Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The snow crunched softly beneath the horse’s hooves, a gentle but constant sound that filled the cold air between the trees. Ellie hunched in the saddle, her gloved fingers gripping the worn leather reins with practiced tension. Her breath fogged in front of her face with each exhale, vanishing into the stillness of the high mountain pass like a ghost. The forest here was quiet—eerily so. No birds. No wind. Just the soft creak of the saddle and the long exhale of the horse beneath her as they wound carefully between towering evergreens and drifts of late snow.

It was early spring, but winter still clung to these mountains with long, icy fingers. The fresh snow on the ground had a faint sheen under the gray morning light, and Ellie could feel its wet bite through her boots. Her thighs ached from the ride, her muscles sore from days of tension. The horse—Shimmer, named after the faint reddish tint in his mane—moved steadily, almost stubbornly, through the thick slush that blanketed the trail. They had been riding since dawn, and the cold hadn’t eased once.

Ellie tugged her jacket tighter around her, the fur-lined hood pulled halfway over her head. Beneath it, her face was raw from windburn, her cheeks flushed from cold. She hadn’t spoken in hours, not since she passed a frozen creek miles back. But now, her voice cracked through the silence like a match struck in the dark.

"Should've waited for spring proper," she muttered to herself, squinting into the pale light filtering through the trees. Her voice was hoarse from disuse, dry from the cold. "Ride north in April. Brilliant idea, Ellie."

The sarcasm was thin armor against the exhaustion sinking into her bones. She pulled the map from her coat pocket—creased, water-stained, and torn at one corner—and unfolded it with clumsy, gloved fingers. Her eyes traced the black ink routes she’d marked in Jackson weeks ago. Snoqualmie Pass was halfway through the Cascades, and the trail she was on was supposed to circle around the eastern edge of Seattle. If it hadn’t been completely overrun or washed out by landslides or taken over by whatever desperate groups now roamed the highlands. Ellie’s eyes locked on the jagged coastline drawn in faint contour lines.

The Pacific.

The thought of the ocean stirred something deep in her chest, a vague warmth that pressed against the cold reality around her. Joel had promised once, years ago, to take her to the coast. She’d never seen it—never even smelled it. But something in her ached for it. The waves. The wind. The vastness of it. A horizon she couldn’t touch. She folded the map and tucked it back into her coat.

"The ride north was slow, but we’re close now,” she told Shimmer, her voice quieter. “If we swing east and avoid downtown, we can circle around Seattle. Then it’s just a straight shot.”
Shimmer flicked an ear as if responding, but otherwise stayed silent. Ellie tilted her head up, looking beyond the trees toward the distant ridgeline. Dark clouds threatened in the west, thick and low. A snowstorm, maybe. Or rain. She wasn’t sure which was worse right now.

But she kept riding.

The silence of the wilderness was different than the quiet of Jackson. There, it had been the quiet of guarded safety—fences, walls, human voices muffled by routine. Out here, it was the silence of old bones buried under frost. Of long-forgotten cars sunk into the snowdrifts. Of cabins sealed shut with rot and still holding the last breaths of people who hadn’t survived the first wave. The infected were fewer this far up in elevation, but that didn’t mean the world was safer.

Just quieter.

As they crested a hill and the trees opened up into a wide, sweeping overlook, Ellie pulled Shimmer to a stop. Before her stretched the Snoqualmie Valley—forests as far as the eye could see, broken only by winding rivers and the distant skeletons of old towns long since reclaimed by nature. Somewhere far to the west, beyond the thick woods and hills, was Seattle. She could almost make out the faint suggestion of the skyline on the far edge of the horizon, like jagged teeth rising against the gray sky.

Even from here, it looked... wrong. Heavy. Dead.

She clenched her jaw.

“Nope,” she muttered. “Not going through that mess.” Ellie gave Shimmer a gentle nudge, and they started down the hill again, the snow thick around the horse’s legs. She kept her eyes forward, fixed on the trail ahead, but her mind wandered.

To Jackson. To Dina. To Tommy’s tight expression the night she left.

And Joel.

A flicker of guilt coiled in her gut. She’d ridden out angry—furious. At him, at herself. But beneath it all had been something else.

A desperate need to understand why he did what he did.

She’d waited years for the truth, and when it came, it shattered her.“If you’d only told me when I asked... if you’d just said it...”

But he didn’t. And she couldn’t wait anymore.

Now, all she had was a pack of supplies, a horse, a map, and a faint memory of a coastline.

She pressed her hand to her ribs where her tattoo sat beneath the layers of cloth. She’d added a new line to it back in Jackson—a small wave, curling under the fern leaf. No one had noticed. Or maybe they did, and just didn’t ask. The path narrowed as they descended deeper into the woods. The light dimmed under the thick canopy, and a cold wind picked up. The trees whispered with it. Ellie reached for the rifle slung behind her, her instincts prickling. You didn’t survive this long without listening to that inner itch, the one that told you when things were just off.

She caught a glimpse of something ahead—a wooden road sign, weathered and half-fallen into the snow. It was barely legible, but she made out the words:

Welcome to North Bend. Population: —
(the number was long since scratched out in angry red paint)

She nudged Shimmer forward cautiously, fingers grazing the hilt of her knife. Houses sat sunken into the snow, collapsed roofs and broken porches half-swallowed by trees. The bones of suburbia.
She would find shelter here, maybe in an attic or crawlspace. Just for a few hours. The sun was dipping low, and her stomach gnawed at her ribs. She had one can of peaches left, and some jerky that tasted like cardboard.

Ellie swung down from Shimmer with a groan, her joints stiff. She patted his side. By the time Ellie awoke the next morning, a pale gray light had crept through the boarded window of the bedroom she’d found shelter in. The air in the small house was freezing, her breath curling in front of her like steam as she slowly sat up, groaning from the ache in her back. The sleeping bag hadn’t done much against the cracked floorboards and drafty corners. The house smelled of wet wood, mold, and something sour that she tried not to identify.

She rolled her shoulders slowly, testing the muscles. They still burned, but the sharp pain from yesterday had dulled into a manageable throb. Her stomach growled low and long.
“Alright, alright,” she mumbled, dragging her pack over.

Unwrapping a thin scrap of leather and foil from the inner pocket, she revealed a strip of cooked, dried meat—some mystery venison she’d smoked a week ago over a dying campfire in the shadow of the Cascades. It was hard as a rock now, dark and oily, but she didn’t have the luxury of being picky. She bit into it with a sharp crunch, chewing slowly, jaw working hard. It tasted like smoke, salt, and something vaguely gamey—probably elk or deer. Maybe bear. Hard to say. Probably best not to ask. She glanced out the window at the snow-blurred world outside. “Seattle Mountain…” she murmured through a mouthful, then swallowed. “That’s what I’ve been calling it.”

It was barely visible through the branches and fog—a gray slab rising out of the land, crowned by the silhouettes of old high-rises and broken radio towers. The city looked like it had been poured out of the sky and left to rot in place.

“I don’t even know if I’m going through it, around it, or under it,” she muttered. “Just need to follow the map and not die.” Finishing the meat, she washed it down with a few sips of water from a flask, then leaned back against the wall. Her thoughts wandered as she rubbed warmth into her stiff arms.

Missoula.

That college town had been weirdly decent. After nearly starving through northern Wyoming, Ellie had limped into the shattered city limits of Missoula just as a late storm broke open the sky. When riders bearing patches with a Grizzly bear on their arms approached her. Half the place had been flattened, mainly the suburban area, but a large group was holed up in the university building and parts of it’s bigger downtown, fortified with actual high cement walls and watchtowers. Not Fireflies. Not WLF. Not even FEDRA remnants. Just people—tired and suspicious, but willing to barter.
She’d traded her last bottle of painkillers and a clean hunting knife for three days of rations, a new water filter, and two full syringes of antibiotics.

“Guy even gave me an old can of peaches,” she said aloud, smiling faintly at the memory. “Said I looked like hell. He wasn’t wrong.” Ellie stood slowly, groaning as her muscles protested. She began packing her things methodically, slipping her pistol into her side holster and folding up the map again. She looked around the room one last time. Whoever had lived here had long since gone—only a half-rotted rocking chair and an overturned crib remained in the corner, frozen in time.

She moved quickly, not wanting to dwell on the shadows.

Once outside, the cold hit her hard. A sharp wind tore down the streets, cutting through the trees and whipping her hood back. She pulled it tight around her ears and approached Shimmer, who was pawing at the snow near an old pickup truck.

“Hope you slept better than I did, buddy,” she muttered, patting his neck. She gave him a piece of dry apple and checked his hooves, brushing off the ice with gloved fingers.
With the saddle secured and her pack lashed on tight, she swung herself up and guided Shimmer back onto the cracked asphalt road that wound out of North Bend and toward the next point on her map.

Spokane.

Her expression soured.

“That place sucked.”

She spoke it like a confession to the trees, her voice drifting in the empty forest. Spokane had been a war zone. She’d reached it during a blinding rainstorm two weeks ago, looking for shelter, food, maybe a battery she could scavenge for a small generator. What she found instead was a city divided into warring factions—some weird militia calling themselves The Sons of Liberty, a biker gang that claimed a third of the riverbanks and scattered infected in the middle like a living landmine. Fires burned all night. Gunshots echoed through the ruins like thunder.

She had narrowly avoided being captured twice. Once by a group of scavengers that had painted their faces with soot and blood, and another time when two armed teens mistook her for a Fedra spy.
The only thing that kept her alive was slipping through buildings and crawling through storm drains with her switchblade clenched in her teeth. “Goddamn nightmare,” she muttered. “People suck as per usual.”

The trees thinned slightly as they rode, revealing the flat expanse of the Washington interior beyond. The middle stretch of the state had been... bland. Wide plains, decaying farms, and abandoned gas stations. The infected were rare, but so were supplies. Ellie had spent three days on one stretch of broken highway without seeing a single soul—alive or dead. Just wind and dust and endless gray skies.
“No wonder no one fought over that part,” she said, nudging Shimmer onward as they crested a hill and saw the faint shimmer of Seattle’s outskirts far in the distance.

It loomed now—not just a place on a map, but a shape that rose against the sky like a fortress built from rusted steel and overgrown vines. The tallest buildings looked like dying trees, their frames snapped and leaning, windows long gone. A river shimmered in the morning light, snaking like a vein through the outskirts. According to her map, she’d have to swing south and east to avoid the main city. She didn’t know who controlled Seattle these days—if anyone. But she had no intention of walking straight into whatever chaos still lived in those streets.
Still, something about the skyline pulled at her.

Joel had told her once, long ago, “You ever stand at the edge of a city like that and wonder what it was like? What it sounded like? All the voices and the cars and the lights?”

She hadn’t understood it then.

Now she did.

All that noise was gone.

All that life... silenced.

She felt suddenly, crushingly alone.

Shimmer nickered beneath her, sensing her stillness. Ellie exhaled slowly, adjusted her grip on the reins, and nudged him forward again. The rhythmic clop of Shimmer’s hooves echoed down the broken stretch of Highway 90, the cracked concrete disappearing in both directions like the ghost of civilization. The wind had picked up again, whistling low through bent street signs and rusted car frames. Ellie hunched forward in the saddle, her eyes narrowed against the grit it kicked up.

She’d passed countless ruined highways since leaving Jackson, but this one—this long descent toward the western edge of Bellevue—felt different. Not just in its sheer scale, but in its stillness. No birds. No infected. No bodies—at least not yet. Just wind and the creaking moan of rusted metal left to rot in the cold. The morning fog had lifted slightly, revealing more of the terrain ahead. The trees thinned out on either side of the road, replaced by the skeletal remains of what had once been highway checkpoint barricades. Yellow paint faded to gray. Signs half-collapsed. Old floodlights drooped on their poles like wilting sunflowers. Ellie slowed Shimmer’s gait, easing him into a careful trot as they approached the ruin.

She spotted it first as a shape in the mist—a hulking silhouette at the edge of the road. As they drew closer, the shape resolved into something more distinct. A large, rusted FEDRA transport truck, long abandoned and riddled with bullet holes. The once-dark green paint had faded to brownish-black in places, peeled by weather and time. Its tires were shredded, one axle bent sharply inward, and the back hatch had been blown clean off.

Ellie dismounted, her boots crunching on old gravel as she stepped forward. She swept her rifle off her shoulder and held it low, scanning the area.
“Stay close,” she muttered to Shimmer, patting his flank before moving toward the truck.

Bodies were scattered around the wreck—long-decayed, now no more than bones wrapped in scraps of gray-black uniforms. Some still clutched rusted rifles in skeletal hands. FEDRA.
She crouched near one, eyeing the faded patches on the flak jacket.

"Checkpoint must’ve been overrun... long time ago." Her voice was quiet, meant only for herself. To the left of the truck was something far more ominous: a damaged tank, half-buried in overgrowth. Its treads were cracked, the gun turret bent like a broken arm. Dried vines curled around its barrel like ivy reclaiming steel. One side had been melted open by some sort of explosive—flame scars and twisted metal blackened by fire.

The insignia was still barely visible on its side. FEDRA. The military arm of the old world, the iron boot that tried—and failed—to control the outbreak zones.
Ellie stood in front of it for a moment, her gaze hard. She’d seen what FEDRA did. She remembered the QZs. The checkpoints. The soldiers with dead eyes barking orders. And she remembered the bodies strung up in the streets after the Boston uprising.

She let out a bitter snort. "Guess your luck ran out here too, huh?" But something else caught her attention—a torn, fluttering scrap of cloth nearby. At first, she thought it was part of a tarp, but as she got closer, she realized it was a flag. Faded. Beaten. Hanging by a single corner from a twisted pole driven into the checkpoint’s concrete foundation. The symbol was crude, but unmistakable: a wolf’s head, black and snarling, stitched against a blood-red background. Its teeth bared. Its eyes narrowed.

Below it were words. Barely legible, stitched in dark gray thread.

"Washington Liberation Front"

Ellie tilted her head, lips parting slightly.

"The hell…?"

She stared at the flag for a long time, processing.

“Liberation front?” she murmured, the phrase tasting foreign in her mouth. She’d heard plenty of names before—Fireflies, Rattlers, the Seraphites. FEDRA itself. But this? She reached out and touched the fabric. It was coarse, fraying at the edges. But it had held through storms, wind, and war. Whoever made this didn’t do it for show. It was meant to last. She stepped back, gazing up at the flag fluttering gently in the wind.

“Well, that’s not ominous at all.” Despite herself, Ellie let out a soft, crooked smile.

Then she turned.

Beyond the checkpoint, nestled in the low haze and rising towers of pine and moss-choked steel, was Seattle. Her breath hitched at the sight. There it was. The Emerald City—crowned now in rust and rot. What had once been a skyline of progress and power was now a jagged crown of decay. The tallest skyscrapers stood like broken fingers reaching toward the cloud-draped sky. One tower leaned at a terrifying angle, its top floors sheared clean by something—an explosion, maybe, or time itself. Vines and moss crept along every visible edge. Entire chunks of the city were drowned in green.

A river cut through the southern edge of the city, brown and fast-moving from spring melt. Bridges lay collapsed or warped. Roads disappeared under water, or trees, or ruin. And from this distance, there was no sound. No gunshots. No shouting. No smoke. Just the haunting image of a city that had once stood proud—and now loomed like a corpse that forgot how to fall down. Ellie raised a hand to shield her eyes from the midday glare. The sunlight barely made it through the mist, but it lit the city in a strange, beautiful way. Pale beams slanted down onto rooftops and glassless windows, sparkling against the moss-covered facades.

She breathed in deeply.

And instantly gagged.

“Ugh—Jesus.” She coughed once, waving a hand in front of her nose. The wind had shifted and brought with it a stench of decay—distant but unmistakable. Wet mold. Stagnant water. Rotting asphalt and something Shimmery beneath it all.

Ellie shook her head, smirking as she backed away from the overlook. “Real paradise, huh?”

She mounted Shimmer again, giving the city one last look.

“I was hoping for a beach or anything nicer really.” Still, her eyes drifted back to the flag.

WLF.

Washington Liberation Front.

She didn’t know what they were. Didn’t know if they were friendly, dangerous, or extinct. But they had a presence. And if they still existed… that meant someone was surviving out there. Not scavenging. Not hiding. Organizing. That was rare. It could be dangerous. Or it could be the answer she’d been looking for. She tightened the reins and turned Shimmer south, beginning the slow descent into the lower highways that curled around the edge of the city like a dried vein. Her map showed a trail that followed the river to the south before circling west and north again. If she was lucky, she’d avoid the worst of downtown. Stick to the fringes.

The hum of wind and hoofbeats was all Ellie heard as she rode, leaning forward slightly, fingers curled tightly around Shimmer’s reins. The silence around her had grown heavier the farther she moved into Bellevue. Trees gave way to broken apartment blocks and shattered glass. The distant outline of the Seattle skyline loomed like a dying god on the horizon—part awe, part warning.
Her focus narrowed. Her breath misted from her nose. The city seemed to watch her as she approached, every shattered window a blind eye staring down from ruined towers. Her instincts were screaming something now—an itch at the back of her skull.

She was about to pull Shimmer to a halt, to scan the overpass exit ahead—

CRACK!

A gunshot split the silence. Something fast and hot screamed past her ear.

“Shit!”

Ellie yanked the reins hard to the left and Shimmer reared, his hooves kicking at the air before he galloped into a sprint. She ducked low, heart hammering, the breath ripped from her lungs by pure instinct. Another shot rang out behind her. Concrete chipped near her saddlebag.

“Sniper—fuck!” she hissed, eyes scanning for cover.

A roar erupted from a side street—a low growl of an engine.

Out of nowhere, a military-grade Humvee came barreling through a wrecked side road, crushing an old stop sign beneath its wheels. Its black exterior was mud-streaked but intact, reinforced with welded steel plates and a gun mount on the roof. Ellie’s heart dropped. The vehicle skidded to a halt on the far side of the overpass exit, blocking her path forward.

The doors burst open. Six figures spilled out—men and women in heavy military-style gear, some in mismatched armor, others in newer Kevlar. Each of them carried rifles. Gas masks. Vests. Helmets. All of them bore the same insignia—a snarling black wolf on a red armband or patch. Ellie yanked Shimmer to a stop as the soldiers raised their weapons and aimed straight at her.

“Hands up! Don’t move!”

“Dismount!”

One woman flanked left with a sidearm trained directly on Ellie’s chest. The man with the rifle crouched near the vehicle, scanning the horizon for movement. Shimmer shifted uneasily under her. Ellie’s pulse slammed in her neck.

“Whoa—whoa!” she shouted, one hand up, the other tugging the reins. “I didn’t do anything! I’m not—”

“Jordan,” one voice called behind the line.

A man stepped forward from the formation—dark-haired, a short five o'clock shadow beard, cocky half-smile already forming. He wore no helmet, just a dark scarf around his neck and a glint in his eye like this was routine for him.

“Damn,” he said with a low whistle. “Barely missed that red hair. Almost had to repaint the highway.” Ellie stared at him. “I’d say you should work on your aim, but maybe you were just trying to shoot the horse and missed that, too.”

Jordan smirked. “Oh, she’s got jokes.”

Another man stepped out behind him, this one older, broader, with graying hair and eyes that didn’t blink much. His uniform was clean, gear strapped down tight. The authority rolled off him like a tide. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t blink. Just studied her.

“I’m going to only ask this once girl so better answer the truth. You working with the Scars?” he asked, voice like stone and gravel.

Ellie’s brows furrowed. “What?”

“I said—” he stepped closer, rifle held with one hand, “—are you with the Seraphites?”

“The fuck?! I don’t- What- Who even the hell that is!”

Jordan shrugged toward the man. “Could be lying. Look at her gear—Could’ve picked it off a corpse. To trick us.”

Ellie’s stomach twisted, but she held steady. “I’m not with anyone. I’m just trying to get through to see a beach!”

Mike studied her a second longer, then barked: “You see, any fucking beaches around? Okay you know what. Get off the horse. Now.”

“I don’t want trouble,” Ellie said, pulse kicking up again. Her hand went to her belt where her pistol rested in the holster.

“I said now. And don’t even think about it.”

Ellie slowly drew the pistol and tossed it into the snow-covered pavement with a clatter. The woman with the sidearm moved in closer, covering her with steady aim. One of the men stepped up and grabbed Shimmer’s reins roughly, pulling the horse’s head down and forcing him still.

“Easy, easy,” Ellie muttered.

Another soldier came from behind and unhooked the rifle slung across her back, pulling it free and stepping away.

“You’re really making a mistake here,” Ellie said, tense but trying not to show fear. “I’m not with anyone. I don’t know who the ‘Scars’ are, and I’ve never been in Seattle before today.”

Mike pressed a finger to the side of his radio. “This is Captain Mike. Found a lone rider headed in from Highway 90. Not Seraphite markings, but unknown status. She had weapons. Looks clean, but we’re bringing her in.”

Ellie’s hands curled into fists. “Come on, man…”

“You’re coming with us,” Mike said, lowering his rifle just slightly but never taking his eyes off her. “You want to explain yourself, you can do it under real walls, not out here.”

Jordan chuckled from behind. “Hope she’s not as mouthy in the interrogation room.”

Ellie threw him a glare. “I hope you trip and break your jaw.”

"Oh I'm gonna be walking in moonlight with you,"

"Wanna hold my hand prick."

Jordan’s laugh was sharp and genuine. With her weapons taken and the Humvee’s doors open again, Ellie had little choice. The woman who’d taken her pistol stepped behind her and gave a small shove between the shoulder blades.

“Move.”

Ellie glanced once at Shimmer—still tense, eyes wide.

“I’m not leaving him.”

“He’ll be walked in behind us,” Mike said.

Ellie gave one last look at the road stretching back east—then walked toward the vehicle, boots crunching heavily on the gravel. What shit show did she get herself into?

Chapter Text

Ellie sat stiff in the back of the Humvee, her shoulders hunched and jaw clenched, surrounded by the rank scent of sweat, old canvas, and engine oil. Her wrists were bound—loosely, but still bound—and worse, someone had just yanked a blindfold down over her eyes.

“Seriously?” she snapped, voice edged with disbelief. “You’re blindfolding me now? I’ve already seen the damn road! I rode in on it, genius.”

Silence. Just the low creak of shifting armor, the soft static of a radio. Then, a faint exhale—a chuckle, maybe—from someone breathing hard through their nose. She leaned back in her chair again, balancing it on two legs, arms folded tightly across her chest. Her green hoodie was stained with dirt and dried sweat, and her fingers itched for a knife she no longer had.

“This is so fucking stupid,” Ellie muttered, slumping back into the stiff seat. “I’m not a spy. I’m a girl on a horse with a backpack full of jerky and a half-wrong map. Congrats—you captured the most dangerous outlaw this side of the goddamn Cascades.”

“Does she always talk this much?” came a familiar voice from across the Humvee. Jordan. Dry as ever.

Ellie snorted. “Sorry, am I interrupting your brooding silence?”

Another laugh. This one softer. Probably the woman from earlier—the one who hadn't spoken much but had eyes like a hawk.

Ellie leaned her head back, letting it thunk dully against the reinforced steel behind her. “God, I am so fucking stupid,” she hissed under her breath. “Could’ve gone south. Could’ve gone around. But nooo, I had to see the goddamn ocean.”

To her left, someone murmured something into a radio, too low to catch. The Humvee shifted, then lurched as it made a turn, jostling Ellie upright again. She flexed her fingers. The bindings weren’t cutting off circulation—not meant to hurt, just to remind her. Not afraid she’d lash out. Just didn’t trust her not to bolt.

Smart. She would’ve.

“I swear to Christ,” she muttered, voice dry, “if this ends with me tied to a pole and you lighting a fire around my feet, I am going to haunt the shit out of every single one of you.”
The Humvee hit a bump. Her shoulder slammed into the side of the truck with a sharp thud.

“Hey!” she snapped. “You do that on purpose?”

Jordan again, smirking in every syllable: “Maybe.”

Ellie raised her middle finger toward his voice. She didn’t know if he could see it—but hell, she felt better.

“Cute,” Jordan said, amused.

“You want me to get creative?” Ellie offered sweetly. “I’ve got six weeks of horse-riding sass locked and loaded.”

Another laugh—this time closer. She imagined the two in front exchanging looks, probably betting how long it would take her to mouth off to someone important. They drove on. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen. Bumps, turns, engine growls. Radio chatter crackled and hissed with broken phrases. Then Ellie heard it: a metallic clang in the distance—steel on steel. Machinery groaned. The Humvee rattled again, slowing.

“Shut it. Brace for gate check,” the driver barked from the front.

Through the blindfold, Ellie picked out the deep thud-thud-thud of footsteps—heavy boots grinding against gravel with slow, deliberate purpose. The sharp whine of a winch followed, mechanical and strained, as if pulling something massive. Then came the metallic creak, low and ancient, like steel hinges groaning under the weight of time. A second later, the grinding shriek of a gate dragging across the ground reverberated through her chest, not just a sound but a pressure—like the world shifting around her. The Humvee slowed to a full stop. Doors opened with a groan of rusted hinges. Cold air rushed in, sharp with early spring and the faint sting of chemicals.

“Out,” someone barked.

Rough hands grabbed her under the arms—not cruel, just brisk—and hauled her up and out. Her boots scraped metal, then hit solid ground with a jarring thud. And the smells—they hit her next. Acrid smoke clinging to canvas. The sharp sting of diesel fuel, thick and bitter. Meat—charred and seasoned, cooking somewhere close. Woodsmoke mingled with grease and old sweat. And beneath it all… people. So many people. She could hear them now—faint voices overlapping in distant conversation, laughter from somewhere behind a wall, a baby crying briefly before being hushed.

“Okay, okay!” Ellie snapped, yanking her arm. “Hands off.”

The blindfold was yanked away. Even under overcast skies, the sudden light stung. She squinted, blinking hard.

And froze.

A stadium.

Massive and gutted, its bones repurposed. The upper levels were barricaded with scaffolding, sandbags, and chain-link fences. Trucks, tents, water barrels, and half-broken greenhouses crowded the field below. Concrete walls had been reinforced with armor plating, while towers and spotlights loomed overhead. Armed guards paced the perimeter with rifles slung over shoulders. Children ran between tents, laughing. Somewhere, dogs barked. Machinery groaned and clanged in the distance. The smell of industrial grease mingled with wood smoke and something like manure. Whatever this place was, it was alive. Ellie stood still, taking it all in. Her whole body buzzed, not with fear, but with alertness. The wilderness she’d lived in—just trees, wind, and ruin—had been replaced with... this.

A functioning military camp.

Jordan stepped up beside her, pulling his scarf down just enough to speak. “Welcome to Wonderland.”

Ellie didn’t answer. Her eyes tracked the movement around her, weighing exits, blind spots, faces. A man eating out of a dented can paused to stare. A teenager nudged his friend, whispering. A woman with a clipboard stopped mid-stride as Ellie passed. All eyes followed her. They led her along a gravel path between rows of tents. Tarps flapped above solar panels and crates of supplies. Soldiers nodded as they passed, some curious, others indifferent. A little girl peeked from behind a water tank before darting away.

Eventually, one of the guards gestured toward a prefab structure near the edge of the field. A squat, patched-together office made of aluminum siding and weather-warped wood. Concrete steps led up to the entrance, where a battered WLF flag flapped half-heartedly in the breeze. Ellie exhaled slowly. She didn’t know what was inside. A jail cell? An interrogation room? Another round of smug Jordan remarks?

