up.”
His whole body goes rigid, then snaps upright. He’s out of the bed and halfway across the room before his eyes even focus, back hunched, fists up. He scans the space, sees nothing but me, and lets out a low, guttural sound. Not quite a word, more animal than human.
I stay on the mattress, waiting for him to find his bearings. It takes longer than usual.
When he finally looks at me, his eyes are wild—unfamiliar, panicked, the green gone to black in the low light.
“It’s okay,” I say, keeping my voice level. “You’re here. You’re safe.”
He sags, the fight draining out of him. He sinks to the floor, back against the wall, head in his hands.
I sit up, blanket pooled around my waist. The chill in the air spikes the sweat on my skin, and I shiver.
“You want to talk about it?” I ask, because someone has to.
He shakes his head, rubbing his palms over his face. “No,” he says, voice rough. “Not really.”
I wait. He’ll talk when he’s ready. Or he won’t.
The minutes pass slow. I pick at the edge of the bandage, then at a scab on my knee. Finally, Kang speaks.
“It’s always the same,” he says, not looking up.
“I’m at the checkpoint. They’re lining people up—kids, women, doesn’t matter.
Authority says it’s just a scan, routine.
But it’s not.” He swallows, the sound harsh.
“The scanner glitches. One person sets it off, then everyone after. Doesn’t matter if it’s random or not.
They separate them—’for observation.’” He snorts, bitter. “No one comes back.”
I remember the stories. I remember worse.
He goes on. “In the dream, I’m the one running the checkpoint. But I’m also in the line. I watch myself call the orders, then I’m the one being marched through. I see the faces—my old squad, my mother, you—” his voice cracks, “—and every time, I’m powerless. I can’t stop it. I just watch.”
He lapses into silence. His hands tremble at his sides, knuckles pale.
I want to comfort him, but I know how useless that is.
Instead, I say, “Did you ever run a checkpoint like that? For real?”
He nods, eyes unfocused. “Yeah. More than once. But not… like that. Not with—” He stops, the sentence dying. He rubs at his ring finger, a nervous tic I’ve seen before. I wonder if he knows he does it.
I slide off the mattress and crawl over to where he sits. The floor is cold, pitted with years of boots and spills. I settle next to him, our knees touching.
“Hey,” I say, voice soft. “You’re not there anymore.”
He meets my gaze, the wildness fading, replaced by something more raw. “Doesn’t feel like it.”
I take his hand, the one with the ring finger he keeps fussing over. His skin is rough, nails bitten down. I run my thumb over the joint, slow, deliberate.
“What’s with this?” I ask, more to break the tension than for any real answer. “You do it every time you’re freaked.”
He blinks, surprised. “Do I?”
I nod. “Like clockwork.”
He looks down at his hand, then at me. For a second, I think he’ll make a joke, or shrug it off. But instead, he says, “It’s just… something I seem to have always done. When I feel—” he searches for the word, “—lost.”
His voice is so vulnerable it almost doesn’t sound like him.
I keep rubbing his finger, gentle now. “You’re not lost, Kang. Not anymore.”
He closes his eyes, lets out a slow breath.
We stay like that, side by side on the floor, until the light leaking through the door grows from gray to gold.
The dream is gone, but the memory lingers.
So does the warmth of his hand in mine.
The knock at the door isn’t so much a knock as it is a demand—a rattle that starts at the hinges and ends somewhere behind my teeth. Kang startles; I flinch, then curse myself for flinching.
“Rise and shine, lovebirds!” Rosie’s voice is a battering ram of mockery, echoing down the corridor with all the subtlety of a collapse. “Cleanup crew’s short and Maven says if you’re not out here in five, they’ll send in a bucket of cold water and a camera.”
I swear under my breath, the heat crawling up my neck. Next to me, Kang just grins, unfazed. He stretches, back popping, then rolls his eyes toward the door.
“Five minutes,” he calls, voice still gravel from sleep.