Didn’t matter.

She straightened her back, chin lifting slightly as they walked her forward.

“In here,” Mike ordered.

Two soldiers flanked Ellie, one on each side, guiding her into the room like she might bite. They didn’t grab her, but the message was clear—you’re not walking out until we say so. She stepped into a concrete box that smelled faintly of bleach and metal. The room was bare aside from a bolted-down table, two scuffed metal chairs, and a single bulb hanging overhead, swinging slightly as if stirred by breath. A rust-specked vent wheezed quietly along the back wall. In one corner, a shelf held a clipboard, a few dented water bottles, and a half-empty box of pens.

Ellie glanced around with a sneer. “Wow,” she muttered, walking to the table, “first class hospitality. All that trouble just for one teenage redhead.”

She dropped into the nearest chair without waiting, legs stretched out under the table, her boots scraping metal. Her hands rested on her thighs, fingers twitching with leftover adrenaline.
The guard at the door remained silent, impassive behind a helmet and scratched visor.

Ellie leaned her head toward him. “Do I get a mint on my pillow too, or just more guns pointed at my ass?”

No answer.

The door clicked shut with an ominous finality. Ellie huffed, lips curling in frustration. She slouched deeper into the chair, arms folded tight across her chest. Her heart was still thudding from the Humvee ride, and now the adrenaline that had kept her upright was bleeding out, replaced by something colder. Not fear, she told herself. Not yet. Just... uncertainty. The kind that sat in your gut like a stone and wouldn’t move.

“This is fine,” she said out loud, sarcasm her armor. “This is great. Definitely not kidnapped. Definitely not surrounded by the militant wolf gang of Seattle. Good job, Ellie. Fucking perfect.”

She rubbed at her wrists, still red where the bindings had chafed. Not enough to bruise—just enough to irritate. The bulb above her buzzed faintly. Dust clung to the ceiling like it had grown roots. Outside, boots echoed distantly against concrete and gravel, voices muffled by layers of wall.

She was alone.

Then—the door creaked open.

Ellie didn’t look up at first. She expected that Mike guy, maybe a second round of no-bullshit commands or a gun casually held in the wrong hands. Instead—

“¡Mira, mira!” a bright, laughing voice rang out. “Red’s still alive. Didn’t piss off Captain Stone-Face enough to get shot.”

Ellie blinked and turned her head.

A man stood in the doorway with a crooked smile and a takeout box in one hand, a water bottle in the other. His skin was tan, his dark hair tucked under a backward cap, and he wore a black vest unzipped over a dusty shirt, revealing a half-faded tattoo arcing across his collarbone. His walk was easy, familiar. Confident in the kind of way that annoyed the hell out of Ellie on principle.

“Don’t tell me,” she said, voice flat. “You’re the good cop.”

He laughed and set the food down on the table. “Oh that's a first one. Haha but nah. I’m just the one who doesn’t like watching people starve.”

He slid the takeout box toward her with a nudge of two fingers. Steam curled from the cracked lid—rice, something garlicky, something fried. strolling in like they were old friends reuniting in a diner instead of a fortified war camp.

“Eat,” he said. “You look like shit.”

Ellie arched an eyebrow. “Charming.”

“I’m Manny,” he said, sliding into the chair opposite her. “No rank. No threats. Just… Manny.”

Ellie stared at him, unimpressed. “Fantastic,” she muttered.

Manny dropped the food on the table with a light thunk and pulled out the opposite chair, flopping into it with the kind of ease that only came from someone who’d seen worse and decided this was as good as it gets. “Relax, chica. I’m the friendly one.”

Ellie snorted, arms folded, eyes locked on him like he might explode into spores at any second. “What’s this? Interrogation snack pack?”

“Camp kitchen’s not half bad,” he said, unscrewing the cap from a plastic bottle of water and placing it beside her like she was a guest at a campfire. “Eat. You’re not gonna make it far on attitude alone.”

She didn’t touch it. Not right away. Her eyes flicked between the food and his face, trying to measure the angles. He didn’t have the dead-eyed look of a soldier waiting for orders. He smiled too easily. Moved like he didn’t fear much. That kind of confidence could mean two things: either he was too stupid to realize the risk she posed—or he was ten steps ahead, and every bit of kindness was part of a game she hadn’t learned the rules of yet.

“And besides,” he added casually, resting his elbows on the scarred metal table, “you’re kind of a mystery right now.”

“I get that a lot.”

“No doubt.” His grin stretched wider, like he was genuinely amused. “But seriously—riding into Bellevue alone? Kinda suicidal.”

Ellie rolled her eyes. “I’ve had worse ideas.”

“Yeah? Let me guess. Jumping out of a moving truck? Taunting soldiers with guns? Trusting strangers with maps?”

That got a twitch at the corner of her mouth, just enough to betray a smirk. “Now you’re just listing things I did this week.”

Manny laughed, drumming his fingers on the table in a lazy rhythm. “That’s what worries me.”

He leaned back, letting the chair tilt slightly. His eyes stayed on her, not with suspicion, but curiosity. “So. What were you doing here? Real reason.”

Ellie glanced down at the food, stabbed at the rice like it had personally offended her, and took a bite. It was saltier than she expected, smoky, a hint of something earthy—cumin, maybe. Her stomach, tightly wound from hours of silence, danger, and blindfolded uncertainty, betrayed her with a loud growl.

“Passing through,” she muttered around her mouthful.

“Passing through? To where?”

She shrugged, stabbing the food again. “Not sure yet. Over the hills and through the woods.”

Manny raised an eyebrow. “Funny. That’s not nothing.”

“I’m full of mysteries, remember?”

He chuckled. “You’re also full of shit.”

That got a real look from her—eyes narrowed, chin tilted, but more amused than angry. She chewed and swallowed. “You’re awfully smug for a guy who kidnapped me.”

“Detained,” he corrected with a mockingly serious tone. “You’re our honored guest here.”

“Sure,” Ellie deadpanned. “Let’s call it a field trip.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy, but it lingered. The hum of the overhead vent filled the space between them, and the flickering bulb cast long shadows against the cracked concrete walls. The air smelled faintly of bleach, old boots, and gun oil. Her fork clinked against the box again, breaking the moment. Then Manny, quieter this time, asked, “Please. I have to show something to my superior. Just give me anything. Like… where are you from?”

Ellie hesitated, eyes studying the dented plastic of the water bottle. What harm could it do?

“Boston,” she said finally.

He let out a low whistle, sitting forward. “La chingada. That’s a long ride.”

“Tell me about it,” she muttered. “Took the scenic route. Lots of corpses, bandits, and great views.”

This time, he didn’t laugh. His expression softened, something flickering behind the grin. Maybe empathy. Maybe just understanding. “You come all that way alone?”

Ellie paused. A tight second. “Yeah.”

He didn’t push. And that, more than anything, threw her off. He just nodded slowly, like that one-word answer had said enough.

“You’re lucky we didn’t shoot your horse,” he said after a moment. “Jordan gets twitchy around strangers.”

Ellie’s spine stiffened, fork halting halfway to her mouth. “You didn’t shoot her, right?”

“No, no—relax,” he said quickly. “She’s fine. The school kids are brushing her down now. Fed her, too. She’s stubborn, but pretty. What’s her name?”

Ellie’s shoulders dropped a fraction. “Shimmer.”

Manny smiled, wide and sincere. “Dramatic.”

“She’s earned it.” That cracked something open inside her—something small, but real. It wasn’t trust, not even close. But it was the first time in days she’d said Shimmer’s name out loud. The sound of it grounded her more than the food ever could. Shimmer was alive. That meant she still had something—one thing—that hadn’t been taken.

Manny stood, stretching, his joints cracking as he arched his back. “Well, I’m not the boss,” he said, motioning loosely toward the door. “They’re gonna want more answers. Just... don’t lie. Don’t stab anyone. You might like it here.”

Ellie raised an eyebrow. “You say that to every girl you kidnap?”

“Only the redheaded ones with a death wish.”

He gave the table a soft pat and turned to go, pausing in the doorway like he’d almost forgotten something. “Oh. One more thing.”

Ellie glanced up, mouth full, half-defensive again.

Manny’s grin returned with a spark of mischief. “Owen’s gonna love this.” Then he was gone, the door shutting behind him with a soft click that sounded far too final for Ellie’s liking.

She stared at the spot where he’d stood, lips curling slightly around the name. “Owen?” she repeated under her breath. “The hell’s an Owen?”

The silence crept back in, thicker than before, like it had been waiting for the warmth of conversation to die out before slinking back across the walls. Ellie leaned back in the chair, arms folding over her stomach, the half-eaten food pushed aside. The warmth of the meal still lingered in her chest, but it couldn’t reach the chill settling beneath her ribs. The name haunted her—not because she recognized it, but because of the way Manny had said it. Not as a warning, not exactly. But like a punchline she hadn’t caught the setup for. She scanned the room again, eyes twitching to the corners. No hidden cameras that she could see, but she knew someone was listening. The vent hummed with stale air, and beyond the thick steel door, footsteps came and went. She traced her fingers over the rim of the water bottle, then over the grooves in the table. It had been scratched with initials, someone’s bored attempt to leave a mark. Ellie understood that instinct.

So now what? Sit? Wait? Dance for the wolves?

“Owen,” she muttered again. The name stuck in her throat like a splinter.

Whoever he was, she didn’t like being a gift for him.

Standing suddenly, Ellie began to pace. Her boots thudded against the floor, echoing in the small room. One lap, then another. Then a third. She hated stillness. Hated the feeling of waiting, of being observed like a specimen behind glass. Her thoughts churned with guesses, plans, half-baked escape routes that would crumble the moment someone put a gun to her again. Eventually, she sank back into the chair, her posture slouched, one arm draped across her stomach like it might hold the storm inside her back. Her other hand rested near the takeout box, fingers twitching beside the plastic fork. She hated the way her wrists still tingled from the zip ties, like the ghost of restraint was still clinging to her. She’d made it this far. Crossed half the fucking country. Survived clickers, raiders, starvation. And now she was sitting in a bunker waiting for some smug bastard named Owen.

The door creaked again. Ellie froze, her breath catching. A shadow slid across the concrete floor, long and certain. Footsteps followed—measured, calm, deliberate. Not Manny. Not Jordan. Someone else. Familiar in the way danger was familiar. Heavy presence. Quiet menace. Ellie’s shoulders straightened.

Manny stepped in first, cap tilted low like always, that easy smirk stretched across his face like it belonged there—like it was part of the uniform. He looked like he’d just strolled in from a beach party, not a post-apocalyptic war camp. Everything about him radiated that infuriating confidence—the kind of man who could walk through a minefield and whistle while doing it. He moved like someone who didn’t take life too seriously, even while surrounded by guns, barbed wire. To Ellie, he looked completely at home, like the cracked concrete walls and rusted metal of the camp were just backdrops for his personal sitcom. Even the chair groaned beneath him like it was used to holding that kind of weight.

Ellie’s lips curled, unimpressed. “Great,” she muttered under her breath, voice dry as bone. “The class clown has returns.”

But then came someone else. Another man. Not one of the ones who had carted her in or barked orders. No—this one moved with purpose, but also something slower, heavier. Like the room bent slightly when he entered. Like the air itself noticed him. Ellie’s posture shifted without her permission. Her spine straightened. Fingers curled over her knee as if bracing for something she couldn’t name. The man wasn’t much older than her—maybe late twenties—but he carried himself with the kind of burdened stillness that made you think he’d already lived two lifetimes. Broad shoulders, a solid build like he’d done labor more than drills, and brown eyes that looked through people instead of at them. He didn’t have Joel’s gruffness, not exactly, but there was something in the set of his jaw, the buzzed hair, and that unreadable calm that made her skin prickle. He looked like the kind of man Joel would’ve respected—maybe even liked. And that, more than anything, unsettled her.

Ellie muttered again, voice clipped and defensive, “More fan club members. Terrific.”

Manny, oblivious or just amused, dropped into the chair across from her with a dramatic sigh. “Couldn’t keep away. You’re fun.”

She sat up straighter, subtle, instinctive. Not fear—just readiness. Manny leaned back in his chair like he was settling in for a show. “Told you I’d bring reinforcements.”

The man—Owen, she guessed—didn’t even look at Manny when he replied. “You bring reinforcements to everything.”

Ellie smirked, just a crack of it. “So, you’re the infamous Owen, huh? The muscle behind the mystery.”

Owen didn’t blink, didn’t rise to the bait. “Haha. No. Manny exaggerates.”

“Figured,” Ellie muttered. “I’m the girl one of your people nearly shot while I was trying to eat a granola bar on a hill. You guys really know how to roll out the welcome mat.”

A puff of breath escaped Manny—half chuckle, half shrug.

Owen’s eyes stayed flat. “You’re lucky Jordan can’t shoot straight.”

Ellie rolled her eyes. “Yeah. That’s what I said.”

“Funny,” Owen replied, deadpan.

“Only on weekends.”

There was a flicker then—something behind Owen’s guarded eyes. Not a smile, but a twitch. A softening. Like someone tapping a wall to see if it would hold.

“She still armed?” Owen asked suddenly, voice clipped and businesslike.

Manny shook his head. “Nope. Just the fork in the rice box. Real menace.”

Ellie raised her hand and wiggled her fingers. “Watch out. I’m a terror when I haven’t had caffeine.”

Owen finally stepped closer, folding his arms across his chest as he looked at her directly, eyes scanning her like a blueprint. “Who are you really?”

“I already told you,” Ellie answered, her voice as flat as his. “Ellie. From Boston.”

“That’s a long ride.”

“Takes a while when you’re short a map and company.”

“Why come here?”

Ellie inhaled deeply through her nose, then exhaled through gritted teeth. She needed a lie. A good one. But not too perfect. Something soft enough to sound believable. Something she could hold in her mouth without choking on it. She let some of the snark drain from her voice. “I don’t know,” she said, quieter now. “I was tired of Boston QZ. After the Fireflies left, FEDRA started getting worse. I thought... maybe I’d see the Pacific ocean. Then just keep going. That’s the honest truth.”

Manny leaned back again, arms crossing over his chest like he was watching a debate unfold on TV. “So what, if we let you go, you just keep wandering?”

Ellie tilted her head, defiant but calm. “Yeah. Maybe I’ll head north. Find Alaska. Or south. Chile, maybe. Anywhere that isn’t crawling with militia and trigger-happy strangers.”

Manny let out a sharp laugh. “You? Alaska? Nah, chica. You’d freeze before you even found a single moose.”

“I already have,” Ellie snapped back, voice biting. “You try riding through Montana in January on a half-starved horse and tell me how warm you feel.”

He whistled low, eyebrows raised. “So you admit it—you’re insane.”

Ellie met his gaze without flinching. “Wasn’t that obvious when I flipped off your sniper team?”

Even Owen’s stone-face cracked then—just slightly. The edge of his mouth twitched. But it was gone in a second. Manny pointed between the two of them. “All jokes aside—she’s not a Scar. No way one of them talks like this. She’s alone. And she’s got humor. Like even how they had the scar on their face anyways.”

Owen’s jaw tightened. “We don’t know her.”

“We didn’t know half the people Isaac let in either,” Manny shot back, voice rising. “Remember that girl from Tacoma? Screamed every time someone said ‘door’? Or that old guy who swore birds were CIA drones?”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?” Manny leaned forward, voice quieter now, but firm. “Look at us. We’re a patchwork mess. Ex-Fireflies, ex-FEDRA, random civvies who barely know how to load a clip. Isaac doesn’t care where they come from. You know what he says—‘More bodies, more future.’ He wants people. Survivors.”

Owen didn’t reply at first. His gaze remained on Ellie, but it was less guarded now. Her fingers flexed on the table, unsure what she was hoping to see there. This wasn’t just about her. This was about what she represented. A risk. A choice. Another question mark in a world already drowning in them.

Ellie finally spoke again, voice low, even. “So what is this, then? You keeping me here until this Isaac guy decides what to do with me? I’d rather go now, thanks.”

Owen’s eyes flicked toward her. Cold, unreadable. But Ellie saw something in them that startled her. It wasn’t contempt. It wasn’t even distrust anymore. It was something she recognized too easily. It lived in her reflection sometimes. In her own nightmares.

“Oh, come on, chica,” Manny pleaded, hands raised in exaggerated appeal. “I promise—you won’t regret staying a little while. Seattle’s got more to offer than you think!” His voice held a mix of cheer and urgency, but Ellie didn’t miss the slight edge beneath it. He sounded almost desperate to keep her around, like her leaving would cost him more than just a smartass to argue with. Her eyes narrowed. The hell was his angle? She didn’t know this guy—didn’t owe him anything, and yet here he was, acting like she was about to walk out on something that mattered.

And that? That made alarm bells go off in her skull. Because when men got invested—especially too quickly—it was never just about company. There was always something behind it. Curiosity, obsession, leverage. Some kind of damn agenda. Even the kind ones always wanted something.

Especially from women.

Her thoughts turned sharp, dark. Joel had warned her about that sort of attention. Told her to trust her instincts, and her instincts were screaming now. She leaned forward, slow and deliberate, eyes locked onto his. “Whatever you’re thinking,” she said, voice like a blade drawn across glass, “I’ll cut off your dick and feed it to you.”

Her tone didn’t rise, didn’t waver. It landed like a hammer.

Manny froze. His breath hitched, and for a second, he looked like someone had just shoved him off a cliff. Then—he coughed. A startled, nervous kind of laugh escaped his mouth as he threw up both hands, waving wildly like someone caught in a hold-up. “What!? ¡Dios mío! No, no, no! God, no! I didn’t mean it like that!” he stammered, stumbling over the words like he was tripping on his own tongue. “I just—look, I swear—I just want more people around to annoy Owen! That’s it!”

His hands were still in the air, like she might strike at any second. Ellie didn’t move. She just sat there, eyes narrowed into slits, jaw tight. Letting the silence do the rest. Letting him squirm.
After a beat, she finally leaned back, just slightly, giving him a fraction of relief. But her expression didn’t soften. Not by much.

“Uh-huh,” she muttered, voice flat.

Manny lowered his hands slowly, cautiously, like he was disarming a bomb. “Seriously, chica. You’ve got me all wrong,” he said, chuckling nervously again. “I mean yeah, I joke a lot—but I’m not that kind of idiot.”

Ellie cocked a brow, unimpressed. “There are types?”

Manny pressed a palm to his chest. “Scout’s honor. I’m the kind of idiot who talks too much and thinks he’s charming.”
She tilted her head. “You think this is charming?”

“I said I think I’m charming,” he clarified, grinning sheepishly. “Didn’t say I was.”

Despite herself, Ellie’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but enough to ease the tension by a thread. Manny was ridiculous—loud, clumsy with his words, and about as subtle as a brick to the face. But there was no creep behind the eyes. Just some dumb, over-eager guy who probably annoyed everyone equally.

“You’d have to follow rules,” Owen said at last, his voice even. “You’d have to be useful.”

Ellie blinked. “...What?”

Manny grinned, teeth flashing. “That’s a yes.”

“I didn’t say—” Owen started.

“That’s a fucking yes,” Manny repeated, louder this time, slapping the table like he’d won a bet. “Welcome aboard, Loba.”

Ellie stared at both of them, her mind scrambling to catch up. “You’re serious?” she asked. “You’re really just gonna let me stay?”

“No promises,” Owen said, face hardening again. “Not until Isaac signs off.”

“But,” Manny added with mock grandeur, “you’ll get food. Shelter. Maybe even hot water if the pumps are working. You help out—patrols, gardening, fixing fences, hauling ammo crates—whatever we need.”

Ellie leaned back slowly in her chair, the shift subtle but seismic. Just hours ago, she’d been alone in the woods, ice in her boots and no plan but forward. Now she was being offered a place, however temporary, in something bigger than herself.

She looked down at the takeout box, then at the water bottle beside it. A beat of silence passed before she exhaled sharply through her nose, a disbelieving laugh escaping.
“Yeah,” she muttered. “That tracks.”

Manny slid the food back toward her, his smile still wide. “Finish eating, Loba. You’re gonna need it.”

Ellie glanced up at him, eyebrows drawn together. “Loba?”

“Means she-wolf,” Manny said with a wink. “Seems fitting.” He exhaled, sensing he wasn’t about to be stabbed with a plastic fork. “Look, I get it. You don’t trust anyone. I wouldn’t either. You show up here alone, get blindfolded, dragged into some rickety office... yeah, I’d be ready to burn the place down too.”

Ellie didn’t answer. But her foot stopped tapping. Manny shrugged, tone softer now. “All I’m saying is… give it a couple days. Try the food. Throw something at Owen. Sit by a fire without worrying if it’s gonna draw infected. You might hate it here—but you might not.”

Ellie eyed him again, slower this time. “You always this annoying to people you just meet?”

He grinned. “Only the ones I think might stab me.”

She snorted. “Lucky you.”

“Lucky me,” he agreed with a wink, pushing off the table and backing toward the door like a man retreating from a lion’s den—slow and respectful, but still smirking. Manny stood slowly, brushing imaginary dust from his pants and giving her one last half-smirk. “Alright, alright,” he said. “No more jokes, Loba. Time to get moving.”

Ellie’s brows furrowed. “Moving?”

From his pocket, Manny pulled out a small key. It clicked between his fingers as he approached, casual, like this was nothing. But Ellie’s entire body tensed the moment he stepped into her space.
“Easy,” he said gently, crouching just enough to reach her hands. “I’m not here to mess with you.”

“Right,” she muttered. “Just here to unlock your newest house guest.”

Manny gave her a look, more tired than amused. “Look, I get it. But I’m not your enemy. You want to stay pissed? Go ahead. But you’ll walk easier without these.” The zip-ties gave a tight snap as he cut them loose, and the pressure vanished from her wrists. Ellie rubbed the raw skin instinctively, the faint ridges still warm and red.

“You think untying me is supposed to win me over?” she asked, lifting her eyes to his, wary.

“No,” Manny said, standing straight. “But it’s supposed to show we’re not thinking of you as a threat.”

A pause. Then he nodded toward the door. Owen had stepped back in—silent, arms folded, posture wary—but no longer bristling with suspicion. He gave Ellie a curt nod.

“Come on,” Manny said, jerking his chin toward the hallway. “Lets get you out of here.”

Ellie didn’t move right away.

Her gaze lingered—slow, deliberate—flicking from Manny to Owen, then to the open door yawning like a question she didn’t have an answer for. Her eyes dropped to her hands, now freed, still bearing the faint red lines from the zip ties. She flexed her fingers, feeling the blood rush back in, then turned to the takeout box still on the table—half-eaten, cold now, but strangely grounding. It was a reminder of the small choices. The stupid ones. The ones that got her here.

This was it. That fork-in-the-road moment. The part where she either played along or made things worse. Joel’s voice stirred somewhere in the back of her head, telling her to think—just think, even if her gut wanted to bolt. With a soft exhale through her nose, Ellie stood.

Slowly.

Muscles stiff from tension and travel, her body complained as she straightened. Her boots scraped against the concrete, loud in the small room. She rolled her shoulders, cracked her knuckles, and flexed both hands one last time—just to remind herself they were hers again. No one moved to stop her.

“Don’t go sharpening that fork, Loba,” Manny called lightly as he pushed the door wider, stepping aside to let her pass.

Ellie didn’t look at him. She didn’t need to. She raised her middle finger over her shoulder—calm, effortless, a parting gift—and walked right past him into whatever came next. The door creaked shut behind her with a sound that felt like a lock clicking into place.

Chapter Text

The broom closet smelled like mold, bleach, and someone’s long-forgotten socks. Ellie opened her eyes to darkness broken only by a hairline crack of light under the door. She lay curled up on a blanket that barely counted as one, her hoodie bunched beneath her head like a bad idea. The floor had the warmth of old cement—cold enough to ache, not cold enough to kill. She groaned and rolled to her side, pressing a hand to her forehead.

“God,” she muttered. “This is the worst sleep I’ve had since that rest stop back…Oh fuck me where? Moses Lake! Agh fuck that spot.” She sat up slowly, stretching sore muscles that reminded her she’d slept like a raccoon behind a janitor’s mop. Her pack was still there, shoved in the corner under a cracked yellow mop bucket, though her knife was missing. Not surprising.

She stood, cracked her neck, and opened the door.

Light hit her eyes like a slap.

Outside, a tall figure leaned casually against the wall—full combat gear, black tactical vest, and a half-red mask covering the top of their face. The mask looked repurposed from some old sports gear, the kind you might wear in a riot or a street fight. The red was flaking. The one visible eye watched her silently.

Ellie stared. “Jesus, you people really go for the prison chic, huh?”

The figure said nothing. Just pushed off the wall and motioned with their head. Ellie sighed and stepped into the hallway. Concrete beneath her boots. Stadium walls rising around her like a canyon. The paint on the floor was worn from years of cleats and combat boots. Old signs for “locker rooms” and “press access” peeked out behind camouflage netting and command posters. The tunnel stretched forward into light, and from it poured the sound of hundreds of voices—talking, shouting, laughing.

Ellie glanced behind her. The red-mask guard followed at a steady pace, arms folded, like they were on a casual walk through hell.

She groaned. “Really? I can’t go ten feet without a babysitter?”

No answer.

“Great. Awesome. Because nothing makes a girl feel welcome like a masked bodyguard.” They rounded a corner, and the tunnel opened into the stadium cafeteria—if you could even call it that. It had once been a concourse, probably full of food vendors and drink stands. Now it was a makeshift mess hall, crammed with rows of tables made from scavenged metal and plastic crates. The old snack bars had been converted into food stations. Generators hummed nearby, keeping a few hanging lights flickering. Tarps were rigged like awnings to keep the rain off.

The place was packed.

Dozens—no, hundreds—of people filled the space. Civilians, militia, kids, old folks. Everyone talking, trading, shuffling through food lines. Dogs barked in the distance. A baby cried somewhere, drowned out by someone laughing too loud at a bad joke. Ellie stopped just short of the entry. Her stomach growled. Again. It really is a goddamn city in here. She walked slowly, eyes scanning everything—exit signs, rifle racks, people with scars, people with kids. It was a weird kind of order. Everything moved in rhythm. Not clean, not neat, but alive. Alive in a way she hadn’t seen in weeks. Maybe longer.

Her guard didn’t speak, just kept walking behind her like a red shadow. As she passed a table near the center, she caught a few voices—quiet but unmistakable.

“—who she?”

“The new one?”

“Why’s she guarded? What’d she do?”

“She’s just a teenager…”

Ellie didn’t stop walking, but her jaw clenched. The words followed her like static.

“Why’s she guarded?”

Because people with stories don’t walk into camps like this for no reason. Because people who survive that much don’t do it quietly.

She didn’t look back.

A woman at one of the food stations spotted her and waved her over. She wore a white apron over camo pants, arms dusted with flour, and had the sharp expression of someone who’d been up since 5 a.m. yelling at volunteers.

“You the one Mike group brought in?” she asked without preamble.

Ellie hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah.”

The woman jerked a thumb toward a battered tray with a foil-wrapped burrito, an apple, and a cup of something that might’ve once been coffee. “Take it and don’t complain. Ration count’s tight today.”

Ellie took the tray. “I wasn’t gonna complain.”

“Good. Move along, next!.”

She turned back to barking at a teenager dropping canned beans everywhere. Ellie shuffled off with the tray, scanning for somewhere to sit. Most tables were full or nearly so, and a few people gave her the kind of sidelong glances that said Not here. So she found an empty corner, slid down onto a bench, and unwrapped the burrito. The heat steamed her fingers. She bit into it—eggs, potato, cheese. Her stomach practically sighed.

For a few minutes, she just sat and ate.

Alone.

The murmurs kept swirling around her, just out of reach—snippets of conversation, bits of rumor. Something about patrols. A planned expedition south. A mention of Isaac. And every so often, a glance. She kept her eyes low. Ellie had just taken another bite of the burrito—bigger than she should’ve—and was chewing with her mouth full, eyes still on the half-empty stadium when—

“¡Oye, Red!” The voice cracked across the cafeteria like a firecracker.

Ellie flinched, half-choking.

Manny.

She groaned inwardly, cheeks puffed as she tried to chew quickly enough to look like a human being and not a squirrel mid-feast. He was already halfway to her table, weaving through the crowds like a man with zero regard for subtlety. His hands were up like he was greeting a long-lost friend—or a drunk cousin. Behind him came two others.

One was a tall, athletic Black woman in a WLF jacket with sleeves pushed up, curly hair tied back in a tight bun. Her expression was sharp, observant. She carried herself like someone who could sprint a mile and then give orders without losing her breath. The other was a shorter, round-faced Asian guy with shaggy hair that kept slipping into his eyes. He had a small pack over one shoulder and a notepad in his hand, like he’d been doing inventory and got dragged along.

Manny grinned wide and slapped the edge of Ellie’s table. “There she is! The lone wanderer herself.”

Ellie, mid-chew, gave him the most unimpressed look she could manage, burrito still in hand.

He laughed. “Damn, don’t die on me. Chew, chica. Chew.”

Ellie held up a finger while her mouth worked furiously, cheeks bulging. She gave a weak little wave with the other hand.

The woman behind Manny gave Ellie a once-over. “This her?” she asked dryly. “The redhead with a death wish?”

Ellie swallowed hard. “That’s me,” she muttered. “Now appearing in your local cafeteria.”

Manny gestured with both arms like he was unveiling a masterpiece. “Ellie, meet the rest of the brain trust. This is Nora Harris—the one who’ll patch you up if you get yourself shot. Or dropkick you if you give her lip.”

Nora crossed her arms. “Don’t listen to anything he says. I only patch up people I like.”

Ellie raised an eyebrow. “That’s encouraging.”

“And this,” Manny continued, clapping the shorter guy on the back, “is Nick. Quartermaster assistant. Calendar hoarder. Probably knows where every last roll of duct tape is.”

Nick smiled sheepishly and gave a small wave. “Hey.”

“Hi,” Ellie said. “Uh… sorry I’m a bit burrito-mouthed.”

Manny pulled up a crate and sat down uninvited. “We saw you were eating alone like a sad little orphan, so figured we’d come say hi.”

Ellie narrowed her eyes. “I chose this table.”

“Of course you did.” He winked. “But now you have company. Lucky you.”

Nora sat next to him with a sigh. “Ignore him. He just likes making people uncomfortable before breakfast.”

Nick stayed standing, glancing back toward the hallway. “I can’t stay long. I’m supposed to be logging water purifier supplies.”

Manny waved him off. “Tell them you were debriefing the prisoner.”

“I’m not a prisoner,” Ellie muttered. “Apparently, I’m a guest. With a stalker and no knife.”

Nora leaned her chin into her hand. “So Ellie you seem like a total badass or just another pain in the ass."

Manny leaned on the table. “She’s got that twitchy survivor energy. Like, ‘I could stab you with this spoon’ energy.”

Ellie looked down at the spoon in her hand. Then up at Manny. “Don’t tempt me.”

He barked out a laugh. “See?! I like her.”

Nick scratched behind his ear, looking genuinely curious. “So… you really rode all the way from Boston? Alone?”

Ellie hesitated. Her burrito suddenly didn’t taste quite as good. She nodded slowly. “Seems word travels fast…More or less.”

“Damn,” Nora murmured. “And I thought we had it rough coming from Salt Lake.”

Ellie looked at her. “You with the Fireflies?”

Nora’s jaw shifted slightly. “Used to be.”

Ellie didn’t press. They all went quiet for a moment, just the hum of the mess hall around them. More people walked by, some casting glances toward Ellie and the table she now occupied. Maybe it was because of the guard still hovering nearby. Maybe it was just word spreading. Outsider. Wanderer. Red.

Manny broke the silence, voice lighter again. “Anyway, you’re gonna need someone to show you around. Stadium life has its… quirks.”

“Quirks,” Ellie repeated.

“Yeah. Like how showers rotate on a color-coded system, but no one remembers what the colors mean.”

“Or how the west stairwell floods every time it rains,” Nora added.

“Or how the generator room smells like rotting squirrel,” Nick mumbled.

Ellie leaned back, finally finishing the last bite of her burrito. “Sounds like paradise.”

Manny grinned. “Compared to what’s out there? Kind of is.”

She didn’t reply right away. Just glanced around again—the chaos, the chatter, the movement. Then she looked back at Manny, a little more serious. “So what now?”

He leaned back on his crate, stretching his arms behind his head. “Now?” he echoed. “Now you get assigned.”

“To what?”

“Something shitty,” Nora said flatly. “New people always get the shit jobs.”

Manny nodded. “Could be latrines. Could be fence patrol. Could be watering plants and fighting rats in the greenhouse. That’s up to Davis and the duty roster.”

Ellie rolled her eyes. “Perfect. Can’t wait to get my Welcome to Lumen Field, former home of the Seattle Seahawks! A Stadium kit with a shovel and a gas mask.”

Nick smiled softly. “You’ll figure it out.”

Ellie gave him a small, lopsided smirk. “You always this optimistic?”

“No,” he said. “But you’re still here. That’s gotta mean something.”

She paused, the smirk fading a little. “Welp I’m fucked.” Ellie leaned on the table, fingers drumming idly against her empty food tray as the others chatted—half gossip, half duty talk. Nick was complaining about how someone mislabeled a whole crate of screws as “emergency rations,” and Nora was loudly debating whether or not it had been on purpose.

It was almost normal.

Almost.

Then a sharp voice cut through the hum of conversation like a boot scraping across concrete. “Where’s the new girl?” A man in a tan utility jacket stood behind Manny’s shoulder. Early forties, maybe, with sun-worn skin and a clipboard held like a weapon. His gaze scanned the table before narrowing on Ellie.

Manny turned with a grin. “Davis! This her.”

He pointed at Ellie like she was a rare item on sale.

Ellie raised an eyebrow and leaned back. “What gave it away? The confused expression or the bodyguard?”

Davis didn’t smile. “You’ve been cleared for provisional labor. Isaac wants you assigned until further notice.”

Ellie sat up straighter. “Already?”

Davis clicked his pen without breaking eye contact. “You get to start earning your place early. Garden field. Middle of the stadium. Go see Ana. She’ll put you to work.”

Ellie scoffed. “Fantastic.”

He didn’t respond. Just scribbled something on the clipboard, turned, and vanished into the crowd like a bureaucratic ghost.

Nora whistled. “Wow. Garden duty. You really hit the lottery.”

Manny grinned. “Could’ve been worse. Could’ve been night shitters.”

Nick gave Ellie a sympathetic look. “Try not to piss off Ana. She runs the greenhouse like a military op.”

Ellie stood, brushing crumbs off her pants. Her body ached from the cold floor and she was still a little sleep-drunk, but whatever. Garden sounded better than digging latrines. Marginally. Her tray clattered as she set it down at a drop bin.

Behind her, she heard Manny’s voice again, low and excited:
“She’s tough. I like her. Hope she sticks around.”

Ellie paused just a heartbeat. Didn’t look back. Then she shoved her hands into her pockets and walked toward the tunnel exit, the half-red-mask guard trailing close behind. The garden field was built into what had once been the stadium’s 50-yard line, now repurposed into long rows of raised beds, tarp tunnels, and greenhouse panels cobbled from shattered glass and salvaged plastic. Rain collectors fed into drums. Thin, muddy paths wound between planter boxes overflowing with carrots, leafy greens, potatoes, and herbs. It didn’t smell bad—dirt and mint, mostly. Like a backyard after rain. The wind moved through the stadium bowl above them. You could hear it howling through the upper seats, far out of reach, like ghosts watching a game long over. Ellie stood awkwardly at the edge of the field while an older woman in a wide-brimmed hat and overalls pointed at her with a gardening spade.

“You. Gloves. Water bucket. Row four.”

Ellie raised a hand in mock salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

Ana didn’t blink. “Keep that attitude, and you’ll be on manure duty by noon.”

Ellie zipped her mouth shut and went to the bucket stack. Her guard followed, silent and looming. She spent the first hour hauling water. It wasn’t hard exactly, but her arms were already sore from a week of riding and sleeping on the ground. Her shoulders burned, and the inside of her boots were still damp from crossing a stream two days ago. Some kids ran by laughing. One of them—no older than nine—pointed at her and whispered something to his friend. Ellie ignored it and dunked the watering can again.

Time dragged.

The sun peeked through the cloud cover just enough to make her sweat under her flannel. Her back ached. Her hands were getting blistered. She was pretty sure one of the other workers—a teenage girl in a WLF ballcap—was watching her the whole time, like she expected Ellie to suddenly pull a knife and start digging holes with it. Eventually, Ellie couldn’t help it. She glanced over her shoulder at the guard still standing twenty feet away, arms folded, helmet low, half of his face still hidden under that peeling red mask. She raised a hand and waved lazily.

He didn’t move.

“Having fun?” she called. “Or just emotionally attached to me now?” No reply. “Come on, you’ve been staring at my back for three hours. At least buy me a drink.”
Still nothing. She smirked and returned to watering the potato plants, muttering under her breath. “Man, the WLF sure trains their stalkers to be committed.” Ten minutes passed. She moved to row six. The sun shifted. The breeze picked up. Still… the damn guard stood there. Not threatening, not even twitchy—just present. Like a human warning sign.

Ellie shook her head. “Hope you’re getting paid overtime for this, Red.” Another worker snorted nearby. The WLF ballcap girl finally cracked a smile and went back to trimming tomato vines.
Around midday, Ana called break.

Ellie sat under a canopy near the supply shed, sipping warm canteen water and trying to stretch her lower back without looking like she was dying. She wiped a line of sweat from her temple, already drying in the breeze. The stadium buzzed around her—distant shouts, patrol whistles, radios clicking. Some music echoed faintly from the southern corridor, distorted and bass-heavy. The guard was still there.

Same spot. Same pose. Ellie leaned back on her elbows and tilted her head toward him. “Hey.” No response. “You know, if I start planting bombs in the carrots or something, you’ll be the first one I tell. Promise.”

Still nothing.

She picked up a small rock and lobbed it lightly at his boots. It clinked off the gravel, a foot shy of his position. “You got a name?” she called. “Or do I just keep calling you Red Mask?” He didn’t move. Ellie sat up straighter, pulled her knees up, and rested her chin on them. “You really never blink, do you?”

Silence.

“You some kind of WLF Batman? ‘Silence is the weapon of the wolf.’ Or wait, is that an actual slogan here?”

Still nothing.

“Okay,” she muttered. “Silent type. Got it.” She flopped back and stared at the hazy sky above the open stadium. It was cracked and gray. Birds wheeled overhead, looking for scraps. Someone shouted about a missing toolbox across the field. Somewhere else, a guitar strummed lazily from one of the upper tiers.

The heat was starting to fade from the day, leaving only the sticky residue of labor behind Ellie’s neck and under her shirt. The sun had ducked behind the stadium walls, painting the garden field in a hazy, gold-gray light. The wind had picked up again—dry and steady—ruffling the leaves of the tall sunflowers along the north end of the field. Ellie knelt in the dirt near a wooden compost bin, trying to remember which weeds were supposed to be pulled and which ones were allegedly “nutrient partners.” At some point in the day, her muscles had stopped screaming and just gone numb. Her guard was still lingering nearby, as dependable and wordless as ever, leaning against a light pole like he planned to grow roots into the concrete.

Ellie was busy plucking at stubborn stalks when she heard soft footsteps approach and a hesitant, nervous clearing of a throat. She looked up. It was the same girl from earlier—the one who had smiled, just barely, when Ellie had made a joke at the silent guard’s expense. Up close now, she looked to be around Ellie’s age, maybe a year younger. She had light brown hair pulled into a messy braid, little wisps sticking out at her ears, and green eyes flecked with gold. Her face was tanned from time spent outdoors, and freckles dusted her nose. She wore a patched-up gray hoodie and carried two metal canteens in one hand.

“Uh, hey,” the girl said, holding one out. “You looked like you could use this.”

Ellie blinked, then accepted the water without argument. The canteen was cold. “Thanks.”

The girl gave a lopsided shrug, clearly unsure if she’d overstepped. “You were out here a while. Ana works people hard their first day. S’like a test or somethin’.”

Ellie took a long sip of the water and wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve. “Yeah. Guess I passed?”

The girl smiled again, this time a little more confident. “Hell if I know, I'm Maya, by the way.”

“Ellie,” she replied, motioning lazily with the canteen. “You from around here?”

“Close enough,” Maya said, sitting down on the edge of the planter bed without waiting for an invitation. “We were out near Ellensburg. My mom got sick last winter, so we came west hoping for meds. I ended up here.”

Ellie leaned on her knees, squinting slightly. “You came with your family?”

Maya nodded. “Still here. My dad helps with construction. My mama teaches the little ones in the north wing—says it’s like herding squirrels. I’ve got a younger sister too—Becca. She’s seven and smarter than all of us.” Ellie smiled faintly, unsure why the warmth in her chest felt foreign. She hadn’t thought about families in a while. Not ones still together. Maya looked at her, head tilted. “You got anyone?”

Ellie hesitated. Her hands fidgeted with the dirt. “Had. Most of 'em are gone now.”

“I’m sorry,” Maya said softly, not with pity, just quiet understanding.

“Don’t be,” Ellie muttered.

There was a quiet pride in her voice. Something firm, warm. Something Ellie hadn’t felt around her own name in a long time.

“You sound like you like it here,” Ellie said, carefully.

Maya glanced out at the garden rows, the trees just starting to grow along the west wall, the silhouettes of people moving between supply crates and tents in the far distance. “I mean, it’s not perfect,” she admitted. “But it’s safer than out there. And most of the people are decent. That counts for somethin’, right?”

Ellie nodded slowly. “Yeah. It does.”

There was a beat of silence between them. Maya twirled the cap on her canteen, then looked at Ellie again. “People’ve been talking about you, y’know. The girl with the horse. Who rode in alone. Not a lotta folks do that.”

Ellie groaned softly, leaning her head back and letting the sun catch her face. “Jesus. I didn’t realize. I’ve been here twelve hours and I’m already gossip fuel.”

Maya laughed. “Not the bad kind. Mostly people just wanna know if you’re gonna stay.”

“I dunno,” Ellie said, brushing dirt off her palms. “Still figuring that out.”

“Fair,” Maya replied.

“Hey so. You, uh… know anything about the WLF?

Maya shrugged. “Dad said back in 2020 they were rebels fighting FEDRA now they control part of Seattle. A lot of people come from all over. Old QZ folks. Wanderers. Some Scars, even.”

“Seems like a new FEDRA with all the rules I see all over the place.”

“That’s not wrong,” Maya muttered. “They’re strict. Isaac runs it all. He’s not… warm. But he keeps people alive.”

Ellie looked at her. “And you’re okay with that?”

Maya didn’t answer for a second. Then she said, “I’m okay with my sister being able to sleep without gunshots every night. That’s more than we had last year.”

Ellie stared at her for a moment. Then nodded once. “Fair enough.”

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, the air cooling between them. And then— A whinny. Familiar. Sharp. Alive. Ellie froze. She stood quickly, turning toward the noise. Another whinny. And the faint clop of hooves on pavement. Two men were leading her past the greenhouse edge, toward a makeshift pen set up just outside the vehicle bay. Shimmer’s ears twitched. She stamped a hoof and gave another whinny, louder this time, echoing off the concrete walls of the stadium like a song Ellie hadn’t realized she missed.

Without thinking, Ellie was moving.

Fast.

She stepped over a hose, darted past a row of kale beds, her boots kicking up soil. Behind her, she heard Maya calling, confused, and then the distant bark of a guard command She bolted toward the sound, kicking up dirt as she ran past confused workers and startled children. Her legs moved before her brain fully caught up. A small group of WLF handlers walking a light chestnut horse toward a pen behind the west bleachers. One of the handlers was laughing at something. The reins were loose, held gently.

Shimmer.

Ellie’s heart stuttered. She called out before she could stop herself: “Shimmer!” The horse’s ears perked. Her head lifted, eyes alert. Then she let out a soft whinny and tugged against the lead rope. Ellie was only stopped by a fence that stood between her and Shimmer and her horse moved towards her. Shimmer was already stepping forward, head leaning over the fence nickering softly. Shimmer just snorted and nudged her cheek like none of it mattered. Like she’d known Ellie would come back.

“Whoa, hey, you can’t be over—”

“That’s my horse,” Ellie snapped. “Back off.”

The man blinked. “Wait, you’re the girl from yesterday?”

“She has a name,” Ellie muttered, reaching Shimmer’s neck. “It’s Shimmer.”

The horse nuzzled her chest with a deep, throaty exhale, tail flicking. Ellie pressed her forehead to Shimmers. One of the other handlers, a guy with a shaved head and a kind face, smiled awkwardly.
“She’s been well-behaved. We gave her oats. Didn’t know if she was friendly.”

Ellie pulled back and gave Shimmer a rub between the ears. “She’s a sweetheart. Just don’t step behind her when she’s grumpy.”

A few feet away, a cluster of children—six, maybe seven of them, no older than first graders—stood staring with wide, awestruck eyes. A couple of them pointed. One of the braver girls in a green jacket whispered something about fairy tale horses. A little boy with a stuffed dinosaur clutched to his chest looked at Ellie.

One boy stepped closer, hands balled in the hem of his shirt. “Can we pet her?”

Ellie looked at the handler, who gave a shrug. “Go ahead. Just slow, gentle hands.”

The kids swarmed carefully, giggling, reaching out to stroke the mare’s side and mane. Shimmer handled it like a pro.

But then Ana’s voice cut across the field, sharp and angry. “Ellie! You don’t leave your station without clearance!”

Ellie turned, face flushed, heart still hammering, and started walking back. “I was making sure my horse wasn’t being butchered for glue!” she shouted back.

The guard kept pace with her again, that same silent storm cloud presence. Ellie threw a hand up toward the horse pen. “And keep her safe! If anything happens to that horse, I swear to God, I’ll make it my personal mission to burn every tomato plant in this place to the fucking ground!” She stormed past the mint beds, kicking a small stone in frustration, fists clenched tight. Behind her, Maya just watched, a soft, half-smiling look on her face that said: Now that’s someone I want to know better.

The days bled into each other like ink on wet paper. Ellie fell into a rhythm—grudging at first, then instinctual. Wake up in the converted claustrophobic feeling broom closet they still insisted wasn’t a “cell,” scarf down a protein bar or reheated oats in the stadium's main hallway-turned-cafeteria, then trudge out to the southern side of the field where the real work began. Digging, hauling, pruning, watering. Sunburnt fingers and aching shoulders became her new normal.

And through all of it, Maya was there.

At first, their conversations were brief. Small comments about soil acidity or crop rotation, half-hearted jokes about Ana’s tyrannical love of compost ratios. But over time, the banter came easier. Maya talked about her sister—Becca, who Ellie had spotted once chasing a rubber ball barefoot along the perimeter netting, shrieking like a banshee. She talked about the goats they used to raise, about her mom’s blackberry cobbler made with powdered milk and boiled roots, and her father’s quiet humming as he built fence posts out of old firewood.
Ellie didn’t talk much at first. But she listened. And sometimes that was enough.

The guard shadow remained, of course. Always present. Always silent. But Ellie began to notice it wasn’t always the same man. There were three of them, she realized—easily told apart by their builds and habits. One tall and bulky, who stood like a statue with fingers twitching on his belt. One wiry and younger, always shifting his weight like he had somewhere better to be. And one—broad-shouldered, cool-tempered—who watched her with the sort of measured stillness that made her think he’d seen far too much. She caught him once sketching in a small notebook during his watch. When he saw her staring, he calmly flipped the page and went back to silence.

They rotated shifts. Same route. Same posture. But never absent.

It irritated Ellie.

Even more irritating? Manny.

She kept bumping into him—by the compost bins, on her way to the medical trailer, once in the mess line when he handed her a can of peaches without being asked and winked like it was fate. He seemed to materialize whenever she was alone, always with that cocky grin and teasing tone. If Ellie hadn’t known better, she would’ve thought it was his personal mission to keep tabs on her. Not because she was dangerous—but because he was curious. Like she was a riddle he intended to solve by sheer force of charm and proximity.
But that morning had been quiet.

It was humid, heavy with an incoming storm. Ellie was assigned to the outskirts of the garden that day, working beside the crumbled concrete where the southwestern stadium fencing had been temporarily pulled down for repairs. The air buzzed with the droning hum of generators and the metallic ping of tools on rebar. She crouched near a row of squash vines, trying to coax a stubborn weed from the roots. Maya was a few rows down, singing something half-hummed and country-sweet under her breath.

Screaming.

Ellie looked up sharply, squinting toward the gap in the fencing. Dust kicked up in a sudden burst. Shouts. Metal falling. The repair team, five of them, scrambled backward as something lunged out of the tree line beyond the fence—skin hanging in ribbons, teeth bared, eyes clouded with rage and decay.

A Runner.

No—four.

They came like a pack of wolves, moving in jagged bursts, limbs flailing with grotesque speed. One of the workers—a young man with a wrench still clutched in his fist—didn’t even scream as the first Runner tackled him to the dirt, gnashing at his shoulder.

Ellie was already running.

No thought. No plan. Just motion.

She grabbed the nearest pitchfork, yanked it free from the soil, and charged. The first Runner didn’t even turn before the steel tines slammed into the back of its skull, crunching through bone like snapping celery. It went limp immediately, collapsing into a heap beside the wounded worker. Ellie yanked the fork out, blood splattering across her forearm. Another Runner—mid-lunge—jerked violently, a bullet exploding through its temple from somewhere off to the right. One of the guards had taken position and fired, calm and precise. The third Runner tackled a repair tech to the ground, screeching.

But the workers didn’t scatter.

They swarmed.

With shovels. With hammers. With knives.

Ellie watched them descend like a school of sharks. The Runner thrashed, biting, clawing, but the repair team fell on it with a vengeance—blades and bludgeons rising and falling in rhythm until there was nothing left but gore and silence. She heard a scream, high-pitched and sharp. The fourth Runner—a woman, maybe once a nurse by the scraps of uniform still clinging to her frame—had pounced on a mechanic, her yellow vest soaked red as she flailed under the weight.

Ellie didn’t hesitate.

She dropped the pitchfork, rushed in, grabbed the infected by the back of its jacket, and hauled it off the woman with a roar, muscles burning, lungs rasping.

She barely got it upright before—WHAM. The Runner twisted mid-air and slammed Ellie back, hard, into the exposed corner of a half-cracked brick planter. Her head hit stone.
The world blinked. Pain exploded behind her eyes. She collapsed to the dirt, breath ragged, blood streaming from a gash along her scalp. The Runner leapt, snarling, claws outstretched.

And then—

CRACK.

A boot.

Stomping down.

Hard.

The Runner’s head collapsed like wet fruit under a cinder block. Skull crushed. Limbs twitching once before going still. Ellie blinked up, dazed. Her guard—the sketchbook one—stood over her, breath steady, boot still pressed into what remained of the infected’s face. His gun was slung, unused. He’d chosen the faster method. His hand extended down toward her. Ellie took it. He pulled her up without a word, catching her when her knees buckled slightly. Blood ran down the side of her temple, mixing with dirt.

Nearby, Maya sprinted over, face pale with panic. “Ellie! Jesus—your head—don’t move!”

“I’m fine,” Ellie croaked, even as stars danced in her vision. “I just… took a brick nap.”

More guards were shouting now. The pen perimeter was being secured. Medics were rushing toward the injured. Two of the repair crew knelt over the first man broken ankle, already tying off a tourniquet. Ellie leaned against the planter edge, breathing hard. Her hands were shaking. The pitchfork was still stuck in the first corpse’s neck, swaying gently with the breeze.

Ellie took the gauze and pressed it to her scalp, hissing.

“You could’ve shot him,” she muttered. “Why didn’t you shoot him?” The guard just shrugged once, clipped, and turned to look at the fence breach.

Maya hovered close, pulling Ellie’s arm over her shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get you looked at before Ana decides to rip your head off for bleeding on her tomatoes.”

The medbay wasn’t much—just a sectioned-off portion of the stadium’s west corridor, curtained with sheets and hung tarps, sterile as they could manage with old metal shelving, solar lanterns, and supply crates stacked shoulder-high. The air smelled like peroxide, latex, and the faint tang of blood. Ellie sat on the edge of a foldout cot with a compress held to her temple, one leg swinging absently. Her shirt was stained with dirt and Runner gore, her arms streaked with bruises and garden soil.

The room buzzed with soft, practical movement—nurses passing, someone groaning behind another curtain, a kid coughing in a chair with a hot water bottle pressed to their chest. All around her, the rhythm of survival moved like a quiet machine.

Then a voice broke through. “Alright, mystery girl, you’re up next.”

Ellie looked up to see a short girl with neatly tucked brown hair approaching. Short, strong frame, hair pulled into a tight ponytail, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She wore a battered white coat tied at the waist, and her face was marked with tired kindness, the kind born from patching too many people up too many times. She set a tray down beside the cot, eyes already scanning Ellie’s head.

“You’re Ellie, right?” she asked, reaching for gauze and antiseptic.

“Depends who’s asking,” Ellie muttered, shifting slightly to let her closer.

The girl smirked. “I’m Mel. The one who’s going to keep your brain from leaking out of your skull.”

“Sounds... heroic.”

“Yeah, well, don’t pass out. I charge extra for drama.”

Ellie couldn’t help the small, half-smile tugging at her mouth. Mel pulled on gloves and gently peeled the compress away. Ellie winced as air touched the broken skin. The gash wasn’t huge, but it bled like hell. Mel began cleaning it with deft fingers, her movements calm, practiced.

“I heard about what happened,” Mel said. “South fence breach. Four Runners?”

“More like three and a half,” Ellie muttered. “The last one didn’t get a full intro before getting his head pancaked by your robot-silent guard detail.”

Mel chuckled quietly, dabbing antiseptic. “You handled yourself well. That’s what Manny keeps saying, anyway.”

Ellie rolled her eyes. “Of course he does.”

Mel grinned, amused. “He’s been talking non-stop. ‘Redhead’s got bite,’ ‘she swings a pitchfork like it’s a sword,’ blah blah blah.” She tilted Ellie’s chin gently to the side, inspecting the edge of the wound. “He’s got this look every time he says your name. You’d think you were some TV character he’s rooting for.”

Ellie raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Should I be flattered or concerned?”

“Little of both.”

They shared a moment of light laughter, Mel’s eyes crinkling at the corners. It was the first time Ellie felt something close to comfort inside the stadium walls—something warm that didn’t feel borrowed or forced. Mel reminded her of someone she couldn’t quite place—Maria, maybe. Someone with authority in her hands and gentleness in her voice.

“You’re not so bad,” Ellie said, softer. “For a medic who charges for dramatics.”