Rosie cackles and stomps away. For a few heartbeats, all I hear is the echo of her laughter and the drip of condensation from the ceiling. I glare at the door, willing it to burst into flames.
“Guess the honeymoon’s over,” I mutter.
Kang props himself on one elbow, smirk firmly in place. “Think we were that loud?”
I shoot him a look. “You were. Sounded like you were strangling a wolf.”
He shrugs, unapologetic. “Just keeping up.”
I groan and bury my face in the scratchy blanket, then kick it off and stand, stretching until my joints crack. The air in the room is stale with sleep, sour with sex and sweat, but there’s something comforting about it—proof that we survived the night, that we’re still here.
I fish my clothes off the floor, holding them up in the half-light.
The pants are the same Authority-issue, faded at the knees and frayed at the hem, but the shirt is new—a soft, threadbare blue, probably from one of Maven’s midnight raids on the laundry.
I tug it on, then reach for the bandage roll on the windowsill.
Kang stands, naked and unselfconscious, the sheet puddling at his feet.
He’s marked up—scrapes on his knees, a fresh bruise blooming on his hip, the bite I left on his collarbone.
I let my eyes trace the pattern of faded scars across his torso—the map of a machine that learned to bleed.
He notices me looking and raises an eyebrow.
“You want first shower?” he asks.
I shake my head, then motion for him to turn around. “Let me check your back. I saw you hit it on the table.”
He obeys, and I scan the lines of his spine. There’s a welt, high and purple, but no open skin. I trace it with my fingers, feeling the heat of it.
“Nothing serious,” I say. “But if you ever take me on a table again, watch your form.”
He laughs, low. “Noted.”
He dresses, quick and methodical. Authority muscle memory never dies.
He pulls the pants on, then buckles the holster at his shoulder, snapping it into place before he even reaches for the shirt.
The old blue still fits, and the Authority patch is mostly burned off, but the ghost of it remains—a pale outline, a warning.
I catch him rubbing his ring finger again, absent-minded. I think about saying something, but don’t.
Instead, I focus on the ritual of wrapping my own shoulder, the gentle pull and tension of the bandage. It’s easier than thinking about what comes next.
The silence between us is different now—full, but not heavy. I feel him watching me, measuring the distance between us, and I let him.
“Was last night…?” I start, then stop. Too needy. I rephrase. “Did that help, at all?”
He considers it, lips pressed into a line.
“Yeah,” he says. “It did.”
I nod, relief prickling behind my eyes.
He steps closer, brushes a lock of hair behind my ear. His fingers are warm, callused. He hesitates, then kisses my forehead, just once. The contact is brief, but it lingers.
“I meant what I said,” he murmurs, voice so low I almost miss it. “I’d burn it all for you.”
I want to answer, but the words catch. I settle for pressing my palm to his chest, feeling the slow thud of his heart.
We hold there, for a moment. Then the noise outside surges—a bang, a crash, Rosie’s voice again, rallying the troops.
I step back, force myself into motion.
We finish getting ready in silence, efficient and practiced. I lace my boots, then grab the battered satchel from the hook on the door. Kang straps on his belt, checks the pulse on the holster, then nods at me. Ready.
I pause, hand on the latch. The light from the corridor spills in through the crack, harsh and white, full of dust. The world outside is waiting—hungry, unforgiving.
I look at Kang, and he looks at me.
“After you,” he says.
I open the door, and we walk out together.
The corridor is a slap of noise and motion. People move fast, carrying crates, arguing over inventory, shouting greetings or insults. Rosie is at the far end, perched on a stack of pipes, grinning at us with all her teeth.
“About time!” she yells. “You missed breakfast, but there’s still coffee. If you can call it that.”
I glare, but she just laughs.
We thread through the chaos, side by side. Kang’s hand brushes my hip, light as a promise. My shoulder aches, but it’s a good ache.
The Sanctuary humming with purpose.
We move into it, not quite sure what the day will bring.
If the world burns tomorrow, so fucking be it.