“You haven’t seen my stitching bill yet,” Mel replied.

Footsteps approached. Heavy. Fast. Boots on the concrete, paired with the rustle of a flannel shirt being pulled off over a sweat-slicked tank top. “Hey, Mel, you seen—?” The voice stopped.

Ellie looked up—and froze. The man standing just inside the medbay curtain had short, tousled hair, damp with sweat from training. A rifle was slung casually over his back, and his hands were still wrapped in worn boxing tape.

Owen.

His eyes widened the second they landed on Ellie, his expression caught somewhere between shock and disbelief. “The hell—?”

Ellie blinked at him, equally caught off guard. The room felt tighter instantly, the gauze in her hand suddenly cold and heavy. “What?” she said. “Shocked I’m still here?”

Owen blinked, then snorted. “You’re bleeding on Mel's floor.”

Ellie looked down. A few crimson smears had streaked near the edge of the cot. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll leave you a mop in my will.”

Mel gave Owen a warning glance. “She’s got a concussion.”

“She’s got a mouth,” Owen replied.

“She’s got both,” Ellie said, raising a brow. “Multitasking.”

Owen rolled his eyes but there was no real venom in it. He crossed his arms and leaned against a support beam near the back of the med bay. Mel moved to her station and began cleaning tools. “So, are we doing movie night tonight or not?” she asked, without looking back.

“Abby’s voting for it,” Owen replied, glancing at Ellie, then back at Mel. “And Manny’s already bragging about his snack stash.”

“Figures,” Mel muttered with a smile. “Last time, he hoarded three candy bars and ate them before the opening credits.”

“He calls that self-control,” Owen said.

Ellie blinked, slightly disoriented by the normalcy. “Wait, you guys do movie night?”

Mel grinned over her shoulder. “Yeah. Abby’s got this beat-up laptop and a hard drive full of old flicks. We hang a bedsheet across one of the storage rooms and pretend we’re in a theater.”

Owen shrugged. “Better than sitting in silence waiting for the world to end.”

Ellie leaned back, raising an eyebrow. “So you people garden, patch each other up, and watch movies?”

Owen gave a mock serious nod. “We’re also known to play cards and tell ghost stories.”

Ellie huffed. “So you do have a sense of humor beyond integrating people. I’m impressed.”

Mel stepped back over, checking the bandage with a gentle touch. “You’re good. No stitches. Luckily it was a shallow cut. Try not to pass out today and come back if your vision doubles or you feel sick.”

“I always feel sick,” Ellie muttered. “It’s my charm.”

Mel raised a brow. “That explains everything.”

Ellie gave him a mock salute and hopped off the cot, legs steady enough now. Mel handed her a small bottle of painkillers and a protein bar. “For later,” she said. “Or now. Depending how many Runners try to high-five you on the way out.”

“Oh fuck off.” Ellie said, her tone a little more genuinely nice this time.

The walk back from the med bay felt longer than usual. Maybe it was the pounding in her head, the muffled echo of blood still buzzing in her ears. Or maybe it was the memory of the Runner—its weight, its stench, the way its limbs had twitched after the guard crushed its skull. She’d seen worse. Done worse. But not in a while. And not when she'd started letting herself feel… safe. She passed two women rolling water barrels toward the south gate, one of them nodding politely. A kid darted out from behind a supply shed chasing a paper ball. The usual background hum of the stadium was still intact: voices, boots, clanging metal, distant barking dogs. Life went on. Even with fresh blood in the dirt.

Ellie turned the corner toward the narrow hall behind the equipment lockers—the route to her makeshift room—when she heard a familiar voice.

“Yo, you can go. She’s free now. I’ll take it from here.”

It was Manny.

She stopped short, body instinctively tensing as she saw him standing just outside her closet door, speaking to one of the guards. The same one from earlier—the sketchbook guy with the steel-plated calm. He didn’t respond, just gave Manny a long, unreadable look before nodding once and stepping back into the corridor.

Manny turned at the sound of Ellie’s boots on the concrete. His face lit up.
“¡Mira! Speak of the devil!”

Ellie raised a hand, still half-distracted by the throb behind her eyes. “If the devil has a migraine and dried blood in her hair, yeah—here I am.”
Manny didn’t slow. His arms opened wide, smile stretching across his face like they were old friends reuniting after war. “Come here, chica!”

Ellie immediately backed up a step, eyebrows raised. “What are you doing?”

“I’m hugging you.”

“No, you're really not.”

Manny froze in place, hands still half-raised. “Not even a side-hug? Half-hug?”

“I’ve got head trauma and personal space issues,” Ellie deadpanned.

Manny dropped his arms with a laugh. “Alright, alright. No touching. Noted. I was just excited.”

Ellie eyed him warily. “About what?”

He sobered slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. “You saved my dad.”

Ellie blinked. “Wait. The old guy with the wrench?”

“Yeah. Mr. Alvarez—gray beard, always yelling about bad screws? That’s him. You pulled that Runner off him. Got in the way.”

She shrugged, uncomfortable with the praise. “I was aiming for the tomatoes. Missed.”

“Still,” Manny said, more quietly now. “You didn’t have to do that. We’ve been watching you, yeah, but we didn’t… I mean, I didn’t think…”

He trailed off. Ellie raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t think I gave a shit?” she offered.

Manny hesitated. “I didn’t think you’d risk yourself. Not yet.”

Ellie looked away. There was something thick in her throat she didn’t want to name. Something knotted up between memory and adrenaline. “I’ve seen enough people die,” she muttered. “Didn’t feel like adding another.”

Manny didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was softer. “Well... he wanted to say thank you himself, but his arm’s wrapped up like a burrito. He’ll find you soon. Or feed you. That’s his thing.”

Ellie glanced past him toward the door to her little closet, suddenly craving the solitude. The cold silence. The one place here that didn’t have eyes. But Manny wasn’t done. “One more thing,” he added.

Ellie groaned. “Why is there always one more thing with you?”

He didn’t smile this time. “You’re meeting Isaac tomorrow morning.”

Silence. Even the corridor seemed to grow still, like the echo of his words pushed everything else down. Ellie blinked slowly. “The Isaac? Your big boss?”

Manny nodded once. “He wants to see you! Took like two weeks but finally he will see you!”

“That sounds like a punishment.”

Manny sighed. “It’s not. Look—he’s cautious, yeah, but he’s not cruel. You’ve proven yourself. You’ve worked. You’ve helped. And now... now he wants to decide for himself.”

Ellie crossed her arms, pulse quickening. “What if he decides I’m not worth it?”

Manny’s gaze didn’t waver. “Then I’ll fight him. But wait, you want to stay!?”

She blinked, caught off-guard. “What no! I just was saying-”

Manny gave a small smile. “You did! I’ve got a talent for seeing through words like that.”

Ellie looked at him for a long moment. There was no smirk now. No sarcasm. Just genuine warmth, and a trace of something heavier under the surface. Gratitude. Maybe even hope.

“Don’t make this weird,” she muttered.

“No promises,” he said, already stepping back.

Chapter Text

The elevator groaned as it ascended, ancient cables creaking behind metal walls that had been hastily reinforced with scrap and rust-colored plates. The light overhead flickered as they passed each floor, humming like a bug trapped in a jar. Ellie stood near the back, arms crossed tight, swaying gently with the lurch of the lift. Across from her, Manny practically bounced in place. He tugged his sleeves, adjusted his collar, even combed his fingers through his hair like he was prepping for a date.

“You sure you’re not the one meeting Isaac?” Ellie asked, brow arched.

He grinned wide. “What, this? Nah. I’m just excited.”

Ellie rolled her eyes. “You’re always excited. It’s suspicious.”

The elevator dinged—loud, hollow—and the doors slid open with a sluggish wheeze. They stepped out into a carpeted hallway, almost unnervingly clean. The walls were lined with salvaged photographs of the city—before the outbreak. Pre-quarantine skyline shots, old Sounders memorabilia, even a faded newspaper front page pinned behind dusty glass: MAYOR LAUNCHES REBUILD PLAN FOR SOUTHEAST SECTOR. They passed two guards who barely glanced at them. The hallway turned into a wide landing overlooking the stadium’s central floor far below, dotted with garden rows, tents, people in motion. A set of steel double doors loomed at the end, flanked by tall glass panels with thick curtains drawn halfway across.

Manny placed a hand on her back as they reached it, gently ushering her forward. “Deep breaths, chica. You got this.”

Ellie squinted at him. “Is this a pep talk? If so, you should be the one taking a deep breath?”

He laughed under his breath. “Both.”

He knocked twice, then pushed the heavy doors open.

Ellie stepped in alone.

The first thing she noticed was how quiet it was. The room felt massive—not in size, but in gravity. The high ceiling stretched like a repurposed gymnasium, now paneled with tarps and insulation. Walls were covered in maps—hand-drawn, some satellite-printed, others scrawled with red ink and string, showing streets, water routes, collapse zones, and patrol grids across what was once Seattle. A massive desk dominated the center, cluttered with papers, an old lamp, half a dismantled radio, and, curiously, a bowl of apples, shining like they belonged in a hotel lobby instead of a war room. A battered WLF flag hung behind the desk, its stitching frayed at the edges, but its symbol—white wolf head over black—still stark, still proud.

Ellie wandered slowly in, eyes sweeping across the controlled chaos of strategy and survival. She passed a radio crackling quietly in one corner and moved toward the window.Outside, through reinforced glass, she could see it all. The stadium below, the tents and shacks like specks, the people moving in and out. Tiny dots in the shape of a civilization.

“Damn,” she muttered. “You people really play the long game.”

Behind her, the door creaked again.

Footsteps echoed across the polished floor. Ellie turned her head just as a woman entered—Asian, late twenties, her expression carved from granite. She wore a sidearm on her hip, WLF stripes on her jacket, and a braided bun pulled back tight.

The woman stopped cold, sizing Ellie up. “You’re the new stray?” she asked, her tone flat.

Ellie shrugged. “Stray, outlaw, suspected horse thief—depends who you ask.”

The woman didn’t smile, but the corner of her mouth twitched.

“Funny.”

“I try.”

A voice rang out from behind the desk. Deep. Rough. Calm.

“She thinks she’s funny. That’s half the charm.”

Ellie froze.

She turned around.

And there he was.

He entered from a side door, wiping oil-stained fingers on a cloth. He wore a gray vest over a long-sleeved shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His right eye was hidden behind a faded leather patch, the scar beneath jagged and pale. His left eye—dark, intense—locked onto Ellie like a hawk might study a mouse. He moved with no wasted steps, posture firm but not aggressive. Not military. Something older than that. A leader shaped by time, loss, and necessity.

He walked around the desk, nodding once to the woman. “Sergeant Tai.”

“Sir,” she said, then turned and exited silently, closing the door behind her.

The room was still again.

Ellie stood her ground as Isaac settled behind the desk, tossing the cloth aside and leaning on his elbows. “Ellie, right?” he said.

She nodded.

“From Boston.”

“Apparently word gets around.”

Isaac didn’t smile, but there was something in his voice that wasn’t cold. Just... analytical. “I’ve been hearing your name more often lately,” he said. “You traveled alone,” he spoke.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Ellie hesitated, then said: “Wanted to see the ocean.”

That seemed to amuse him, if only slightly. “People don’t make it from Boston to here just to go sightseeing.”

“I’m not most people.”

“No. You’re not.”

The silence stretched. Isaac reached into the apple bowl, selected one, and tossed it across the desk. Ellie caught it on instinct. “You hungry?”

She turned it over in her hand, wary. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” Isaac said simply. “You’ve been working hard. And you saved three people yesterday.”

Ellie studied him. “That why I’m here?”

“In part.”

“You could’ve sent a thank you card.”

Isaac chuckled—quiet and short. “You think this is a punishment?”

Ellie shrugged. “Hard to tell. Most people only call me in when I’ve broken something.”

He looked up. “You risked your life to pull three men out of a breach. You’ve worked twelve days in the garden fields. You haven’t lied, stolen, or tried to leave.”

Ellie tilted her head. “Not yet.”

Isaac gave a faint smile. “You’ve had chances.” He gestured toward the desk with an open palm. “I want to explain something to you, Ellie. This isn’t a cult. It’s not a fortress. This is... an idea. A movement built because the old world failed. FEDRA failed. The Scars—Seraphites—they cling to mysticism and dogma like it’ll feed their children.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard the speeches before,” Ellie muttered, crossing her arms, her voice edged with that familiar mix of sarcasm and exhaustion. “The whole ‘we’re building something better than what came before’ bullshit. Like every group that thinks they’ve reinvented civilization. FEDRA said the same thing. Fireflies too. Everyone’s got a cause. Everyone’s got a version of ‘better.’ But you peel back the curtain, and it’s always the same shit. So yeah—spare me the sermon.”

She glanced around the room, her gaze lingering on the WLF flag, the neat maps, the bowl of apples like some kind of peace offering from a world that had long since stopped being peaceful. Isaac didn’t flinch. Didn’t interrupt. He let the words settle like dust in the silence that followed, studying her with a stillness that made the air feel heavier. Then, without a word, he stood from his chair. The leather creaked softly as he moved, slow and deliberate. He stepped around the desk, his boots thudding gently against the floor, and came to sit on the edge of it—just a few feet from her now. Not looming. Not posturing. Just… present. His hands rested loosely on his knees.

“I don’t disagree,” he said, voice low but steady. “You’re right. People throw around words like ‘better’ and ‘freedom’ and ‘justice’ like they mean something. Like they’re immune to corruption just because they say it louder than the last group did.”

He looked toward the window, at the tents and the guards, the school in the stadium bowl below. “I’ve seen it. I’ve been part of it. Fireflies. FEDRA. People pretending they’re immune to the rot. They weren’t. I’m not. No one is.”

His eyes returned to her—sharp, unwavering.

“But what I am trying to build here? It’s not about purity. It’s not about preaching. It’s about survival with purpose. Discipline. Structure. A place where a child can sleep without listening for boots at their door. Where food grows because someone cared enough to plant it. That doesn’t make us saints. It just makes us… necessary.”

He leaned in slightly. “You think I care if people question it? I welcome it. I’d rather have someone in my ranks who speaks her mind than someone who nods like a sheep and stabs me in the back a week later.” He tilted his head, voice softening without losing its weight. “So go ahead. Be skeptical. Be angry. Be loud. But don’t pretend you don’t want some kind of future. You wouldn’t be standing here if you didn’t.”

A pause. Then he added, almost as an afterthought, “You said everyone wants control. Power. You’re not wrong. The difference is—I’ll be honest about it.” He stopped for a moment before he took a deep breath before continuing. “I’ll be honest with you. There’s peace between us and the Scars. But it’s brittle. Paper-thin. We’ve had months without raids, but it’s because they fear us. Not because they’ve stopped hating us.”

Ellie raised an eyebrow. “And you think I can help with that?”

Isaac looked at her directly now. “I think you're not afraid to do the right thing—even when it’s the hard thing. That makes you rare.”

He stepped back toward the desk. “I don’t need more sheep in this army. I need people who think. People who act.”

He watched her with unreadable eyes.

“You want me to stay,” Ellie said, voice quiet now, “you want me to become a Wolf.”

“No,” Isaac replied. “I want you to choose to become one.”

Silence hung between them again. Thick, weighted, but not hostile. Ellie looked at the apple. Her reflection shimmered back at her from its smooth skin—mud-streaked, bruised, tired. Not the same girl who'd stepped into the woods alone weeks ago. Fuck it she thought without a second hesitastion—she took a bite. The crunch echoed softly in the room. The taste was sharp. Real. Clean.

Isaac nodded once. “Good.” He turned back toward the desk. “Someone will get you a new assignment. And a proper room.”

Ellie blinked. “That’s it?”

“For now.” As she turned to leave, still chewing, Isaac spoke one last time. “And Ellie?”

She paused.

“You can still leave. Any time you want. But if you stay—I expect the best of you.”

Ellie didn’t answer.

The door clicked shut behind her, and Ellie let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The air in the hallway felt colder than it had going in, or maybe it was just the way her nerves had finally started to settle. Her fingers still tasted faintly of apple. Her brain replayed Isaac’s words—measured, intentional, and in their own way, impossible to shake. She didn’t know if she’d agreed with him. But she also hadn’t walked away. That probably said enough.

“¡Ey!” a voice rang out, cracking the tension like glass underfoot.

Ellie turned—and there was Manny, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed and that shit-eating grin already waiting for her. He stood up straighter when he saw her expression and threw his hands up dramatically.

“So? What’d he say? You get the death sentence or the secret handshake?”

Ellie rolled her eyes, though the corner of her mouth twitched. “Turns out I failed to scare him, and he invited me into your guy's little fan club.”

“Ha! Told you. You got that innocent, scowling look.” Manny stepped toward her, then gave her a playful punch to the arm, not hard, just enough to jostle her backward a step. “Welcome to the club, Ellie.”
She smirked, rubbing the spot. “You guys have a jacket or something?”

He grinned. “Yeah. Comes along with PTSD and a rotating breakfast shift.”

They started walking down the corridor together, the weight of the conversation with Isaac slowly giving way to the simple rhythm of footsteps and chatter. Manny kept talking, like he always did—about who burned the rice that morning, how Jordan lost a bet and now had to clean latrines, something about Abby lifting an engine block with her bare hands. Ellie half-listened, eyes scanning the concrete, fingers brushing the pocket where a bit of apple skin still lingered.

“Oh,” Manny said suddenly, snapping his fingers. “Almost forgot—you’re getting upgraded.”

Ellie blinked. “Upgraded?”

“No more janitor’s closet for you, chica. You’ve officially been deemed worthy of four walls and a door that actually locks.”

Ellie snorted. “What, I save one guy from getting eaten and suddenly I’m VIP?”

“Hey,” Manny said with mock seriousness. “You’ve been approved. We can’t keep letting our rising stars sleep next to mop buckets.”

She shook her head, the smirk lingering now. “As long as it doesn’t smell like bleach, I’ll take it.”

“Oh, it won’t,” Manny said proudly. “Smells like mold, old socks, and whatever the last guy left under the cot. But it’s yours now.”

She chuckled. Just a little. “C’mon, Red. I swear, you’re gonna like this.” Manny’s voice rang ahead of her as Ellie trailed a few paces behind, still rubbing her shoulder from where her sling had been strapped for days. Her backpack was half-empty, her legs sore, but she followed anyway—if only because standing still was worse.

“Like what?” she muttered. “Another concrete room and three interrogators?”

Manny scoffed, turning to walk backward in front of her. “No faith. That hurts. Deep.”

“You kidnapped me,” Ellie said flatly.

He pointed at her. “Rescued. You were riding solo into a killzone.”

“You blindfolded me.”

Manny opened his mouth, paused, then shrugged. “Touché.”

They turned a corner and ascended a narrow metal staircase that spiraled up the inner wall of the stadium. Every few steps, Ellie passed hand-painted murals and banners—some WLF slogans, some actual art. She noted the smell up here was less burnt fuel, more dust and coffee. A good change.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“You’ll see.” Manny finally stopped at a heavy wooden door at the top of the stairs. The remnants of an old brass plaque still clung to it—half the letters eroded away. He pushed it open with both arms and made a dramatic gesture. “Welcome to the VIP lounge.”

Ellie blinked as she stepped inside. Her boots sank into soft, dusty carpet. The walls were old wood paneling, and glass windows stretched in an arc across one side, overlooking the stadium below. The football field was barely visible under tents and training equipment, but it was clear this had once been the high-class section. The place where rich assholes sipped cocktails while watching players slam into each other. Now it had been transformed. A wide room—probably meant for twenty—had been sectioned off into living quarters. One side had a mattress, a desk, a small bookshelf, and a curtain rod hanging for privacy. Another corner held a mismatched couch with a coffee table covered in comic books and a jar of sunflower seeds. A pile of WLF jackets and boots lay against the far wall.

And through the windows, sunlight poured across the dust motes in lazy golden streaks.

Ellie stared. “This is… your place?”

Manny spread his arms proudly. “Nuestra casa. Home sweet home. And—” he pointed to the curtain-covered mattress on the left “—that is all yours. At least until the rooming council or Isaac decides where to assign you.”

Ellie turned in a slow circle, taking in the space. No bunk beds. No metal grates. A real pillow. Privacy. “…This isn’t bad,” she admitted.

Manny grinned. “Right? You thought we were savages.”

“No. I thought you were meathead fascists.”

He clutched his chest dramatically. “Oof. You wound me.”

Ellie gave him a tired smile, and for a moment, the tension in her shoulders loosened. She walked toward the window and looked down. The stadium was alive beneath them. Children kicking around a makeshift ball, two guards jogging along the fence perimeter. A woman carrying a basket of potatoes into the kitchen tent. It looked… normal. Strange, but normal. “I can really stay here?” she asked after a beat.

Manny walked up beside her, hands on hips. “Hey, I cleared it. Even got you a key.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re telling me you have keys to a football VIP suite in a post-apocalypse wolf cult?”

“I have charisma,” Manny said. “And maybe I fixed the coffee grinder for the kitchen crew last winter. Earned me a favor or two.” He pulled a small key from his pocket and tossed it into her hand.

She looked at it. A tiny piece of trust. Unexpected. “So,” she said, half-grinning now, “we’re roommates. Just like that? That quick?”

“Don’t sound so disappointed.”

“I snore.”

“I sleep like a corpse.”

“I eat late.”

“I cook early.”

She squinted. “You leave the toilet seat up?”

Manny barked a laugh and punched her shoulder gently. “You’re gonna be a pain in the ass, aren’t you?”

Ellie smirked. “Absolutely.”

He walked off toward the curtain. “There’s a lock on your side if I bother you too much. But hey—could be worse. But we have guest coming over its movie night!”

“What movie night?”

The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the cracked blinds, casting long shadows across the worn carpet of the makeshift VIP suite. Ellie sat cross-legged on her new mattress, absently cracking open the sunflower seed bag Manny had tossed her earlier. The quiet here was almost disorienting—too calm, too safe—and her mind buzzed with a thousand restless thoughts. The door creaked open and in stepped Jordan, swaggering like he owned the place, his usual cocky grin plastered on his face. Behind him was Leah, his girlfriend, calm and composed but with sharp eyes that missed nothing. They were carrying a crumpled bag of chips and a couple of dusty cans of soda—hardly the gourmet welcome Ellie might have expected, but enough to break the silence.

Jordan’s gaze landed on Ellie the second he walked in. His expression shifted, a flicker of surprise—or maybe something more complicated—crossing his face. He muttered under his breath, “Fuck.”
Ellie’s eyes snapped wide open, and she straightened immediately. “Fuck no,” she spat back, her voice low and sharp. “That asshole tried to shoot me. He’s your friend?”

Manny, lounging near the window with his trademark crooked smile, chuckled without missing a beat. “Yeah, and I think this is perfect. Nothing like a little ‘welcome to the family’ tension to keep things interesting.”

Ellie rolled her eyes hard, but there was an edge of reluctant amusement beneath her tough exterior. She wasn’t about to admit it, but Manny was right. This was far from a peaceful arrival.
Leah shot Jordan a sharp look and crossed her arms. “Jordan,” she said evenly but firmly, “apologize.”

Jordan’s swagger faltered for a second, and he turned to Ellie, running a hand through his tousled hair. “Look, I didn’t mean to—” he began, but Ellie cut him off.

“Save it,” she snapped. “I really don’t forgive people who shoot at me. Especially on my horse.”

Leah softened her tone, stepping a bit closer to Ellie. “We get it. He’s sorry. We both are. You’re here now, and that means something.”

Ellie studying this Leah for a moment, then let out a slow breath, her tension easing just enough to nod. “Fine,” she said, her voice grudging but sincere. “Ever do it again, your rifle is getting shoved up your ass.”

Jordan exhaled and cracked open a war, offering it to Ellie. She hesitated, then took it, the fizz bubbling between her fingers. Manny grinned, eyes twinkling. “See? This is how we roll in the WLF. A little hostility, a little forgiveness, and a whole lot of alcohol.” he said while opening the fridge door to grab whatever beer can he grabbed first.

Ellie wasn’t used to this kind of noise anymore—not the aggressive shouting of an argument or the deafening roars of gunfire, but something else entirely. Laughter. Casual bickering. The hum of people simply existing without trying to kill each other. She sat cross-legged on the floor by her bed, a half-eaten chip held between her fingers, her eyes flicking around as more faces trickled in. Jordan and Leah had settled on the old, lumpy couch—Leah leaning against Jordan’s chest with practiced comfort, while Jordan offered another can of soda to Manny like they’d done this a thousand times. Manny, of course, thrived in this. Hosting, joking, narrating everyone’s past mistakes like a late-night TV show.

The door opened again with a creak, and Nick—a tall, dark-skinned guy with deep smile lines and thick arms—walked in carrying a box of beat-up playing cards. Nora trailed in behind him, her dark eyes quick to scan the room. She looked sharp, alert, a medic by trade but a soldier when needed. Her tactical vest still hung off her hips, unbuckled, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows.

Nora raised an eyebrow when she spotted Ellie. “Well shit,” she said with half a smile. “You’re still here.”

Ellie blinked and swallowed the chip still half-chewed in her mouth. “Yeah. Lucky me.”

Nick plopped down onto the couch’s armrest and nudged Jordan with a fist. “I figured you’d be long gone. Usually when people call Richard a fascist dictator to his face, they don’t make it past day two.”

Manny barked out a laugh. “She’s got fire, man. That’s what we need.”

“Fire gets people burned,” Nora murmured, still watching Ellie—not unkindly, but like she was studying a new addition to a puzzle. Testing how she might fit.

Ellie wiped her hands on her pants and tried to sit a little straighter. She wasn’t used to this much attention. In Jackson, she had a place. A rhythm. Friends who knew the worst of her and stayed anyway. Here? Every word she spoke still felt like a test. The door opened again, and Mel burst through like a sparkplug, eyes bright and hands full of some kind of half-burnt popcorn in an old pot.

“Oh my God,” she said breathlessly, grinning, “you’re real! You’re the redhead Manny’s been going on about.”

Ellie squinted. “What exactly has he been saying?”

Mel giggled, handing the pot off to Nora, who wrinkled her nose at the burnt smell. “Just that you’re funny and rude and have a face like you don’t trust anyone.”

“That’s accurate,” Ellie muttered through another mouthful of stale chips.

Mel plopped down next to her without hesitation, like they’d known each other for weeks. “I like you already. If you stay, I call dibs on giving you a haircut. Seriously, that mop is tragic.”
Ellie gave her a sarcastic smile but didn’t argue. There was something disarming about Mel—bubbly but grounded. The kind of person who’d stitch your arm and give you a granola bar while lecturing you on hydration.

The air in the room shifted subtly when the door opened again. This time it was Owen. He stepped in like he’d just wandered off from the docks—smelling faintly of sea air and motor oil, a small grease stain on the collar of his jacket. He was mid-conversation with the person just behind him, gesturing with his hand in that way Ellie had come to recognize—he was explaining something with unnecessary detail. But her attention snagged not on his words, but on the woman who entered beside him their hand locked together.

This must be the Abby. Ellie heard from different conversations

She was… more than Ellie had imagined. She saw a started growing of muscular arms—though she clearly was—but solid. Like she’d been carved out of purpose. Her arms were sun-kissed and taut beneath a sleeveless top, her shoulders are starting to become wide and back straight. Her eyes scanned the room with casual control, noting exits, people, threats, then shifting to the subtle and social—who was sitting close, who was laughing, who was off. Her gaze finally settled on Ellie.

Ellie felt her throat tighten a little. Her instinct was to bristle. To crack a joke. To prepare for another interrogation. But Manny was already grinning, practically vibrating.

“Abby!” he called. “Come meet our new VIP squatter. Ellie, this is Abby Anderson. Soon to be the best fighter in the WLF.”

Abby raised a brow at him, clearly unimpressed with the praise. “Don’t inflate my ego, Manny. It’s already bigger than yours.”

Manny gestured with both hands. “Ellie, this is the part where you say something clever and make everyone laugh.”

Ellie stared at Abby a second longer, then shrugged. “I don’t do tricks on command.”

A pause.

Then Abby smirked. Just the smallest curl of her lip. “That’s good,” she said, stepping closer. “I hate performing dogs.”

There was a brief silence—one of those delicate seconds where the entire room paused to see which way the wind would blow. A tension hung in the air, electric but not hostile.

Ellie nodded slowly, impressed despite herself. “You the one who runs the gym?”

Abby tilted her head. “Depends who’s asking.”

“I’m asking because I’m tired of watching Manny do squats in our room.”

A laugh broke out across the room—loudest from Manny himself, who clutched his stomach and pointed between them. “I told you guys! They were gonna get along!” Abby looked at Ellie again, this time with something less guarded in her eyes. Not trust. Not yet. But a flicker of something approaching interest.

“I’ll take you by tomorrow,” she said simply. “See what you’ve got.”

“Are you being friendly?” Mel asked, eyebrows raised as she popped a piece of burnt popcorn in her mouth.

Abby rolled her eyes. “Go back to your bad snacks, Mel.”

“They’re homemade!”

Manny flopped down dramatically between Abby and Ellie, throwing an arm around both of their shoulders. “Alright, now we got the dream team. We eat, we talk, we bond—tomorrow we train. Then after that? Tattoos. Matching ones.”

Jordan muttered, “You’re not tattooing me again, man.”

“You said you liked the wolf on your ankle!”

“It looks like a lopsided cat.”

“She moved!”

Ellie let the noise wash over her. The bickering. The teasing. The laughter. It felt… dangerous. Not in the way a sniper rifle was dangerous. But in how easily she could lose herself in it. This was what she used to have. Once. In a different place. With different people. People who were gone now. Her eyes drifted back to Abby, who had quietly taken a seat on the floor across from her, watching the group with a relaxed posture, arms resting over her knees. Their eyes met for just a second. Something passed between them—not a threat. Not yet friendship either. But recognition. Of something shared.

Abby glanced away, a faint flush coloring her cheeks as she looked at Owen smiling smug dumb face, then leaned in and kissed Owen—quick, but unmistakably real.

4

Ellie froze mid-chew on a piece of stale granola as the words registered. “Oh please save that for a room...Wait—you two are dating?” she said, blinking between Owen and Abby like they’d just announced the moon was made of cheese.

Abby raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. Why?”

Ellie grinned slowly, setting the granola down. “I just… didn’t peg Owen as the ‘having-a-girlfriend’ type. He’s all, like… moody sea captain meets overly committed camp counselor.”

Owen, looked from Abby face to meet with Ellie's eyes. “Excuse you?”

Abby smirked, arms folded across her chest. “You think he’s the serious one? I’m the one who makes chore charts.”

“No way,” Ellie said, half-laughing. “You?”

Abby shrugged. “I organize our rations by calorie count.”

“Hey, I heard that!” Owen called out, pointing a finger. “Fuck you both. I’m extremely lovable.”

Ellie snorted. “Sure, Romeo. I’m sure that fish wine of yours really sealed the deal.”

“Don’t make me find that last can,” Owen warned.

“I’ll burn it,” Ellie said without missing a beat.

Abby shook her head, clearly amused. “Welcome to the Crew."

Ellie popped another chip in her mouth and chewed slowly The projector clicked on with a mechanical hum, casting a flickering beam of pale light across the makeshift VIP lounge. Dust motes danced in the warm glow like lazy fireflies. Someone had strung a white bedsheet against the far wall, duct-taped at the corners, wrinkled and uneven—but it worked. It was enough. In this world, “good enough” often bordered on magical. They were watching Curtis and Viper 3: Last Breath—an 80s spy-action thriller with explosions, saxophone-heavy romance scenes, and absolutely zero regard for realism. The title screen blasted across the bedsheet with obnoxious synth music, and Manny raised his hands like a preacher praising the sun.

“Behold,” he declared, “cinema at its peak.”

Ellie was squeezed between Mel and Leah on the couch, a bag of mostly crushed popcorn resting on her lap. Her knees bumped against a rusted coffee table, and someone had already spilled soda on the corner of the rug. The VIP suite smelled faintly of old socks and overcooked beans—but it was warm, full, alive.

She hadn’t felt this in… God, since Jackson.

Curtis, the suave government agent, was currently chasing a Russian-accented villain across the rooftops of “Neo Tokyo,” which looked suspiciously like a 1980s backlot in LA with some Japanese billboards nailed to the walls. The stunts were absurd. Curtis swung from a grappling hook attached to a helicopter while firing twin pistols in slow motion.

“That's not even possible!” Mel shouted, pointing at the screen. “You can’t hold both guns and the grappling cable!”

Nora threw a handful of popcorn at her. “You’re arguing physics in Curtis and Viper? Sit down, professor.”

Ellie couldn’t help it—she laughed. A real laugh. Not the polite exhale people gave in awkward silence. A short, surprised bark of laughter that she tried to hide behind a swig of soda. Mel noticed and elbowed her.

“See?” she grinned. “She gets it.”

“They always do,” Manny said dramatically, sprawled on a bean bag beside the couch like a lounging cat. “The movie always wins them over.”

Ellie shook her head. “This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“But you’re watching it,” Owen said from the floor, where he and Nick were mock wrestling over a stale bag of pretzels.

“Because I can’t look away,” Ellie replied, eyes still on the screen. “It’s like watching a car crash made of sequins and bad haircuts.”

Onscreen, Curtis ducked behind a flaming car and dramatically yelled, “Viper! We’re out of time!” A woman in tight leather—Viper, apparently—somersaulted through a window, fired a grenade launcher, and posed like a cover model.

“I swear to God,” Ellie muttered. “If they kiss, I’m leaving.” As if summoned by her words, the camera zoomed in on Curtis and Viper as they stared deeply into each other’s eyes. Wind blew through Viper’s immaculately feathered hair, though there were no fans in sight. Saxophone music swelled.

“No—” Ellie whispered.

“Yes,” Jordan said with delight.

Curtis cupped Viper’s face.

“No—!”

The kiss landed, cheesy and overlit, lips barely moving but the music swelling like a death scene. “GROSS!” the room shouted in unison.

Leah tossed popcorn. Manny screamed and fell backward. Owen mimicked vomiting into a bucket. Nick flopped over and shouted, “My eyes!”

Ellie grinned so hard her cheeks hurt. Her body shook with laughter, and for a brief moment, she forgot the weight in her chest, the ache of loss that always seemed to sit just behind her ribs. It wasn’t gone. It never would be. But here—right here—it was quieter. After the movie’s final explosion and the equally absurd credits (which included “Executive Tactical Explosions Consultant” and “Curtis’s Mustache Wrangler”), the lights came back on with the snap of a lantern being turned up.

“Alright,” Manny declared, standing and stretching, “time for something sacred. Movie night’s second act.” He pulled a plastic crate from beneath the table and popped it open. Inside were a dozen dented cans, mostly unlabeled. “The roulette drinking game.”

“Nope,” Nora said, already standing. “I’m on duty in the morning.”

“You’re a coward,” Manny called after her.

“I’m sober,” she replied, and closed the door behind her.

Abby, quiet most of the evening and lounging against the far wall, leaned forward with arms folded across her knees. “You really gonna make the new girl play?”

Manny smirked. “Ellie’s got fire. She can handle it.”

Mel perked up. “You know the rules?”

Ellie narrowed her eyes. “Let me guess. Pick a can, hope it’s not gasoline?”

“Close!” Manny said, cracking open one of the mystery cans and sniffing. “Some of these are spiked cider, others are mushroom brew, and one… one is that nasty fermented fish drink Owen made.”

Owen looked proud. “I refined it. It’s almost drinkable now.”

“It smells like a corpse’s foot,” Mel hissed.

“Just pick one,” Manny said to Ellie, offering the crate.

Ellie stared at the cans, each dented and unlabeled, and made her choice. A squat aluminum one with a faint yellow smear on the side. She cracked it open, sniffed.
The scent was harsh. Bitter. Sharp on the nose. She took a long swig anyway. The liquid burned like fire on her tongue, bitter and pungent, with an aftertaste of something vaguely herbal. Her eyes watered.

“Fuck,” she hissed, coughing. “That’s disgusting.”

“She lives!” Manny cheered.

Abby looked vaguely amused. “What color was the label?”

“Yellowish?”

“That’s Owen’s fish foot wine,” Abby said grimly.

Ellie gagged again and wiped her mouth with her sleeve. “Great. Just what I wanted. Alcoholic fish stew.”

“You took it like a champ,” Leah said.

Manny held up another can. “To the wolf pack,” he declared. “And to Red.” They clinked cans. Even Abby raised hers. Ellie blinked, surprised by the name.

Red. No one had ever given her that nickname before. She wasn’t sure if she liked it. But the warmth in her chest—part alcohol, part something else—told her she didn’t hate it either.
The conversation drifted. Mel recounted a story about falling off a roof while chasing a runaway chicken. Jordan tried to convince everyone he once fought off a clicker with only a fork. Ellie half-listened, fingers idly playing with the pull-tab of her empty can, eyes drifting occasionally to Abby, who had fallen quiet again.

She was watching Ellie too. Not openly. Not in a threatening way. Just... watching. Their eyes met, and for a flicker of a second, something unspoken passed between them.
A thread. Not trust. But interest.

Ellie looked away first, clearing her throat. “Hey,” she said. “Anyone got cards?”

And just like that, the mood shifted again. Nick produced a bent deck from his vest pocket, and the games began. Laughter spilled into the night, echoing off the walls and through the cracked blinds.
Later—long after the cans were empty and the group began to drift out one by one—Ellie remained behind in the dim light. Manny had passed out half on the couch, Mel was snoring with her head in Leah’s lap, and even Jordan had gone quiet.

Abby hadn’t left yet. She sat a few feet away, elbows on knees, watching the lights of the stadium flicker out across the field below. Her posture was relaxed, but there was tension in her shoulders—like she was waiting for something to go wrong. Ellie sat beside her without asking. They said nothing for a while.

Finally, Abby broke the silence, her voice low and slightly amused. “You gonna puke?”

Ellie snorted, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Nah. I’ve had worse. Jackson has this guy who brews in an old bathtub. Stuff smells like paint thinner and dead squirrels. This is practically gourmet.”

Abby let out a short huff of a laugh, not quite a smile, but close. “Jackson,” she echoed softly, the name hanging in the air between them. “Thought you said you were from Boston?”

Ellie stiffened for a heartbeat, caught off guard. “I—yeah. I mean, I am. Just… stayed in Jackson the winter. You know, to rest, get through the snow. Kept movin’ west after.” It came out too fast, too rehearsed. But Abby didn’t press. She just nodded, like she understood there were things better left untouched.

Ellie shifted, eager to change the subject. “So… what happens now? With me.”

Abby leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, gaze fixed out the window at the fading lights beyond the stadium. “You’ll probably get folded into basic military training. Drills. Routes. Patrols. The usual WLF warm welcome.”

Ellie raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like a party.”

“You’ll be fine,” Abby said, standing with a stretch. “You’re scrappy. I can tell.”

Ellie watched her for a moment, trying to read what was going unsaid behind those tired eyes. But before she could speak again, Abby was already halfway to the door.

“Try to get some sleep,” Abby added without turning. The door shut gently behind her. Ellie leaned back against the couch, the cushions worn but warm beneath her. Around her, the room had gone still—only the remnants of laughter left behind. Empty cans on the floor. Crumpled blankets tossed over the armrest. The flickering projector had finally gone dark, casting the room in a soft, humming silence.

She exhaled slowly, letting her head rest against the back of the couch.

How the hell had this happened? In less than twenty-four hours, she’d gone from a lone rider eating jerky under a pine tree, sleeping in a broom closet, and flipping off strangers with rifles—to this. Movie night. Popcorn. Awful cider. A room full of people laughing like the world wasn’t on fire. Like she belonged there. Why had they accepted her so fast? Why was she roommates with Manny? Ellie frowned, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her palm. “What the fuck actually just happened today?” she muttered to herself.

Chapter Text

The sun was already cruel when Ellie stepped out onto the cracked asphalt. It clung to the concrete like a second skin, every shimmer of heat rising in waves. The smell of dust and motor oil filled the air. Distantly, a generator hummed like an angry hornet trapped in its cage. Her boots standard issue WLF were stiff and still unfamiliar, biting into the backs of her heels with each step.

Ellie adjusted the backward WLF baseball cap on her head. The sweat that soaked into it was starting to form a salt ring around the brim. Her new clothes a dark green tee, tactical pants, and a WLF patch sewn half heartedly into the shoulder felt more like a costume than a uniform. She hadn’t asked for any of it.

She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and exhaled sharply. “Hell of a day to play soldier,” she muttered.

A small group was gathered by the armory gate, already half geared and waiting. Mel was checking a medkit with her usual focus, mumbling to herself as she counted supplies. Nora leaned against the wall sipping water from a dented canteen, while Jordan knelt near his backpack, adjusting a shoulder strap that wouldn’t sit right.

“Ellie!” Manny’s voice rang out as he strolled over, “You look like you’re about to melt.”

“Probably will,” Ellie said, deadpan, tugging at her collar. “Do I at least get a badge after this, or... just heatstroke?”

He laughed. “You get the badge if you don’t cry when your boots start eating your feet.”

“Fantastic.”

Behind Manny, the others had started taking notice. Nora gave Ellie a short nod—measured, not unfriendly. Mel offered a faint smile. Jordan looked her over once, said nothing, then went back to his gear.

Then came the sound of boots. Not rushed. Not slow. Deliberate.

Mike cut across the courtyard with the kind of command that didn't need barking. People fell quiet before he even opened his mouth. Tall, grizzled, and sharp-eyed, Mike always looked like he’d just stepped out of a storm.

“We’ve got new blood,” he announced, standing near the crate stacks where most of the crew could see him. “Some of them from outposts we absorbed, others rescued from infected zones. A few are here 'cause they got nowhere else left to go.”

Several people stepped forward, ushered from the sides. A wiry girl with a buzz cut. A lanky man in his twenties with a deep scar across his cheek. Two teens no older than seventeen, still clutching their packs like they hadn’t been set down since arrival.

Then Manny nudged Ellie again. “Go,” he whispered.

She gave him a confused glance. “Why me? I’m not—”

But before she could finish, Mike caught sight of her. “You,” he called. “Ellie.”

Now everyone was staring.

She hesitated for a second before stepping forward, jaw tight. She didn’t like being paraded, didn’t like the attention. It felt like walking into the wrong room, like a dream where she’d forgotten her weapon and couldn’t find the exit.

Ellie stood among the new arrivals, noticeably older than half, dirtier than all.

Mike took a moment to scan the group before continuing. “These people earned a second chance. Most of ‘em will be going through our basic training rotation. Getting their hands dirty. Learning how we do things here.”

Ellie leaned toward him slightly, voice low but sharp. “Shouldn’t I be with them? I didn’t ask to be here.”

A pause.

Mike looked at her for a long second. “Maybe not. Isaac took interest in you.”

Ellie felt a twist in her gut at that name.

“You’ve handled yourself. Took down more infected more than most do in their first week,” he continued. “You’re not a rookie. You’ll be running with seasoned units. Shadow them. Prove you're worth the interest.”

She didn’t respond at first. Just stared at him. “And if I don’t want to?”

“You’re still breathing, aren’t you?” Mike’s tone was even, not cruel—but there was steel behind it. “That means you’re lucky. I’d keep that luck on your side.”

Ellie stepped back, jaw clenched. She could feel the weight of the group’s stares again—some curious, others suspicious. One or two of them looked at her like she was a threat. That was fine. She preferred it.

Mike turned back to the crowd. “Dismissed. Assignments posted in the main hall. Be ready. We move out in two hours.”

“All right,” Manny clapped his hands. “Split into pairs. Simple route: east perimeter, abandoned bookstore, and back. Radio check at the halfway point. Don’t do anything stupid.” He looked directly at Ellie with a teasing grin. “And no detours.”

“I’m very boring,” she said dryly.

“Sure you are.”

The Humvee rumbled along the broken asphalt, its massive tires crunching over scattered gravel and debris that had once been part of a thriving stretch of American road. The sky hung heavy and blue above, and the heat shimmered off the pavement, turning the air into a slow-cooking oven. The doors of the Humvee were wide open, the breeze doing its best to cool the bodies packed inside, though it barely helped.

Ellie sat in the back, arms folded across her chest, her newly issued WLF fatigues clinging to her skin from sweat. The backwards WLF baseball cap she wore did little to block the sun, but she kept it there anyway—partly to keep her wild curls in check, partly because it felt like armor. Like pretending she was part of the group made her slightly safer among them.

Manny sat beside her, as talkative as ever. His tan arm dangled out the open side of the Humvee as he pointed out toward the sweeping horizon of cracked roads, overgrown greenery, and collapsed structures half-swallowed by nature and time.

"You see that long stretch there?” he said, gesturing toward a long bend in the road where the broken highway dove into a forest of vines and the skeletal remains of rusted cars. “That’s ours. WLF controls from the checkpoint near 45th Street all the way down to the river bend.”

Ellie followed his finger, squinting into the sun. A small fortified outpost could be seen in the distance, makeshift walls and an old billboard rigged into a sniper perch. She nodded slowly.

“And that way?” she asked, shifting her weight as her boot tapped idly against the metal floor of the Humvee.

“That way,” Manny said, his tone changing as he pointed toward the west—where the road vanished into a patch of darkened ruins and burned-out vehicles. “Infected territory. We lost that sector six weeks ago. Too many Clickers. Runners. Even got rumors of bloater nesting in the underground parking lots. Isaac wants it cleared.”

Ellie said nothing. She just stared out at the ruined land, chewing the inside of her cheek. She hadn’t fought Bloaters in a long time. She remembered what they sounded like—slow, lumbering beasts with skin like bark and the strength to throw a man like he weighed nothing. One had nearly killed Joel once. The memory made her hand curl into a fist.

“You alright, chica?” Manny asked, glancing sideways at her.

She nodded, blinking the thought away. “Just listening.”

The other soldiers in the Humvee remained mostly quiet. A woman across from Ellie—maybe late twenties, hair tied in a tight braid and arms like tree trunks—cleaned her rifle in silence. A younger guy sat near Manny, fiddling with a beat-up Walkman, the headphones dangling off his neck. Everyone else seemed to just sweat and breathe, their eyes drifting from one landmark to the next, silently noting potential threats.

Up ahead, the convoy of Humvees began to slow, pulling near a crumbling gas station that had been fortified with barbed wire, metal fencing, and watchtowers made from scavenged wood. A few guards stood atop the outpost, rifles in hand, scanning the horizon.

One of them waved the convoy through, and the metal gate slowly began to rise.

“Welcome to Outpost Five,” Manny announced with mock grandeur, gesturing like a tour guide. “Try not to piss anyone off in the first ten minutes.”

Ellie huffed a small breath. “No promises.”

The gate clanked shut behind them as the Humvees rolled into a dusty courtyard. Makeshift tents lined the edge, a couple of prefab buildings stacked like shipping crates in the center. Soldiers moved with purpose, many geared for combat. Others were fixing fences, loading crates, tending to weapons. There was order here—brutal and structured, but it felt like something solid in a world that had lost all shape.

When the vehicle came to a halt, everyone started disembarking. Manny hopped out and reached a hand to help Ellie down. She ignored it and jumped down herself, landing with a soft grunt.

He just chuckled.

“You’ll like it here,” he said as they walked. “Hot meals, running water, daily drills, and the occasional bloodbath. Real community shit.”

Ellie rolled her eyes but said nothing.

“First thing,” Manny said, leading her toward a command tent, “we meet with Captain Torres. she likes to see new faces—especially ones Isaac’s got his eye on. Then we get you settled. Maybe find you a bunk away from Jordan.”

Ellie smirked. “You’re assuming I’m staying.”

Manny gave her a sidelong look. “Aren’t you?”

She shrugged. “Guess that depends.”

“On?”

She didn’t answer, just kept walking, the sound of boots on gravel mixing with the distant call of crows overhead.

Manny exhaled through his nose. “Look, I know this isn’t easy. None of it is. But you're not alone anymore. You don’t have to keep running. You can… breathe, maybe. For once.”

Ellie looked at him for a long moment, unsure what to say to that. Her mind warred between instincts: one part screaming to keep moving, never settle, trust no one. And another part—quiet, but persistent—wondering if maybe, just maybe, she was tired of running.

The command tent loomed ahead, flaps rippling in the breeze. Ellie steeled herself.

“Let’s get this over with,” she muttered.

The light hanging above pressed down like a smothering hand, dragging sweat from every pore as Ellie walked with Manny and a few others toward the operations tent. Dust rose in their wake, clinging to their boots and rolling through the air like fog. Her WLF-issued cap, turned backward to keep the brim from shading her sight, was already damp with sweat. Ellie kept a hand on her sidearm out of habit, fingers tapping against the grip with restless energy. 

He pointed at the big map left hanging on the tent wall with red and blue markers covering it. “That stretch there? Controlled by infected. Past that? We’ve got patrols every other day. WLF is pushin’ to retake the bottleneck near the refinery,” he said with a sharp whistle.

Ellie just nodded, her eyes scanning the map seeing what wasn’t being said. That the infected weren’t the only threat. She didn’t speak much, just absorbed—what they controlled, what they didn’t. What Isaac wanted.

Manny gave her a gentle push on the shoulder. “Don’t be shy, chica. C’mon, time to meet the big man for this sector.”

The air was stuffy and tense, filled with the stale scent of sweat, dry paper, and ink. Maps were strewn across long tables, marked with red lines, pins, and circles. A large board displayed photos, notes, and strings crisscrossing information. Radios crackled softly in the background as squad leaders murmured into headsets. The Captain looked up from a spread-out map, his brow furrowed with the weight of responsibility. He was a broad-shouldered man in his forties, sunburnt and weathered, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, arms covered in faded tattoos.

“You’re the stray Isaac radioed about?” the Captain asked, eyes flicking to Ellie.

“Stray?” Ellie echoed with a smirk. “Nice. Do I get a collar?”

Manny chuckled, giving her a nod of approval. “She’s got bite, huh?”

“She better,” the Captain said, then gestured toward the map. “ Isaac said you’ve got skills. Said you’ve held your own more than once. That right?”

Ellie didn’t puff her chest or play coy. She just shrugged. “I can shoot. I’ve handled infected. Lived long enough to know how to survive.”

“Fanatstic,” Torres replied, eyeing her like he was mentally placing her on the map. “We’re planning an advancement into the New Castle district. Most of it’s overrun—runners and some clickers. But it’s a good corridor, connecting two key supply routes. If we can take the street running through the district and secure it, we’ll cut down on transport times and give ourselves a fallback point if Hillmark collapses.”

Ellie studied the lines he pointed to. “Sounds like suicide.”

“Everything sounds like suicide until you pull it off,” the Captain answered dryly.

Manny elbowed her lightly. “You should’ve seen her in the garage. Took down two stalkers with a broken mop handle.”

“That so?” Torres raised a brow. “You might be useful after all.”

Ellie rolled her eyes. “Manny likes to embellish. There was only one stalker. The other one tripped over a pipe and cracked its own skull.”

“You see? Modest too,” Manny said proudly.

Torres gave a short grunt of amusement before turning to a tall, lean man with a sharp jaw and buzzcut, standing beside another table. “Mike. What’s the situation at Eastbrook Elementary?”

Mike straightened. “We’ve scouted it twice. Looks clear until you get inside. Then it’s a mess. Runners nesting in the cafeteria. At least one clicker. We lost two scouts trying to clear the gym.”

“We need that building,” Torres said, tapping a finger on the map. “Strategically, it gives us roof access and high ground. Set up watch posts, sniper nests.”

Mike folded his arms. “Then I need more bodies. Half my unit’s still licking wounds from the Hillmark run. I can’t push them into that place without backup.”

Torres looked at Ellie. “You up for it?”

“Me?” Ellie blinked. “I thought I was just the new girl.”

“That hasn’t fucking changed princess.” Torres said. “But I’ve learned not to underestimate strays. And Isaac said you’re not someone to coddle.”

“Don’t call me that.” Ellie glanced between them, the room suddenly pressing in on her. She didn’t mind being asked to fight. She just didn’t like being the one people looked at like she had something to prove.

“Prove to me you your not one.”

“Fuck it. Sure,” she said finally, adjusting the strap of her rifle. “Why not. Haven’t been in a school in years.”

Manny clapped her on the back. “That’s the spirit.”

The tension lightened for a moment, but it was a temporary thing, like a cool breeze that didn’t linger. Orders were given, patrols reshuffled, and names recorded on deployment rosters. Ellie leaned against the side of the table, watching as Torres and Mike made a plan that included her like she’d always been a piece of their puzzle. The strange thing was how easy it was to slip into it. How familiar the talk of routes, ambushes, fallback points, and flanking maneuvers sounded to her ears. As if this wasn’t new at all—but something she’d always known.

When they left the tent, the sun had shifted, falling low toward the horizon. Shadows stretched across the ground, long and lean. The heat still clung to the dirt and canvas, but the edge had softened. Ellie walked alongside Manny again, his chatter subdued now, more thoughtful.

“You did good in there,” he said. “Torres doesn’t like wasting time. If he thinks you’re worth using, that’s big.”

Ellie didn’t answer right away. Her fingers played along the edge of her cap.

“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” she admitted after a moment. “I’m just… walking forward.”

“That’s all any of us are doing,” Manny said with a half-smile. “Just some of us got lucky enough to be pointed in the right direction.”

They passed by another group doing drills in a cleared lot—shoulder rolls, blind reloads, vaulting over broken cars. She watched them move, coordinated and focused, and wondered if she’d ever feel that kind of unity again. Then her thoughts drifted to Jackson, and her stomach tightened.

“Do you think they know?” she asked softly.

“Who?”

“The people I left behind. Do you think they know where I am?”

Manny tilted his head. “Maybe. Maybe not. What matters is if you know where you’re going.”

Ellie didn’t answer. The silence settled again.

They’d head toward Eastbrook. She’d be part of a unit. She’d fight for territory that wasn’t hers under orders from people she didn’t know. 

The sun glared down with blistering intensity, beating on the cracked pavement like a punishment from the old world. Heat shimmered in waves off rusting car husks and melted asphalt as Ellie marched behind Mike, her WLF-issued baseball cap turned backwards, shielding the sweat trickling down her brow. Her new uniform clung to her in the worst way—itchy in some spots, suffocating in others—but she bore it with a grim patience. She had endured worse. They all had.

Jordan was just ahead of her, quiet for once, walking with his head slightly down, holding onto his rifle a little too tightly. Ellie noticed the photograph again, peeking from the edge of his pocket, the same one he kept thumbing between breaks in movement. A snapshot of Leah—his girlfriend—smiling in a rare moment of peace.

"You're gonna wear that thing out,” Ellie teased, pointing at the photo with a crooked smirk. "Surprised you don't have it laminated and framed by now."

Jordan didn’t look back. He merely held up his middle finger behind him, not missing a step.

Manny, walking beside Ellie, chuckled. “You’re relentless.”

“Gotta keep morale up somehow,” Ellie muttered with a shrug, swiping sweat off her forehead.

They continued until they crested a small rise. What came into view was the bones of the past: an old FEDRA roadblock still half-intact, rusting wire fencing looped around barriers and crumbling sandbags. Beyond that, the looming, boxy structure of Eastbrook Elementary. Its windows were shattered and boarded up in places, vines crawling up its exterior like nature was trying to swallow it whole.

Mike raised a fist, signaling a halt. The dozen-strong squad gathered in a loose formation. All of them—men and women, barely older than Ellie—looked worn, but alert. Guns were checked. Knives adjusted. A few muttered about the heat.

“We’ve got orders,” Mike began, his voice level but firm, as if he’d already made peace with what was coming. “Issac wants Eastbrook taken. We move in, clear the inside, establish a secure perimeter by sundown.”

Some groaned. Ellie caught one of them muttering, “Just another moldy death trap.”

“I hear that again, I’ll assign you to clear the basement by yourself,” Mike snapped, gaze sharp. That shut them up.

Jordan shifted beside Manny, his hand now resting on the butt of his rifle. “What’s so damn special about a crumbling elementary school anyway?”

“Its point of interest is all you need to know.” Mike didn’t seem bothered to answer more. He pointed to the map he’d pulled from his vest. “We rest here, refit, then push at dawn. Any complaints?”

No one spoke.

“Good,” he said. “Squad leaders, set up fire teams. I want inventory checks done in an hour. We’re moving light, no convoy — foot patrol only.”

As the unit dispersed, Ellie dropped her gear near a crumbling barricade and stretched her arms behind her head. Her muscles ached from the march, but it was a good ache — one that reminded her she was still here, still surviving. Manny handed her a canteen, and she drank greedily before passing it back.

“You ever do anything like this in Jackson?” he asked, sitting beside her and fanning himself with his hat.

She shook her head. “Nah. Patrols were smaller. Quieter. If we saw more than three infected in a week, it was considered a bad month.”

Manny laughed. “Then you’re in for some fun. Eastbrook’s crawling with ‘em. Whole district’s been left to rot since FEDRA pulled out. Never fully cleared.”

“Awesome,” Ellie muttered. “Why not send in flamethrowers or something?”

He shrugged. “Isaac wants the supplies intact. School has food stores, medical gear, maybe even working generators. Can’t torch that.”

“Right. Gotta save the juice boxes and band-aids.”

Nearby, Jordan was speaking quietly with another soldier, a tall, quiet man. Ellie watched him out of the corner of her eye. Something about him always seemed on edge, like he was listening for a whisper only he could hear. When their eyes met briefly, Jordan quickly looked away.

That night, under the dim glow of the remaining working floodlight, the squad dined on rehydrated meals and boiled rice. The atmosphere was a mix of tension and camaraderie, a strange blend Ellie had grown to understand. Jokes cracked around the firepit. Manny told a story about a bloater getting stuck in a supermarket turnstile, miming the flailing limbs until the entire group was howling. Even Mike chuckled once — a short, gravelly sound like a rusty hinge.

But Ellie didn’t feel quite settled. Something in her gut twisted. Maybe it was the mission. Maybe it was the memory of schools — of what they were before. She remembered the one she and Joel once passed through near Chicago outskirts. She remembered the rusted playground, the broken swing set still creaking in the wind. The infected child Joel had silently put down in the nurse’s office. Memories like those never really left.

The soft crackle of the fire filled the night air, casting flickering shadows on the cluster of faces gathered around its warmth. Ellie sat cross-legged, chewing on a protein bar that tasted like sawdust mixed with chalk, but she didn’t complain. At least it was food. Sparks drifted upward like fireflies as someone tossed another scrap of wood into the flames.

Across from her, Jordan was hunched over, red-faced and stifling a laugh, his cap pulled low over his brow. Manny had just finished recounting one of his infamous tales — this one involving a supply run gone wrong and a pretty guy with “eyes like tequila and hands like a surgeon.” Jordan was still trying to recover from the story’s conclusion, which had involved a busted fence, a very awkward moment in the dark, and Manny being walked in on by an entire patrol squad.

“Dios mío, hermano,” Manny grinned, waving his hand dramatically. “They stood there the whole time, just watching like I was some damn soap opera.”

Jordan blushed even harder, shaking his head, “You’re so full of it, man.”

Ellie smirked, finishing her bar and dusting the crumbs from her hands. “You didn't even sleep with him, did you?” she said, eyes narrowed with a teasing edge.

Manny clutched his chest, scandalized. “I do not kiss and tell,” he said, in mock offense.

“Which means you didn’t,” Ellie shot back, lips tugging into a crooked grin.

The group chuckled, the camaraderie warming more than just the fire. Even Jordan a smile before shaking his head again, muttering something under his breath.

Ellie’s eyes drifted toward him. He had removed his cap now, fidgeting with the brim like it was made of glass. It was worn down, fraying at the edges, a small tear visible along the stitching above the bill.

“That thing’s seen better days,” she said, nodding toward it.

Jordan looked down, fingers pausing. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Was my old man’s. Had it with him since he served with the Army back in the day. Used to wear it to every meal like it was part of the uniform.”

Ellie blinked. She hadn’t expected that. She studied his face, the way his eyes stayed on the cap like he was seeing something long gone. She suddenly understood why he always wore it so low. Why he fixed it every night.

“I had a guitar,” she said after a pause. Her voice was quieter, stripped of its usual sarcastic armor. “My... someone special gave it to me. Used to play all the time. Helped me breathe.”

Jordan glanced up. “Still got it?”

She shook her head, lips pressed thin. “No…I…Um I lost.”

The fire crackled, a branch splitting loudly as embers floated into the humid night air. Silence settled in, not uncomfortable, but not exactly easy either. A kind of mutual understanding passed between them — unspoken grief, inherited pain. The kind that carved permanent homes in the hearts of survivors.

Manny broke the silence with a dramatic groan. “This is too serious for my taste. Someone bring out the cards or I’m going to start crying into this canteen.”

The morning bled grey as the rain misted down in long streaks across the battered asphalt of the highway. Ellie walked with her unit, her boots kicking up damp leaves and fragments of cracked concrete. Water beaded on her new WLF jacket, the baseball cap she wore backwards already soaked through, her bangs clinging to her forehead. The squad was quiet, save for the rhythmic thud of gear and the occasional cough or muttered complaint about the weather.

They had been joined by over forty more troops at dawn—reinforcements. A couple of them trudged by with mounted heavy rifles, their boots sloshing through shallow puddles. Ellie tightened the strap on her rifle and glanced to the side where Manny was chewing on a piece of dried meat, rain trickling off his jawline.

"Looks like we’re going in heavy," he muttered, voice low.

"Yeah," Ellie replied, eyes ahead. “So much for stealth.”

Snippets of conversation floated through the line.

"We don’t have enough ammo for a siege!"

"This street’s crawling with infected, I swear."

"Why the fuck we pushing this deep again?"

Ellie’s grip tightened on her weapon. She didn’t need a reminder of the risk. This wasn’t Jackson. This wasn’t patrol. This was war. As they crested a small hill, the shape of the school came into view, shadowed against the low grey clouds—Eastbrook Elementary. The metal fence around it was bent and rusted, old FEDRA blockade signs toppled over in the mud. It looked quiet. Too quiet.

Mike, their squad leader, stood up on a broken chunk of road median and waved both arms.

“All squads! You know your colors! Sweep in wide! Flank coverage on both sides. Green and Yellow, secure the south wall and gym. Blue—cover the rear entrance. Red squad goes through the front. Purple—you’re with me. We’re breaching side access through the east wing! Call progress in every fifteen.”

Ellie’s heart thudded in her chest. She looked around. Purple squad. That was her.

Manny stepped up beside her, nudging her with his elbow. “Keep that pretty little head down, chica,” he said, grinning.

Ellie rolled her eyes. “Don’t trip on your own ego, Manny.”

He saluted her jokingly, and then the squad broke. Ellie jogged after the others, sticking close to the five shapes she’d been assigned—three men, two women. One of the guys, Karl, was a quiet, broad-shouldered man with a brutal-looking shotgun. The two women, Reese and Mia, looked younger than Ellie, faces tight with tension, rifles clutched close. One of the men had a radio clipped to his chest and was muttering updates to command as they reached the side of the building.

The double doors to the east wing groaned as they pushed through. The hallway inside was pitch-black, water dripping from the ceiling where tiles had collapsed. Their boots squelched over old papers and moldy tiles. Ellie could smell mildew, wet brick, and something else—something faintly coppery. Blood.

They crept forward, weapons raised, flashlights flickering over decayed lockers and warped walls.

"Purple squad moving into corridor Bravo. No contact yet," the radio man whispered.

A crackle came in response.

“Red squad, all clear… Blue squad—”

The signal cut off.

“Blue squad, say again?” the radio man asked.

Nothing.

A beat later, gunfire cracked in the distance—pop-pop-pop, then a long burst from an automatic rifle.

“Shit,” Reese muttered, tightening her grip.

“ALL TEAMS MOVE BACK MO-” Blue radio call back left team concerned. 

Then all hell broke loose.

From the shadows up ahead, shapes burst into motion. One of the classroom doors exploded outward. A clicker screamed—high and shrill—as it lunged at Karl. He fired a burst into its chest, but it kept coming. Samwell stepped forward and put one in its skull. Another infected, a runner, charged from the left and tackled Mark to the wall

"Get him!" someone shouted.

Gunfire roared. Ellie’s ears rang. She ducked down and fell behind a tipped-over filing cabinet, chambering another round. The corridor was a mess of movement and shadows. Screams, snarls, the roar of weapons. Another clicker barreled down the hallway. Ellie stepped out and fired two shots, stumbling as she tripped over a backpack. It hit the floor beside her with a sickening crunch—someone’s gear, bloodied.

"Jordan’s down!" someone yelled.

No—she turned, heart sinking. It wasn’t Jordan. It was another man from another squad who’d wandered in during the confusion, crawling on the floor, bleeding from the mouth.

Ellie didn’t have time to help. She could hear more infected barreling through another door. Her squad was scattering, trying to regroup.

“We need to fall back!” Reese shouted.

“Negative!” the radio man barked. “Mike said take this wing!”

Ellie turned at the sound of a scuffle—just in time to see Mia, the quiet woman with the long braid, slammed hard against the concrete wall. The force rattled the hallway. An infected had crashed into her from a side corridor, pinning her like a ragdoll.

Then came the sound—flesh tearing.

Its claws ripped through Mia’s thigh with sickening ease, peeling through fabric and skin like wet paper. Her scream wasn’t human—it was raw, primal, full of terror and agony. It echoed down the hallway and shook Ellie to her core.

“Shit!” Ellie lunged forward on instinct.

Gunfire cracked from multiple directions as the squad opened up. Ellie emptied her magazine in a tight burst, rounds slamming into the infected’s skull and spine. It collapsed with a wet thud, twitching violently before going still.

Blood sprayed across the floor and up Ellie’s arms as she dropped to her knees beside Mia. She grabbed her under the arm and yanked her back—legs dragging, limp, leaving a crimson smear on the floor. Blood soaked through Ellie’s pants, warm and sticky.

Too much blood.

Mia’s face had gone pale—shock settling into her features. Her eyes locked with Ellie’s, wide and pleading. There was something terrible in them. Not fear. Acceptance.

“Fall back!” Ellie screamed, voice cracking. “We’re pulling back now—go!”

They moved without hesitation.

Mark and Reese fell into position at the rear, laying down suppressing fire as more infected rounded the far corner. The echo of their rifles was deafening. Samwell and another squadmate rushed to Ellie’s side, grabbing Mia’s other arm.

The four of them stumbled backward together, feet slipping in blood and rainwater. Screams, gunfire, snarls—it all blurred into one monstrous cacophony. They burst through the exit and into the open air. Rain hammered down, cold and sharp as needles. The sky had gone gunmetal gray, thunder rolling over the ruins of the city. The rest of the squad was already outside. Someone was yelling orders. Two soldiers sprinted to the door and heaved heavy debris in front of it—barricading the entrance before more infected could pour through.

Ellie dropped to her knees, the weight of Mia pulling her down. They lowered her gently to the pavement, but the twitching didn’t stop. She was crying now—quiet, desperate sobs. Her braid was soaked in rain and blood, stuck to her face.

Ellie knelt there, shaking, watching the life spill from Mia inch by inch.

“I got her, I got her!” the medic shouted, dropping his pack.

He tore open the kit, knife already in hand. “She’s going into shock. That thing shredded her femoral. We have to amputate—now.”

“No,” Mia moaned. “No—no no no no—”

Her fingers latched onto Ellie’s sleeve, white-knuckled. “Stay,” she whispered. “Don’t leave.”

Ellie knelt beside her, squeezing her hand. She nodded silently.

The medic didn’t wait. His partner pinned Mia’s chest down as he raised the blade.

“One—two—”

Mia’s scream was long and terrible.

The leg came off in four stroke.

Ellie looked away. She could barely hear anything over the roar of her blood. Rain poured down her face, mixed with sweat, with fear.

It was nearly half an hour before the squads reformed. The rain still hadn’t let up. The school was still lost. Too many are infected. Blue Squad had lost half of their team. Green lost three as Yellow was lucky and lost nothing. The Red squad was entirely missing, nothing came back with reports assuming all were dead. As her own squad lost one and another missing her leg. Mia was unconscious, her body wrapped in bloody tarps, a stretcher being prepped.

Mike was screaming into a radio over the last hour. His face almost entirely red with anger as he slammed his fist on the brick wall. “This was a fuck-up! You hear me? That place was supposed to be cleared with little to no resistance! YET I GOT THE ENTIRE INFECTED POULATION!”

Ellie leaned against the back of a wall, silent. Her hands were still shaking. Manny appeared beside her, blood on his cheek, but breathing. He passed her a protein bar. She didn’t eat. She just held it.

“What the hell was that?” she asked finally.

“A shit show.” He muttered.

They both watched Mike paced like a dog fresh from the leash, stomping in circles around the cramped command tent. The radio on the table hissed static like it was choking on the airwaves. Then came silence. Then came the slam.

Mike’s hand struck the radio so hard it cracked the casing. It bounced once and hit the mud-slick floor. He didn’t even look at it.

“Gone,” he muttered, turning away, his voice hoarse. “Red squad’s fucking gone. Whole damn squad.”

He slammed his fist onto the table next. Some of the maps fluttered. The light from the lantern above shook.

Manny winced but didn’t move. Ellie watched Mike’s face tighten. There was grief behind his fury—she recognized it. That same stiff-lipped torment she’d seen in so many broken leaders, the ones that were left standing when too many others had fallen.

“How do we even lose a whole squad?” Mike demanded to the tent as a whole. “No scream on the comms. No alert. No backup. Just static and gone.”

“We’re stretched too thin,” Manny finally said. “Too much. Not enough of us.”

“Half the east wing is still untouched,” Mike shot back. “That’s where Red disappeared too. You think we got time to play defensive? You think Issac’s going to wait? He sent reinforcements to help us take this place.”

“No,” Ellie said suddenly, standing. “He sent reinforcements to win it. There’s a difference.”

Mike blinked at her.

She wiped her hands on her pants and stepped forward. “We’re split in too many squads, doing too many sweeps. It’s chaos. And chaos gets people killed. Like Mia leg. Like Red Squad.”

Mike’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue.

Ellie pressed on. “You’ve got almost half fifty bodies in the field now, including reinforcements. Instead of dividing into squads and sweeping each wing separately, we move as one force. Lock down the building section by section—clear, lock, move. One hallway. One floor. One at a time.”

Manny glanced sideways at her, surprised.

Mike stared, incredulous. “You’re suggesting we move like one big herd?”

“It’s all I've got, I've seen it done before.” Ellie said.

There was silence. Just the rain ticking against canvas and boots shifting in mud.

Then Mike exhaled sharply, running a hand through his soaked hair. “…Shit,” he muttered. “All I got will do it.”

Ellie blinked, caught off guard by the agreement.

Mike turned, addressing the table like a general assembling a battle line. “Alright. Enough of this divide-and-die bullshit. One force, one fight.”

Silence followed—brief but heavy. Rain tapped against the metal roof above like impatient fingers. Ellie exchanged a glance with Reese, who gave a grim nod. Across from them, Mark tightened the strap on his vest, eyes down. Samwell checked the bolt of his rifle, mouth set in a thin line. Even the greenhorn, Alvarez, stopped fiddling with his gloves. For once, no one had anything to argue. They were past that.

Mike continued, voice low and firm, “We take it one section at a time. Clear, regroup, move. We don’t split. We don’t run. If someone goes down, we pull them out or we go down trying.”

“About time,” Ellie muttered, loading a fresh mag with a satisfying click.

“Gear up,” Mike snapped. “We're moving in five.”

The team rose in unison, the shuffle of boots and rustle of nylon loud in the tight room. Outside, the storm grew louder. Ellie slung her rifle, checked her pistol, then her flashlight. Her fingers trembled, just slightly. They moved out into the rain; nine soldiers wrapped in rain ponchos. The street was slick, flooded in places, the water reflecting the red glow of the flashlights.

And there it was.

The school loomed again. Mold streaked the bricks in grotesque veins. Ivy strangled the flagpole out front. Broken windows gaped like wounds—some cracked from age, others smashed from inside. The squad slowed as they reached the entrance. The wide double doors stood ajar, groaning slightly in the wind like they were protesting the team’s arrival. Reese stepped forward and shoved one open with his shoulder. The hinges shrieked in protest. Peeling motivational posters curled on the walls—“YOU ARE THE FUTURE!”, “TODAY IS A NEW DAY!”—now half-obscured by mold and dried handprints. Some were smeared downward, as if clawed at.

Water dripped from the ceiling. The group slipped inside like ghosts, rifles raised, boots silent against cracked tile. They moved slow. Coordinated. Doors kicked open, rooms swept, infected neutralized in controlled bursts. No panic. No chaos. The scent of bleach, mildew, and long-rotted lunches filled the air. Ellie and Manny moved near the middle—purple squad, now just part of the wall. Jordan trailed beside them, one hand on his old cap, the other gripping his rifle tight.

“So far, so good,” he muttered, voice tight.

“Don’t say that,” Ellie warned. “You’ll jinx it.”

“Oh fuck off with that shit! We got this.”

They passed a trophy case shattered long ago. Inside, dust-covered ribbons and a cracked photo of a volleyball team stared back at them. Children frozen in time. 

“I want the rest of this floor clear by tonight. Team two moves towards the cafeteria and courtyard. The rest of you move down the west wing.” Mike ordered out.

Ellie’s half crept through the dim hallway, freshly cleared but still reeking of smoke and blood. They moved silently, eyes scanning every doorway, every corner. Ahead, a WLF soldier lay facedown, his body twisted unnaturally, one arm stretched forward as if reaching for something in his final moments.

Ellie moved ahead of the group, crouching beside him. Her breath caught. She looked at the man, his eyes closed and skin pale. His throat was torn out with blood still leaking barely out. His revolver had slipped from his grasp, resting just inches from his fingertips, glinting faintly in the flickering light.

She picked it up, cold and sticky with blood, and flipped open the chamber. Two shots left.

“Anything?” whispered Manny behind her, weapon raised.

“Just this,” Ellie replied quietly, nodding toward the body.

Then came a sound—soft, almost too soft. A wet scraping. A dragging.

Her eyes snapped toward the classroom ahead, the door half open, darkness swallowing everything beyond.

She rose, creeping forward, revolver raised.

The scraping grew louder. A wheeze. A shuddering groan.

Out of the shadow, something moved.

A runner. What was left of one. Its limbs were bent the wrong way, ribs poking through torn flesh, one eye socket caved in. Its jaw hung loose, twitching as it tried to snarl. Milky eyes locked onto her, hunger undiminished by pain or broken bones.

It dragged itself forward, nails screeching against the tile. Each breath it took sounded like air through water.

Ellie didn’t hesitate.

She stepped into her stance, bracing.

Exhale. Aim. Squeeze.

Bang.

Chapter Text

Rainwater trickled through the shattered roof tiles, the hallway lit only by the occasional flicker of faulty fluorescent lights. Abby stood still, the sound of her breath drowned beneath the distant beep… beep… beep of a heart monitor, steady, unrelenting. Her boots splashed in pooling water as she stepped forward. The walls around her peeling, yellowed hospital paint were warped by mold and time.

Abby’s boots were soaked, heavy with water and blood. Her breath echoed loud, panicked. The hospital walls were familiar, but wrong. A child’s cry echoed through the darker voice she recognized. Her own.

"Don't go," a voice echoed.

She stepped forward. The walls bled. A gurney rolled by itself across the corridor, its wheels screeching. She turned the corner. Her father stood at the end of the hallway, dressed in his surgeon’s scrubs, soaked in crimson.

"Abby," he said again, voice calm. Too calm.

Abby's fists clenched. She wanted to scream. But she couldn’t move. Lightning cracked behind her eyes. The hallway warped. The boy dropped to his knees. A hand reached forward.

“Abby?”

“Abby.”

"Abby!"

She gasped.

“Hey. It’s just me,” Owen’s voice said softly, a hand resting on her shoulder. “Nightmare?”

Her eyes shot open, lungs dragging in a sharp breath. The ceiling above her wasn’t the wreckage of a haunted hospital, but the mossy, damp skylight of the Seattle Aquarium’s visitor lounge. Owen crouched next to the couch where she had fallen asleep, brow furrowed in concern. She noticed she was tucked under an old, faded Seahawks blanket Owen had found in a donation bin. The rain outside drizzled steadily against the glass dome overhead, casting muted shadows over the room.

“You were thrashing,” he said softly. “Nightmare again?”

Abby rubbed her hands over her face and sat up, blanket falling away. Her tank top clung to her from the sweat. “Yeah,” she muttered. “Same one.”

“The hospital?”

She didn’t answer. Just nodded.

Owen offered her a canteen of lukewarm water. “We should take a walk. You’ll feel better.”

“No…I’m-I’m good.” She accepted the water, took a sip, then leaned forward, elbows on her knees, staring at the cracked floor tiles of the once-bustling tourist lounge. They sat in silence for a while. A distant gull cried through the broken glass. Abby listened to the soft splash of aquarium water tanks nearby, the way they echoed hollowly through the building’s cavernous corridors.

He reached out, resting a hand over hers. “You know you're pretty when you sleep.”

Abby reeled her head back looking dumbfounded at him. “Shut up.”

Owen chuckled and sat beside her, stretching his long legs out, arms resting behind his head. “I’ve been working on the maintenance room. Fixed up the plumbing in the east corridor. You’ll be proud hot water, baby.”

“You going to put a hot tub in next?” she teased.

“I was thinking jacuzzi, but I’ll settle for a shower that doesn’t smell like trout.”

She smirked, leaning her head back against the couch cushion.

Owen’s eyes lingered on her a moment. His hand came up gently, brushing a damp lock of her hair from her face. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

“Because I haven’t.”

His thumb grazed her cheek, a gesture meant to be tender but Abby turned slightly, letting his kiss land on the edge of her jaw instead.

He paused and pulled back, chuckling under his breath. “Right. Sorry.”

She didn’t respond.

Instead, she asked, “What’s going on with Manny’s squad? I heard they were deployed.”

His face tightened, and he stood up, stretching his arms before grabbing his WLF jacket from the back of a chair. “That’s why I came. I figured you’d want to hear it from me. There was a report this morning. Red and Blue squads took heavy losses.”

Abby straightened, her gut knotting. “What kind of losses?”

“Red’s MIA. Blue’s scattered. Purple pulled back after a runner tore some chicks leg open. She’s stable, but… they had to amputate.” His voice grew grim. “They were trying to secure the old elementary school. Apparently, Isaac ordered the operation personally.”

“What?” Abby stood fully now, pulling her black jacket on. “He’s rushing it? Why?”

Owen shook his head. “There’s talk. New orders. Isaac wants the whole Eastbrook district under WLF control before the month’s out. Says the whole area is a vulnerability, especially that street near the New Castle turnpike.”

She narrowed her eyes. “And he thinks putting a bunch of rookies into a bottlenecked school is a good idea?”

“Apparently not all of them are rookies. Word is… that new girl, Ellie? Radio says she did a hell of a job pulling Purple squad out. Saved one of their medics.”

“Ellie?” Abby tilted her head. “Green eyes? Wait, isn't she new?”

“Yeah. Quiet. But deadly, apparently.” Owen grinned.

She didn’t grin back. “I’ll gear up,” she said. “We’re heading back. Now.”

He walked over, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Look, you can talk to him. He respects you. Maybe you can get through”

“No.” She turned to face him, jaw clenched. “He doesn’t want to be talked down. Not by me. Not by anyone. And if he wants that damn school so bad, he should’ve gone in himself.”

They stood in silence a moment. The rain continued to patter softly overhead.

Owen finally said, “You know I worry about you.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” His voice dropped. “And pretending you are doesn’t make the nightmares go away.”

She looked away, jaw tense, heart hammering againnot from the nightmare now, but from the churning guilt she lived with day in, day out. Her father’s face wouldn’t leave her. Not in her dreams. Not in the Aquarium. Not even now.

“Look I-...Appecate you checking in on me but I’m fine.” She answered after struggling to find the right words to speak.

“Well hey what are boyfriends for?” He spoke, shrugging his shoulders in his usual playful tone.

She pulled on her backpack, tightened the straps, and Owen didn’t argue. He grabbed his rifle from the far table and followed her out of the aquarium’s cracked emergency doors, letting the cold hit them in the face.

The harbor stretched behind them in mist and sea-rot. Ahead, the highway was cracked and broken, dotted with moss-covered vehicles and collapsed lamp poles. They moved quickly, boots splashing through puddles, until they reached the half-buried ladder tucked behind the loading dock.

“You’re still stubborn,” Owen muttered as she led the way.

“You’re still following me.”

They dropped down the rusted ladder, slid through the concrete ditch, and jogged along the road that would take them back toward the main WLF lines toward FOB. The clouds above them had no breaks. The city had no light. Only the occasional burning barrel or distant gunfire suggested anything was alive at all. It took over an hour to reach the forward Operating Base. Abby spotted the familiar burned-out FEDRA truck and the three posted guards, all WLF, rifles in hands, faces worn and streaked with grime. They let her through with barely a glance, then stopped Owen.

Abby broke off toward the command tent. She found Isaac sitting at a table, leaning over a dusty map, red pins marking target zones.

He didn’t look up. “I thought you were at the stadium?”

“Nope I’m here.,” Abby said.

“Well you make hell of time.”

She stepped closer. “Why did you send a rookie to the front?”

He looked up now, cold eyes meeting hers. “Because I said so. And because I see something in her.”

“She’s new!” Abby said. “Barely trained.”

“She saved lives back home. And maybe you’ve forgotten, but we need more like that. Not just muscle. Grit. Besides, the report came back and she took charge and got me that school.”

Abby folded her arms. “Then let me join the next batch. I want to be out there.”

Isaac studied her a moment, then nodded toward the convoy outside. “Salt Lake Crew can be parted for too long. Better go now. The truck leaves in three minutes.”

Abby didn’t hesitate. She turned and walked briskly, Owen following a few steps behind.

“You’re really doing this?” he called out.

She stopped briefly, just enough to throw him a look over her shoulder. “You know me.”

“Yeah. That’s what I’m worried about.”

She didn’t respond. She reached the truck, hoisted herself into the back among crates of ammunition and med kits, and sat between two younger soldiers. The doors shut behind her. The engine roared to life. Through a crack in the metal panel, she watched the world blur pastgray streets, fallen buildings, a world that never stopped rotting. Abby leaned her head back and let her mind wander.

It was near late afternoon when the truck finally rolled into the forward encampment near the school perimeter. Rain had turned the old road to mud, and soldiers moved between tents like ghosts. The tension was palpable. Wounded were laid on stretchers, boots and pants soaked in blood.

She kept thinking about the conversation with Isaac. The way he leaned over the war map, how his voice stayed flat when she asked about the new girl Ellie.

“I see potential,” he had said. No more, no less.

As the truck finally rolled to a halt, the driver barked, “We’re here!”

Abby jumped down into the mud, boots squelching. The rain had eased to a mist, but the sky remained gray and low. The school stood like a broken fortress, its windows smashed and walls pocked with bullet marks and scorch burns. Makeshift barricades surrounded the entrance, reinforced with scrap metal and stacked desks. Smoke curled from a burn barrel at the side. She immediately spotted Mannydirty, exhausted, but alive. He grinned and opened his arms.

“Mi chica!”

Manny came jogging up, his face lit with that same grin he always wore after a fight. He slapped his soaked hand against Abby’s shoulder with a wet smack.

“Look who finally decided to show up!” he crowed.

She let herself get pulled into a one-armed hug.

“Didn’t think I’d see you over this way.” he said.

Abby grinned. “You look like hell.”

“And you look like you slept through the end of the world,” he said, motioning back toward the school. “Come on, you gotta see this. We had a rough patch, real rough but we took the damn place.”

He led her through the busted entrance, stepping over debris and drying blood. Abby noticed the bodies had already been cleared, but the scent of death still lingered beneath the cleaner sting of bleach and mud.

As they passed into what used to be the front lobby, now turned staging area, she saw her.

Ellie sat on a gray crate near a stack of salvaged supplies, her legs spread as she cleaned a revolver with quick, practiced movements. Her fingers were slick with oil, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. The weapon gleamed dark in the dim light.

She noticed them and stood immediately, slipping the revolver into her waistband with casual ease. Her face was unreadable for a second, then softened just enough as she gave a nod.

“Hey,” Ellie said.

“Look at her,” Manny said proudly, slinging an arm toward Ellie like a stage presenter. “Our little badass. Took down three infected, saved Mia’s ass, cleared a hall solo. You should’ve seen it, Abby.”

Ellie rolled her eyes and gave Manny a sarcastic half-smile. “You exaggerate.”

“Maybe didn’t clear a hallway by herself,” Manny winked. “But you did great, hermosa.”

Ellie smirked, then glanced at Abby. “Sorry you missed the fun.”

Abby stepped forward. She took in the younger woman, drenched but composed, tense but alert. There was something guarded in her expression, but something honest too. Abby recognized it. That fire you get after surviving when others didn’t.

“I heard about what happened," Abby said.

Ellie hesitated then nodded. “Yeah. It wasn't pretty, but we made it.”

“I’m glad you're okay,” she said.

There was a pause. Ellie shrugged, trying to downplay it. “We got lucky.”

Manny stepped between them, grinning. “Nah, it wasn’t luck. It was skill. And guts. And, you know, my stunning good looks helped.”

Ellie chuckled, finally breaking the tension. “Sure. That must’ve scared the infected away.”

Behind them, more boots hit the soaked ground as the rest of the reinforcements began unloading gear and checking wounded. The fire barrels glowed against the rainy morning light, and the hum of radio chatter filled the background.

Manny swung the classroom door open with a crooked grin. The hinges creaked like old bones, but the room itself felt like the closest thing to peace they’d had in days. Makeshift tables, chairs scavenged from the school’s less-destroyed wings, and faded motivational posters still clung to the walls like ghosts of the world before.

“Welcome to paradise,” Manny joked as he strolled in first. “We got four walls, a ceiling, and the finest diningjust wait.”

Jordan sat behind an old teacher’s desk, feet up and arms crossed. He looked up from the sketchpad in his lap and offered a lazy wave toward Abby. “Well, well, if it isn’t the hammer herself.”

Abby snorted and dropped her pack beside the nearest chair. “Don’t start, Jordan.”

Jordan grinned. “I wasn’t gonna say anything. Just glad you’re here. Missed a hell of a show.”

Before Abby could answer, Ellie entered behind Manny, her shoulders tight and back straight. She moved with quiet purpose, but there was a raw edge to her movementsas if every muscle was wound up like a spring. The revolver she’d cleaned earlier rested at her hip. She didn’t look like a newcomer anymore. She looked like someone who’d been through the fire and walked back out of it.

Manny dropped into a chair with a loud sigh and pulled a dented can from his bag. “Guess what, guess what! Look what your boy found in the teacher’s lounge.” He thumped the can down on the desk like it was gold.

“Chef Boyardee,” he said with dramatic flair. “Meatballs, too. Almost pristine. I’m calling it this is our victory feast.”

Jordan laughed, tossing his sketchpad aside. “Gourmet.”

Abby raised an eyebrow and leaned on the desk, arms crossed. “Gonna share, or you hoarding it for the gods?”

“Only if you bow and call me El Rey de la Pasta,” Manny replied with mock seriousness.

Ellie, who had been standing near the windows, didn’t respond. Her hand rested on the edge of a broken shelf, and her gaze was fixed on something invisible. Her shoulders stiffened slightly. Her breaths were shallow. It wasn’t a dramatic breakdown, not a full flashback but Abby recognized the signs.

She crossed the room quickly, brushing Manny aside without a word. “Hey,” she said, voice quiet. She placed a hand lightly on Ellie’s shoulder.

No response.

“Ellie.”

Still nothing.

Abby shook her shoulder gently, not enough to alarm, just enough to bring her back. “You with us?”

Ellie blinked rapidly, then turned her head toward Abby. Her expression flickered between confusion and realization. “Yeah… yeah. Sorry,” she mumbled, shaking her head slightly like shaking off a bad dream. “I’m good.”

“You sure?” Abby asked, dropping her hand and stepping back.

Ellie gave a small, tight smile. “Tired. That’s all.”

She moved toward the desks and sat beside Jordan, trying to hide the slight tremor in her hands as she rested them in her lap.

“Man, it’s not just tired,” Jordan said, offering her a canteen of water. “You got runner guts still in your clothes, and a scar across your cheek. Welcome to the squad.”

Ellie smirked, accepting the water. “Appreciate the warm welcome.”

Manny, not one to linger on tension, popped the can with his knife and scooped a bit out with his fingers. “No fork. Real warriors eat with their hands.”

Abby rolled her eyes. “Disgusting.”

“You love it,” he said with a grin, sticking a meaty glob into his mouth.

As they settled into the room, the atmosphere lightened. Despite the storm outside still tapping against the windows and the air still tasting of dust and rot, something warm settled over them. The school had been hell, but they took it. And they were still standing.

Ellie pulled a cloth from her bag and began wiping down her revolver again. Abby noticed the way her fingers moved automatically, almost too quickly. A coping mechanism. A habit of the haunted.

“You named it yet?” Abby asked, nodding at the weapon.

Ellie looked up. “What?”

“Your gun. They say naming your weapon gives it character. Or makes you sound crazy. Depends on who you ask.”

Ellie tilted her head. “Who the fuck names their guns? You name yours?”

“Big Bertha,” Abby said without pause, patting the side of her holstered pistol. “She’s been through worse.”

Ellie cracked a smile, a genuine one this time. “Haven’t thought about it. Maybe I’ll call her… ‘fuck off”

“Good name,” she said finally.

Hours passed. People rotated through the room. Some came to check supplies, others just to sit for a few minutes in silence. Rain still pounded the school roof, but the walls held strong. For now. At one point, a boy named Lucas came in with a radio strapped to his back. He dropped it on the desk and started fiddling with the knobs, trying to boost reception.

“We’ve been hearing chatter from the east,” he said. “Could be infected, could be Scars. Not clear. Might be some stragglers from Red’s team. Hard to say.”

“Any word from Isaac?” Abby asked, moving to his side.

Lucas shook his head. “He’s off-grid right now. Mike’s trying to contact central command. Until then, we hold this position and wait for further orders.”

Ellie leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling. “Waiting’s the worst part.”

That night, Abby couldn’t sleep. The others dozed on mats and makeshift bedding, but she sat with her back against the wall, rifle across her lap. She looked toward Ellie, who was curled in a blanket beside the door, her revolver close, a faint furrow in her brow even in rest.

She reminded Abby of herself when she first joined the WLF, full of whatever anger is felt. Only Abby had people to guide her, push her, challenge her. Ellie seemed like she’d never had anyone except the ghosts.

She stood quietly and walked to the back of the room, where the windows overlooked the ruined playground. Metal swings creaked in the breeze. Trees dripped heavy rainwater onto broken benches.

“You alright?” came a voice behind her.

It was Jordan. He had a blanket over one shoulder and was scratching his arm.

“Fine,” Abby replied. “Can’t sleep.”

“Yeah… Well with Manny snoring I’m surprised anyone can.”

They stood in silence for a bit.

“You think this is worth it?” Jordan asked quietly.

Abby turned toward him. “Taking the school?”

“No, genius. Staring at the rain. Of course the school.”

Ellie shifted slightly, not looking at either of them, just listening. As she moved in her sleeping bag.

“I don’t know,” Abby said finally. 

“Better than no.”

“And the dead what do they gotta say about all this?” Abby asked 

He let out a low whistle. “This got heavy real quick.”

“I blame the rain,” Abby said.

“Always blame the rain,” Jordan agreed.

Abby eventually stepped away from the group, rising slowly and stretching her back, joints popping from the hours hunched against the classroom wall. She cast a glance toward the hallway, expression unreadable in the dim light.

“I need to check in with Mike,” she muttered, already brushing dust from her pants and slinging her pack over one shoulder.

“You’re not staying?” Jordan asked from his spot on the floor, his voice carrying just a hint of disappointment.

“Need to see what he wants done with the perimeter,” she replied, tugging the strap of her backpack snug across her chest.

“I can tag in,” Ellie offered, already halfway out of her sleeping bag, boots sliding on the worn linoleum as she moved with more purpose than hesitation.

“FuckGod, I thought you were a deep sleeper,” Jordan grumbled sarcastically, throwing a half-crushed snack wrapper at her.

“Fuck no,” Ellie said, brushing it off with a smirk. “With Manny snores I get barely any sleep.”

Abby watched her zip up her black jacket, scuffed leather, familiar, worn down to fit her like armor. “You sure?” she asked, her voice quiet but weighted.

Ellie nodded, expression briefly unreadable. “Rather move than sit still.”

They all understood what that meant. No one said anything else. Too much silence gave ghosts time to whisper.

Abby pulled the door open and stepped out, and Ellie followed close behind. The hallway beyond was dark and clammy, smelling of mildew, scorched drywall, and wet copper pipes. The air was thick with petrichor and the lingering scent of burnt metal like something had died and the rain refused to wash it away.

The door groaned shut behind them, sealing off the low hum of voices and the shuffle of sleeping bodies. In its place, the echo of their boots filled the dark hallway like the sound of memory scraping bone.

Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting sickly yellow veins across the crumbling lockers and warped tile. Water dripped from somewhere in the ceiling. A smear of dried blood had been half-heartedly scrubbed off the wall. The silence between the two women wasn’t coldit was the kind that had nothing left to prove.

Halfway down the hall, two WLF soldiers sat slouched against the wall, rifles leaned nearby and a dented thermos between them. One of thema burly guy with dark curls tied back and a lazy grinperked up at the sight of them. He lifted a hand and offered Ellie a fist bump.

“Look who it is. Fuckin’ badass of the week.”

Ellie hesitated for just a second, then bumped his fist. “You’re only saying that because I didn’t shoot you in the ass yesterday.”

The guy laughed, wide and easy. “Please, you’d miss.”

“No, she wouldn’t,” Abby cut in with a smirk.

They were still grinning when a young woman rounded the corner. She was maybe twenty, twenty-one, with her WLF jacket tied at the waist and her eyes already red-rimmed from crying. Her steps faltered when she saw Ellie.

Without hesitation, she crossed the hallway and pulled Ellie into a hug.

Ellie froze, stiff as a fence post.

The girl was trembling. “Thank you,” she whispered, voice cracking like thin glass. “For staying with her.”

Ellie didn’t speak. Her arms lifted slowly, awkwardly, and settled around the woman’s back in a loose hug that barely lasted more than a heartbeat.

“Ishe talked about you,” the girl added, wiping her eyes. “Said you were funny. Said you made her feel safe.”

“She did all the hard work…I-...I’m sorry about her leg I wish I could have-”

“No, please don’t blame yourself. You saved her life. That is what is important…Thank you.”

Ellie just nodded. Her face was unreadable. The girl gave a wet sniff, then nodded once and turned away, disappearing back around the corner with quick, embarrassed steps. The soldier with the thermos gave Ellie a silent look of respect, then returned to his post.

They walked on.

Ellie didn’t speak until they reached the end of the hall and turned down another corridor lined with half-toppled bookshelves and cracked lockers.

“People shouldn’t thank me for shit like that,” she muttered.

Abby didn’t press. “You stayed with her when she was bleeding out. That’s more than a lot of people would do.”

Ellie shrugged. “Didn’t feel like a choice.”

“It usually doesn’t. That’s what makes it matter.”

Ellie gave her a sidelong glance, but didn’t respond. Her fingers worried at the strap of her pack as they walked, the hallway opening into the former library. Cots had been dragged in between the shelves, tarps strung up for privacy. A couple soldiers were curled under blankets, murmuring in low voices or snoring.

The two slipped past quietly.

Abby broke the silence again once they were out of earshot. “You know,” she said, “you don’t have to pretend you hate being around people all the time.”

“I don’t” Ellie started, then gave an exaggerated groan. “Ugh, don’t psychoanalyze me.”

“I’m not. I’m complimenting you.”

“That’s worse.”

Abby grinned. “You’re good with them. I’ve seen how they look at you.”

Ellie snorted, but her ears turned a little red. “Yeah, well… I guess it’s better than them aiming guns at me.”

“You're never gonna let Jordan forget that, are you?”

“Nope he’s fucked.” Ellie teased with a smile.

Abby let out a small chuckle. “Then he’s on for a long ride of hell.” Abby said, a touch softer. “You’ve grown.”

Ellie rubbed the back of her neck. “I guess. Maybe. I dunno. I like when it’s quiet, but sometimes I like being around people too. Just don’t like... the expectations.”

Abby nodded. “Well, you’re in luck. We’ve got a shit-ton of people. Expectations included. Comes free with every lunch.”

Ellie cracked a smile. “That’s a shitty deal.”

“Welcome to the WLF.”

They turned a corner and made their way to the teachers’ lounge in what had once been a break room filled with cheap coffee machines and stale gossip. Now it was a makeshift command post. A folding table served as a desk, a map of the school pinned open and littered with notes. Empty food wrappers, shell casings, and field reports cluttered every available surface.

Mike was hunched over the table, one hand scribbling notes, the other near the radio set to low volume, white noise humming steadily. The light from a gas lantern flickered, casting his scarred face in alternating shadow and glow.

He didn’t look up at first. “’Bout time,” he muttered. “You check the north stairwell?”

“Clear,” Ellie answered.

Mike turned, eyes narrowing at Abby. Then his lips quivered into a rare grin. “The hell did you get here?”

“This afternoon I was worried…Worried over my friends.” Abby answered.

“Hmp Manny almost pissed himself and Jordan I heard shit his pants and Ellie screamed like a girl.”

Ellie blinked. “Huh?”

Mike reached into his pocket, pulled out a match, and struck it across the brim of her black hat. The sulfur hissed and flared to life, casting a brief golden halo around her. “Congratulations,” he said, nodding once. “You’re officially one of us now.”

Ellie’s brow knit. “What?”

He reached over to the table and slid a small metal pin toward her blackened, with the faded wolf insignia. “Effective immediately, welcome to the Washington Liberation Front,” Mike said. “You earned this. That attack plan? The route through the art wing? That saved lives. You didn’t just survive out there you led.”

Ellie stared at the pin. For a moment, she didn’t speak. Then she raised one fist halfheartedly in the air.

“Hooray,” she deadpanned.

Abby snorted and gave her a solid pat on the back. “You’re such a dork.”

“Bite me,” Ellie said, cracking a grin despite herself. “Thanks, though.”

Mike chuckled. “Don’t get cocky. You screw up, you still pull latrine duty.”

“I’m touched.”

Mike’s expression grew more serious. “We’ll hold the school for now, but radio chatter says infected movement to the south. Rain’s driving them out of the tunnels. Could be we get a wave in the next 48 hours.”

Ellie nodded, mood shifting. “You need me on watch?”

“Rest up first. But yeah. You’ll get your rotation orders.”

Abby leaned over the map. “Where’s Nick?”

“Wait Nick is here?” Ellie asked, confused.

“Basement,” Mike replied. “Sorting through salvage for Isaac supply list. He wants to review deployment options in the gym later.”

Abby nodded and tugged Ellie toward the side of the room, away from the map. A couch had been dragged in from the counseling office torn leather, springs poking through one arm. Ellie sank into it with a grunt, tossing her new pin onto the cushion beside her.

Abby remained standing, arms folded.

“You’re good with this?” she asked. “WLF, I mean.”

Ellie hesitated. “Don’t really know what I am anymore. But…This feels like something.”

Abby looked down at her. “You are something. Don’t need a wolf pin to prove it.”

Ellie smirked, picking at the edge of the couch. “You trying to compliment me or recruit me for therapy?”

“Maybe both.”

Ellie stared at the flickering lantern for a long moment. Then: “That girl… the one who hugged me? Her sister was bleeding out on the basketball court when we got hit. I didn’t know me at all beside the “new girl”. She just… held my hand. She asked for me to stay as they chopped her leg off.”

Abby lowered herself onto the nearby chair. “You did the right thing.”

“I know.”

They sat in silence again, the kind that didn’t need filling. Outside, thunder rolled distantly, and the sound of rain against the boarded windows grew heavier. Somewhere, faintly, a dog barked then a short burst of automatic fire snapped through the air before being swallowed again by the storm.

“So,” Ellie said after a while, stuffing her hands into her jacket pockets. “You and Owen. Is that a serious thing?”

Abby gave her a sideways glance. “Wow. Subtle.”

“I pride myself on being tactful,” Ellie deadpanned. “You know, like a crowbar to the face.”

Abby chuckled. “It….Complicated.”

“That’s not a yes or a no.”

“It better than me not answering,” Abby said, voice low, a half-smile curling her lip. “We grew up in this… chaos together. That bonds people. Then life happened.”

Ellie nudged her with an elbow. “Still sounds like someone had a crush then feel in love.”

“God,” Abby groaned, rolling her eyes. “He had this dumb dolphin keychain in his bag. That should’ve been a red flag.”

Ellie grinned. “So you fell for a guy with marine biology dreams and a dolphin keychain. Bold.”

“Says the girl who stabbed a man with a plastic fork for stealing her comic books.”

“Hey, that guy bent the corners. Monster.”

They shared a laugh, and for a moment, it felt like they were just two girls walking home from school—before the world turned inside out.

Ellie glanced over at her again. “What about before all this? Or have you always been with WLF?”

Abby’s expression tightened slightly, but she didn’t shy away. “My dad was a doctor,” she said. “Smart. Soft-spoken. Believed people deserved second chances. The day… I stopped being a kid.”

Ellie looked down at her boots. “I get that.”

“I wanted to make it right,” Abby continued. “To do something that meant something. That’s how I ended up here.”

They walked in silence again, their shadows stretched long across the hallway floor. Abby hesitated at the teacher’s lounge door. The lantern light flickered behind the frosted glass.

She looked at Ellie, something deeper stirring behind her eyes. The kind of thing you only said once, when the time was right.

“That’s a story for another time.” she said softly.

Chapter Text

Ellie chewed slowly on a lukewarm grilled cheese, the kind that squished like rubber between the teeth. It wasn’t good, but it wasn’t moldy, and it was warm. In this world, that counts as gourmet. The echoes of laughter and chatter filled the makeshift space, bouncing between old championship banners and faded stadium paint. Rain still tapped faintly somewhere overhead, as it always seemed to do in Seattle. She still hadn't grown used to the endless rain and very little sunlight but Manny keeps telling when summer comes it will be better.

Ellie sat hunched beside Nora, and Nick who was halfway through a cup of powdered coffee and flipping lazily through a battered old National Geographic. A photo of a lion mid-roar covered one page, its mouth open in an eternal, soundless snarl.

Jordan, sitting across from them, waved a spoon in the air like a conductor’s baton. “I swear to God, Manny, it was six of them. At least. All high on something. One dude took a bullet to the neck and just kept screaming like a banshee.”

“You told me it was four,” Leah grinned, voice full of mischief. “Now it’s six? What, tomorrow it’s gonna be twelve and one of them’s gonna have wings?”

Ellie smirked behind her sandwich, eyes flicking to Leah. “Did he tell you runners can fly too? Maybe breathed fire?”

Nick grinned at her, undeterred. “Ellie you shit! It’s called dramatic storytelling. You should try it sometime.”

“Oh, I’ve done my fair share,” Ellie said. “But usually the monsters I kill stay dead.”

That got a bark of laughter from Nora, who nudged Ellie with her elbow. “God, it’s weird how you stuck with us.”

“Don’t say that like I’m a fucking camouflage jacket,” Ellie said, but there was warmth in her voice. “You guys were all dicks at first.”

“We’re still dicks…Well Nick more so.” Manny said cheerfully, shoveling another bite into his mouth. “You just got used to it.”

“Fuck you!” Nick flipped his middle finger high.

Ellie chewed the chewy grilled cheese, hot but bland. Her eyes drifted to the military ration of orange juice she’d rather starve than drink.

“You gonna finish that?” Nora asked, gesturing to Ellie’s drink.

Ellie raised a brow. “I will stab you.”

“That’s fair.”

Her eyes looked back watching Nick miming some grand explosion with his hands as he recounted their last patrol, while Manny, laughing so hard his stomach shook, elbowed him in the ribs.

“So I said, ‘You’re gonna throw a molotov while wearing flip-flops?’ And this cabrón just shrugs!”

“‘S'long as I don’t spill it!’” Nick quoted back proudly.

“Idiots,” Nora muttered under her breath, but she smiled all the same. Ellie hid a grin behind her sandwich.

Their laughter was interrupted by a soft tap on Ellie’s shoulder. She turned and froze. An older man stood there, his skin weathered by sun and time, wearing an old black sweater now more brown with age. His eyes were gentle, deep brown like Manny’s, and his presence was warm, grounding.

“Perdona, mija,” he said, smiling. “I just wanted to thank you. For watching out for my son.”

Ellie didn’t respond at first. Her hand trembled slightly under the table. His touch had caught her off-guard, and a memory not real, but just sharp enough flickered behind her eyes. Rain, cold hands, shouting all back to Colorado.

She blinked hard, forcing the image away.

“I… uh, sure,” she muttered, voice low. “No problem.”

“No, really,” he said gently, leaning back with a smile that carried more weight than his words. “You’ve been a blessing to this family. It means more than I can say.”

Ellie opened her mouth, searching for something to saysome deflection, maybebut Manny jumped in before she had the chance.

“Oh God, Papa, are you about to make Mama your spicy rice again?” he teased.

He gave her a kind pat on the shoulder and moved on, ruffling Manny’s hair like he was ten. “You eat like a beast,” he said fondly in Spanish, shaking his head.

“Papá!” Manny barked, his mouth full. “Déjame comer, I’m a growing man!”

“You’re growing wide,” Nora muttered.

“Hey!” he snapped, clutching his sandwich protectively. “This is art! Grilled turkey and hot saucecall me Picasso!”

“Picasso painted with actual talent,” Ellie deadpanned.

“¡Ay, traición!” Manny threw up his hands dramatically, sauce dribbling down his chin.

Nick choked on his laugh while Nora handed Ellie a napkin and whispered, “Nice.”

Before Manny could recover, the cafeteria doors clanged open, and Owen walked in, hands in pockets, flanked by Abby, who looked like she’d just come from the armory. Her tank top was streaked with oil, her braid tied up messily, and her arms flexed with the casual strength of someone used to carrying rifles more often than conversations.

The two made their way down the aisle of tables, and Manny immediately stood and waved his arms.

“Oh no,” Nora said, already bracing herself.

“¡Abby! ¡Owen! Look who decided to grace us with their dysfunctional couple energy!”

Abby rolled her eyes but cracked a smile. Owen smirked.

“We’re not married,” Abby said flatly.

“Yet,” Manny added, waggling his eyebrows.

“Is your mind always on sex,” Owen said, and slid into the seat beside Nick.

“You know what this needs?” Manny suddenly declared, pushing his chair back. “A little music.”

“Oh god no,” Abby groaned.

Manny cleared his throat dramatically. “Oh baby, baby, how was I supposed to know… that something wasn’t right here…”

Nick practically spit soup from his nose. Nora started snapping her fingers. Ellie stared, wide-eyed, caught between laughter and horror.

Abby buried her face in her hands.

“Stopstop, please stop,” she said, through her fingers.

“I shouldn’t have let you gooooo!” Manny sang with increasing volume and exaggerated pelvic thrusts.

Nora laughed so hard she nearly fell from the bench.

Even Ellie couldn’t help it she let out a sharp, rare snort, trying to hide her grin behind the rim of her canteen. When she looked across the table, Owen was watching her, and he seemed surprised… but not in a bad way. She held his gaze for a moment, then looked down quickly.

Manny finally bowed, arms out. “Thank you, thank you. No encore.”

“Thank god,” Abby muttered.

“I got the voice of an angel,” Manny added, flopping down again and attacking his sandwich with renewed enthusiasm.

“That angel’s drunk and tone-deaf,” Ellie muttered, and Nora fist-bumped her in the air.

Ellie kicked a stray pebble along the concrete as she walked beside Manny, the humid dusk air of Seattle hanging low and heavy. The faint light from the sun fading behind the mountains painted the sky in bruised purples and greys. The stadium lights buzzed above them, giving everything a flickering amber glow.

“Have you ever seen that one spy flick?” Manny asked, rubbing his stomach. “The one with the crazy blonde guy who jumps off the Kremlin? Stop World War III by seducing a Russian general’s daughter?”

Ellie let out a dry chuckle. “You mean every 80s spy movie ever?”

He grinned, finger-gunning at her. “That’s the one. You wanna watch it? I got a scratched-up DVD of it somewhere in my room.”

“I dunno,” Ellie said, shrugging. “Only if I can do my own stunt work while you scream in Spanish the whole time.”

Manny laughed, loud and belly-deep, his laughter echoing off the corridor walls. “Deal. But I ain’t jumping off any Kremlin for you, chica.”

They rounded the corner leading toward the makeshift residential area; a former team locker room turned into bunk quarters when a man in a weathered WLF vest stepped out from the shadow of a support beam.

“Ellie Williams?”

Her muscles tightened instinctively. She stepped a bit behind Manny, hand briefly brushing the pocket of her jacket where she kept her knife. “Yeah?”

He glanced at a paper in his hand, folded and stained with coffee. “Got a message for you. Came from the FOB. Isaac wants to see you.”

Ellie blinked. “Now?”

“Now.”

Manny tilted his head. “Shit, hermano, it’s nearly dinner. What, the old man is bored or something?”

“Not you. Just her.”

Ellie looked between them, groaning. “You sure he doesn’t just wanna play chess or something? Could use a nap.”

The soldier didn’t even blink. “Orders.”

“Great,” she muttered.

Manny offered her a slight, uneasy smile. “Want me to walk you to the convoy?”

“I’m not five,” Ellie said, rolling her eyes.

He chuckled and stepped back with both hands raised. “Fine, fine. But if you die, I’m taking your guitar.”

She smirked and bumped him with her shoulder as she passed. “You do and I’ll haunt your ass. Badly.”

The drive out to the FOB was quiet. Rain had started againlight, insistent, and unceasing. The windshield wipers squeaked with every swipe, and the smell of damp canvas filled the Humvee.

Ellie sat in the passenger seat, watching the blurred lines of the city pass by: collapsed storefronts, graffiti-stained walls, cars rusting in place, nature creeping back in the form of moss and ivy. Occasionally, patrol squads flickered in and out of sightshadows moving through fog.

Her fingers tapped idly against her thigh. The soldier driving hadn’t said much, only that Isaac had radioed in for her specifically.

Which was fine by her.

She was used to grunt work. Patrols. Sweeps. Sometimes helping patch up wounded when Nora needed extra hands. But Isaac summoned her directly? That was new. What has been a month or two now? God Ellie really has forgotten time flies by.

They pulled up to the perimeter checkpoint near the Forward Operating Base, tires grinding over wet pavement as a sweeping spotlight bathed them in harsh white. The driver flashed a quick hand signal, three fingers, then a circle. The WLF soldier on duty responded in kind and waved them through without a word.

The compound used to be an apartment complex before the Washington Liberation Front seized it. They’d driven FEDRA out years ago, salvaged everything from food rations to riot shields, and used the remaining materials to reinforce the structure. Now, it was a fortress.

Ellie’s eyes were drawn to the tallest building in the cluster, an eleven-story monolith of cracked concrete and boarded windows. Draped from its top floor was a massive, faded blue weather tarp. Painted across it in deep, crude black was a snarling wolf head, jaws open mid-roar primal, defiant, and unmistakably WLF.

The humvee rolled into the parking lot and pulled into a space beside an old SWAT SUV, its paint faded and glass webbed with bullet cracks. The soldier behind the wheel Lieutenant Travis, if she remembered right, killed the engine and nodded toward the entrance.

“Isaac’s waiting upstairs.”

Ellie didn’t say anything. She grabbed her backpack, slung it over her shoulder, and followed him out into the wet air, her boots thudding against the cracked concrete. The rain had stopped, but the world still smelled of it oil and mildew mixed with rust and the faint tang of blood. The kind of stink you got used to in warzones.

They approached the inner checkpoint. A heavy steel door guarded the entrance to the base’s main operations building. Beside it sat a woman with short-cropped hair and tired eyes, flipping through a tattered comic book under flickering fluorescent light. She glanced up at the sound of their approach, sighed, then reached for a pen.

“Lieutenant Travis and Corporal Ellie,” she muttered, checking them off on a clipboard. “Isaac’s in the apartment tower.” She pressed a button, and the steel door buzzed, then clicked open.

Ellie stepped through and into the courtyard.

Once it might’ve been a communal space with kids playing and neighbors arguing over laundry. Now, it was utilitarian. Rows of kennels lined the wall to the left, each holding a WLF-trained dog German shepherds, mostly. She caught the soft, repetitive sound of tails thudding against metal cages. To the right were military tents and repurposed canopies covering workbenches, tool stations, and gear lockers. A makeshift field hospital had been set up in the back corner, partially hidden by canvas and a stack of broken gurneys.

WLF soldiers milled about. Some stood post with rifles cradled in gloved hands. Others played cards around a folding table, laughing under their breath. A few looked up as Ellie passed, but none stopped her. Word had probably already gotten around, Isaac had summoned her.

She headed toward the apartment building.

At the entrance, a man leaned against the doorframe, smoke curling from a cigarette dangling from his lips. His face was shadowed under the brim of a battered WLF cap, but his voice was unmistakably rough, the kind that came from years of shouting orders.

“Who you lookin’ for?” he grunted.

Ellie didn’t stop. “Your mom…Who do you think?” she shot back without missing a beat.

The man snorted a raspy laugh and pushed the door open. “Isaac’s upstairs.”

She stepped past him, into the dim, stale interior of the old apartment building. The hallway was lined with peeling wallpaper, water stains spreading like veins across the ceiling. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Somewhere distant, she heard a rhythmic thump, like a rubber mallet against flesh. Then came the faint sound of electricity arcing a flash and a low, strained grunt.

Ellie paused for a heartbeat. Something metallic and sour clung to the air. Blood. She could smell it even through the damp.

But she didn’t stop. She kept her eyes forward and began the climb.

Four stories up.

The stairwell groaned beneath her boots. Graffiti still covered the walls, FEDRA slogans half-erased by time and WLF mantras painted over them: Strength Through Unity, No Masters, No Slaves, We Are the Wolves. The deeper she went, the quieter it got like the air itself knew better than to make noise.

By the time she reached the fourth floor, the beating had stopped. The silence now felt heavy, expectant. Her legs sore from the climb and her breath slightly uneven. The hallway ahead was dim, with only a single overhead bulb casting a yellow light against the crumbling walls. A rusting plaque still labeled it “Management Office,” but the paint was chipped and smeared with muddy fingerprints and what looked like dried blood near the corner.

She adjusted her jacket and pushed open the heavy wooden door.

Isaac’s office was warmer than the stairwell, lit by a series of standing lamps and a low-burning heater in the corner. The faint scent of old cigar smoke lingered in the air, mixing with paper, metal, and a trace of something earthy gun oil, maybe.

He was standing behind a desk the size of a dinner table, poring over a massive map stretched out across its surface. Even with his back turned, Isaac’s presence was heavy broad-shouldered, still in his armored vest, sleeves rolled, forearms scarred.

“Took you long enough,” he said, a faint smirk tugging at the edge of his scarred face.

“Sorry,” Ellie muttered as she stepped inside, brushing damp hair from her eyes.Ellie stepped inside and raised her voice slightly, masking her nerves with sarcasm.

“Geez. You’d think with all this high-tech WLF gear, someone could’ve fixed the damn elevator.”

Isaac didn’t turn right away. Instead, he replied over his shoulder in a dry, steady tone.

“It's reserved for the old, the wounded, and me.” He finally looked back at her, one brow arched. 

“Are you serious?”

“No, I wanted you to walk and build your character.” As he gave a chuckle. Low and rough, the sound of someone who didn’t laugh often but appreciated when it happened.

Ellie rolled her eyes but stepped forward. As she approached the desk, she took in the room more clearly: filing cabinets pushed against the walls, a corkboard full of photos, red strings, and scrawled notes. A rack of rifles leaned beside a locked cabinet near the door, and in the corner, a battered chair sat beneath a wall of old photos of WLF squads, candid shots, and a framed image of Isaac standing between two younger soldiers. Both were dead now, if she remembered right.

Spread across the desk was a detailed topographical rendering of Seattle and the surrounding area, marked with pins, circles, and faded red ink. Zones labeled “CLEANSED” contrasted sharply with areas marked “INFESTED” or “SCAR ACTIVITY.” Some districts had notes beside them small details scrawled in Isaac’s sharp handwriting: Sniper nests here, Ambush risk, Civilians suspected of aiding Scars.

Ellie whistled low. “Looks like you’ve been busy.”

Isaac looked up at her, unreadable for a moment. “You’ve been with us three months now.”

That hit her harder than she expected.

“Three months?” she echoed, frowning. “Huh.”

He leaned his weight against the desk, arms crossed. “Time flies when you’re useful.”

Ellie blinked, caught off guard by the compliment.

“Mike says your team runs tight,” he continued. “You take orders. You adapt fast. Smart mouth, but reliable. That’s rare.”

“Guess I learned from the best,” she said, trying not to sound too affected. “Mostly.”

He gave her a small nod of acknowledgment and turned back to the map. “I want you to understand what we’re dealing with. You’ve seen some of it, patrols, raids, infected dens but this city’s a goddamn pressure cooker.”

Ellie folded her arms. “Isn’t that why you kicked FEDRA out? Wasn’t the WLF supposed to fix all this?”

Isaac turned to her, and his eyes piercing, tired, but sharp as ever locked onto hers. “Revolution,” he said quietly, “is easy.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Isaac ignored the quip. “When you lead a revolution, there’s one goal. One mind. You build unity on hatred, on survival. You get people to believe in the same enemy and you tear that enemy down.”

He paused, jaw tightening. “But ruling?” he said, voice lowering. “That’s a whole different beast.”

Ellie stayed quiet, eyes narrowing.

He gestured to the city. “FEDRA was a rot, sure. But now that they’re gone, we’ve inherited all the shit they left behind. Power grids failing. Waterlines broken. Medical shortages. And the worst winter in ten years coming down on us.”

He turned to face her fully. “People expect answers now. Stability. Food. Safety. We give it to them when we can. But every choice comes with a price. Every solution creates three new problems.”

He tapped a section of the map marked with a blue pin. “The QZ, we’re barely keeping it together. We’ve got refugee families we pulled from the outer districts. Squatters, ex-FEDRA collaborators. And they all expect miracles.”

“Why not just... crack down?” Ellie asked. “You’ve got the weapons, the manpower. The dogs. I’ve seen the tanks.”

“Because we’re not FEDRA,” he said, firmly but not unkindly. “I refuse it, I will not allow rule through fear. Not yet.”

There was a silence.

“And the Scars?” Ellie asked. “Where do they fit into this mess?”

Isaac’s expression darkened.

“They don’t.”

He walked around the desk, pacing slowly.

“They’re the infection that won’t die. We’ve pushed them back five times in the past month. Every time, they crawl out from some hidden hole. Cut down a patrol. Burn a supply cache. Kidnap civilians from the edge zones. Their message spreads like moldwhispers about returning to nature, rejecting machines, purging the corrupted.”

He paused beside her.

“You’ve seen what they do. What they believe. There’s no peace to be made with zealots.”

Ellie thought back to hearing only stories from what one encounter Mike told her he had a Scar teenager, just a little older than she was, screaming scripture with a broken jaw, trying to gouge a soldier’s eyes out even while bleeding out. They didn’t beg. They didn’t surrender. It was like watching someone possessed.

“They’re not afraid of dying,” Ellie said quietly.

“No,” Isaac replied. “And that’s what makes them dangerous.”

He returned to the desk and leaned over the map again. His fingers rested on a spot near the Meadowbrook tunnels. “We’ve located another one of their hideouts here. Big one. Probably a command cell. Tomorrow morning, I’m sending Mike’s squad to flush it out.”

Ellie watched him closely. “You want me with them.”

Isaac didn’t answer right away. “I want someone who sees clearly. Who understands what’s at stake. You’ve been in this city long enough to know what’s coming if we fail.”

She looked at the map again. The red zones. The black markers. The creeping instability. Ellie exhaled slowly. “This whole place is held together with duct tape and chewing gum… So you want me to deal with fucked up cult? I’ve handled worse.”

Isaac gave a humorless smile. “And we’re the ones holding it. No, I want you to stay here. I have something more important.”

They stood in silence for a moment. Isaac stepped around the desk again and leaned against its edge, folding his arms loosely. His tone stayed even, but more personal now less commander, more… human.

“You’ve been fighting hard. Working with Mike’s team. Pulling your weight. Hell, you’ve even managed not to get yourself killed.”

Ellie shrugged, still half turned away. “That’s kind of my thing.”

“But you’re not sleeping,” he said flatly. “And you barely touch your food when you think no one’s looking.”

That made her finally glance back at him, eyes narrowing.

“I notice things,” Isaac said, not unkindly. “It’s my job to notice things. Especially with the people I trust.”

Ellie looked away again. Something in her chest tightened.

He let the silence sit for a second before stepping forward, voice dropping just enough to make it feel personallike it was just the two of them in the whole damn city.

“I know what it’s like to carry something alone,” he said. “The weight. The secrets. The kind of shit that gets into your bones and stays there.”

Ellie stayed quiet, her jaw tightening.

“When I was younger,” Isaac continued, “I lost my brother. I blamed myself for it. Wasn’t true, but it didn’t matter. The people I trusted turned on me, fast. And the ones I thought I hated… turned out to be the only ones who didn’t.”

He glanced up at her. “Funny how pain changes you. Makes you see things differently.”

Ellie didn’t respond. She just stared ahead at the far wall, eyes vacant, breath steady but shallow.

Isaac took a small step forward.

“You want to tell me what’s eating you?” he asked. “Or you gonna let it rot inside?”

That finally got something from her. Ellie’s shoulders dropped, the mask slipping just a little.

“I was lied to,” she said quietly, voice flat. “By someone I trusted more than anyone.”

Isaac didn’t interrupt. He waited, patient.

She took a breath tight, shaky. “They told me what I wanted to hear. Made me believe in something. In… them. And when I found out it was a lie it broke me.”

She looked at him now, not angry, not crying, just hollow. Honest.

“I’m still hurting,” she admitted. “And I don’t know how to stop.”

Isaac nodded slowly, eyes locked with hers. “That pain? That’s not a weakness, Ellie. It’s truth. The kind of truth most people run from their whole lives.”

He stepped a little closer and softened his tone even further.

“You’ve survived things most people couldn’t even imagine. You’re strong but strength doesn’t mean ignoring pain. It means learning from it. Using it.”

Ellie searched his face, not entirely sure whether to believe him or not.

He gave her a faint, paternal smile.

“You don’t have to carry it alone anymore.”

She let the words settle in. And for a moment, just a moment she felt the pull of them. Like a rope thrown into dark water. Like a hand offered in a fire.

And then Isaac turned toward the door. “Come with me,” he said.

She blinked. “Where?”

“I want to show you something.”

Ellie hesitated. There was a strange chill in the air now. Something about the shift in his tone made her stomach knot. But she followed him anyway. They walked in silence down the hall, past darkened rooms and broken windows. At the end of the corridor was a rusted metal door with an old fire exit sign hanging by one chain. Isaac pushed it open, revealing the stairwell again but this time, he stopped at the elevator shaft.

To her surprise, there was an elevator, an old industrial freight lift, half jury-rigged back to life with generator lines and steel reinforcement bars welded along the walls. She hadn’t seen it before. Clearly not for regular use.

Isaac stepped inside and motioned her in. She hesitated, then followed.

The metal groaned as he hit the switch. The gate slid shut with a screech, and the lift began descending slowly, chains rattling, gears whining.

“Glad to see they actually work.”

“Do you always have to make a quick joke?”

“Yup.”

They passed the third floor. Then the second.

Ellie frowned. “What’s on the first floor?”

Isaac didn’t answer at first. Just looked at her.

“A test,” he said.

She stiffened. “What kind of test?”

Isaac turned to face her fully, his posture still relaxed, his expression unreadable. “One that’ll show me just how much you’re ready for.”

The elevator creaked as it passed through layers of darkness. Somewhere below, Ellie thought she heard something metal shifting. Maybe a voice. A distant thud.

She glanced at Isaac, who hadn’t moved.

“You trust me, Ellie?” he asked, voice low.

The question caught her off guard. “…I don’t know,” she answered honestly.

He nodded, as if that was the right answer. She followed him through another door, descending a flight of stairs into what looked like an abandoned locker room. Concrete walls, water-stained tiles, broken showerheads. There was a noise ahead a ragged cough. Something wet dripping. 

When they stepped into the tiled hallway, Ellie froze.

Chained to the wall in one of the shower stalls was a young man. Barefoot. Shirtless. Covered in bruises and drying blood. His arms were pulled behind him, wrists raw. One eye swollen shut. His breath came in shallow, wheezing bursts.

“What the fuck…” she whispered. Her hand instinctively went to the switch blade tucked in her waistband.

She saw the boy who was praying? She looked back at the boy. He was no older than her. Maybe younger. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts. His lips trembled as he whispered another prayer.

“She’s watching,” he muttered in his language. “The Prophet… she sees me…”

Ellie’s lip twitched. “He’s praying?”

Isaac stepped closer, voice low, almost gentle.

“That’s not a prayer, Ellie. That’s indoctrination. That’s him preparing to die for his cause. He wouldn’t flinch if we slit your throat right here. He wouldn’t blink.”

Ellie stared at him, her fists clenched so tightly her nails dug into her palms. Behind her, Isaac stood like a monolith, calm and composed. “This is wrong,” she said, her voice hollow.

Isaac didn’t flinch. “No. This is war.”

“He’s just a kid,” she argued, turning to face him, her voice rising. 

“He's a soldier,” Isaac replied. “Just like you.”

Ellie shook her head. “He’s beaten. Barely breathing. What’s the point?”

Isaac stepped closer, his voice smooth and heavy like molasses. “The point is you. I brought you down here because I see something in you, something real. You’ve survived. You’ve lost. You understand what it takes to walk through hell and keep going.”

Ellie looked away, jaw tight. “This isn’t who I am.”

He didn’t let up. “But it’s who you can become. You think this is about cruelty? About revenge? No. This is about control. About finding the strength to do what others can’t. That’s what it takes to win.”

He approached her now, voice soft but coiled with power. “I see the pain in you, Ellie. You wear it like armor. But armor cracks. You want to be free of it? You want answers? Release it.”

She swallowed hard. Her heart pounded in her ears. The boy whimpered—barely a sound, more a breath than a voice.“This is fucking insane.” she whispered.

“Ellie, you came here broken,” he said. “And I’m offering you a way to put yourself back together.”

Ellie’s breathing was growing shallow. The air was spinning. Hot. Tight.

“You want justice for what whoever did. For what whoever took from you. I can see it in your eyes every time you pull that trigger out there.”

She turned, staring him down. “You don’t know fucking thing about me.”

Isaac didn’t blink. “I know someone lied to you. Someone close. I know you built your world around them and when it collapsed, so did you. You feel lost. Hollow. Angry. And under all of that? Guilt. You blame yourself. Even when it isn’t your fault.”

Her face twitched, just slightly.

“You think I don’t see it?” he continued, stepping close again, lowering his voice. “You don’t hate the Scars. Not really. You hate yourself. For what you let happen. For what you couldn't stop.”

She looked down, lips parting but no words coming.

Isaac’s hand landed gently on her shoulder. “I’m not your enemy, Ellie. I’m the only one telling you the truth.”

The room seemed to shrink around her. She could barely hear the Scar boy anymore, just her own heartbeat pounding in her skull. He nodded toward the boy. “Ask him what he knows. Or don’t. Just stand there. But understand that if you don’t act, someone else will.”

Isaac walked to the door. “I’ll give you time,” he said, almost kindly. “Show me what you’re capable of.” He stepped out. The door clanged shut behind him.

Ellie was alone. The boy in the corner stirred slightly, coughing. His lips moved again. She leaned closer, her boots echoing against the concrete. “Where are you people?” she asked in a soft voice.

“…save me… The Prophet, she guides me…” He was whispering to whatever god the Scars worshipped. Prayers. Pleas.

Ellie stared at him, breathing heavily. “I asked you a question,” she said, her voice cold.

The boy didn’t look at her. Just continued praying.

“Don’t you even want to try?” she asked, louder now. “Tell me where your people are. Maybe I can stop this.”

Still nothing. Just the rasp of breath and the whisper of faith. Her jaw clenched. “You don’t care if you die, do you?”

A pause. Then, softly. “I will be reborn in the light of the Prophet. I will be free. I promise you.”

She grabbed the pipe. Tears blurred her vision. “STOP PRAYING!” she shrieked. She stepped forward, eyes wide, breath ragged. Her grip white-knuckled around the pipe. “I SAID—STOP!”

“You keep finding someone else to blame.”

Joel’s voice.

“You don’t know what loss is.”

Her knees buckled slightly. She gripped the pipe behind the boy to steady herself.

“The Fireflies…”

His voice grew louder, distorted, echoing through her head like a broken record.

“Ellie…I promise you I got us out of there.”

“No—” she whispered.

“I swear.”

She clutched her head.

The light overhead flickered.

She couldn’t breathe.

“The world lied,” she muttered. “You lied. Youlied—”

The prayer continued. Soft. Relentless. “…deliver me from their evil…”

She screamed. The pipe was in her hands. She didn’t remember grabbing it.

“YOU LIED!”

The boy looked up in time to see her eyes wild, burning, glassy with tears. She screamed again and brought the pipe down. The first strike cracked across his shoulder with a wet thud, knocking him sideways. He cried out, weakly, instinctively trying to shield himself with bound hands.

“You lied! You lied! You lied! You Lied—” She gave a harder swing each blow harder than the last. The boy screamed blood escaping his mouth as he laid on his stomach shaking and sobbing

The next blow landed on his back. The third, on his ribs. The fourth… she didn’t know anymore. The prayer had stopped. Only her breathing remained ragged, primal, a sob caught somewhere between her throat and stomach.

Ellie stood over the Scar boy, the rusted pipe loose in her trembling hand, blood dripping down its edge. His face was a ruin of bruises and split skin, one eye swollen shut, the other barely blinking. She didn’t even know when she’d stopped swinging.

Her chest heaved. Every breath scraped like glass inside her throat.

She looked at him—barely breathing now—and something cracked in her. Not pity. Not guilt. Just… emptiness. A black hole yawning open where her heart used to beat.

She dropped the pipe. It hit the concrete with a clang that echoed too loud in the tiled room.

She took a step back. Then another.

The boy didn’t cry. He just whispered something—hoarse and broken. A prayer maybe. Or a name. She didn’t care. She didn’t want to know. Couldn’t know.

She turned and walked out, her boots smearing red across the floor.

Isaac was waiting just beyond the door.

He didn't speak at first. Just watched her with those unreadable, storm-gray eyes.

Ellie stopped in front of him, shaking, confused, her breathing sharp and uneven. Her knuckles were split open. Her jaw clenched. There was something in her eyes that hadn’t been there before something fractured.

“I…” she started, but the words dried up. Her throat locked.

He looked at her. Just looked. Then he did something she hadn’t seen him do. Something that caught her off-guard more than anything else. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her.

“I knew you had the strength.” He whispered as his hug wrapped around her.

Tight.

A father’s embrace.

"I’m proud of you, kiddo," he whispered into her ear.

Her eyes snapped open. The breath left her lungs. A jagged pain sliced through her like glass. Joel’s voice echoing from some ghost of memory, layered under Isaac’s. The word bent in her mind like metal. twisting, distorting. Her entire body went still. 

That word. That fucking word.

“Kiddo.”

She stiffened in his arms. Her fists clenched. She wanted to scream. To tear him off her. To run. To die. But all she could do was stand there. Frozen. Shaking. Drenched in blood that wasn’t hers.

Chapter Text

Snowflakes danced down like drifting ash, silent and slow, gathering in the empty streets until the asphalt disappeared under a clean white sheet. Ellie’s boots hit the ground with a muted crunch as she dropped down from the loading dock she’d been using as a shortcut. The cold bit at her cheeks instantly, and her breath came out in steaming puffs.

“Jesus, Owen,” she muttered into the wind, tightening the scarf around her neck. “Couldn't you have picked somewhere closer to hide your little love nest? Nope. Let’s make it a scenic hike through an icebox.”

The wind cut through the streets like a serrated knife, pulling at the edges of Ellie’s hood and biting at the skin of her cheeks. Snow fell in lazy spirals under the gray midmorning sky, thick enough to soften the broken glass and rusted cars into pale, shapeless lumps.

Her breath came out in quick bursts of fog, each one immediately stolen by the breeze. She started down the road, boots crunching with each step, the sound loud in the otherwise dead air. The snow made the city quieter than usual. Even the wind sounded muffled, smothered by the heavy white blanket draped over everything.

The cold gnawed at her fingertips inside her gloves, and her nose burned. She shoved her hands deeper into her pockets and kept walking. The Aquarium wasn’t far—not really. It was just far enough to make her regret sneaking out without telling anyone.

Christmas. She still wasn’t sure if she cared about it anymore. In Jackson, the holiday was something people forced to be cheerful about: warm fires, hot cocoa, lights strung up on streetlamps to make everyone feel like things hadn’t gone to hell. She’d spent the last two Decembers there, one of them with Joel... This year, she was here. 

Snowflakes clung to her lashes. She blinked them away and let her mind wander as she picked her way past a half-collapsed coffee shop, its windows frosted over from the inside with ice.

She imagined Jackson right now, Tommy probably out helping the crew shovel snow from the main street, Maria bossing everyone around, kids playing with battered sleds someone had scavenged years ago. And Joel he-....No

Instead, she kept moving. The air smelled faintly of brine now, the saltwater tang that told her the Aquarium was close.

Halfway down the block, she passed an old gas station. Its awning had caved in under the snow, leaving the pumps half-buried. She hopped onto the crumbling curb, boots sliding a little on the ice, and balanced for a few steps like she used to on fences as a kid.

By the time she reached the edge of the docks, the snow had turned to fine needles, stinging her face. The water below was an inky, restless gray, waves slapping against ice-frosted pilings. She knew the way in, Owen had shown her the back entrance once, half-joking about it being their “VIP entrance.”

The building loomed ahead, a faded mural of sea life barely visible through the snow crusting the walls. The giant metal letters spelling Seattle Aquarium were half gone, the rest tilting precariously. She ducked through a gap in the chain-link fence, boots crunching on a patch of ice, and moved toward the hidden side door.

The door creaked when she pushed it open. Inside, the air was a lot warmer, but carried the damp, earthy smell of seawater and rot. A faint orange glow from somewhere deeper in the building lit her way.

“Ellie?” a voice called from down the hall. It was soft, careful, but familiar.

She grinned. “You expecting Santa Claus?”

Mel appeared around the corner, bundled in a thick sweater with her hair pulled back. She smiled when she saw Ellie. “You made it. I wasn’t sure you would, with the weather.” Mel stepped forward, arms out for a hug, but paused, waiting for Ellie’s permission.

“Agh, fine… only because I like you,” Ellie muttered, making Mel giggle. The hug was a soft one, the kind Ellie had grown used to since joining this crew. She’d never been one for that kind of that affection, but around here, hugs came with the territory. These days, she didn’t exactly enjoy them, she just tolerated them a little better.

Mel led her into the main hall where the tanks stood like silent cathedrals of glass. Most were empty or murky, but Owen had cleaned a few, their blue light casting rippling shadows across the walls. A battered table sat in the middle, covered in mismatched mugs, a dented pot of something steaming, and a few wrapped bundles of paper scavenged from old books or maps.

Owen was there too, crouched by a small camp stove. He looked up, grinning. “You survived the hike. Thought we’d have to send a search party.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ellie said, dropping her bag and rubbing her hands together near the stove’s heat. “Next time, I’m charging you extra for travel.”

“Hey on my tab, take an extra beer. Where's Jordan?”

Ellie smirked, “Yeah, they are mine haha. Well, I’m a little tired of the cold and the endless patrols. Besides, Jordan is busy with that teacher assistant girl.”

Owen chuckled, shaking his head. “Kayla right? She’s been keeping him on his toes.”

Ellie’s grin turned into a mischievous smirk as she  took a swig from her can. “You sure Jordan’s not just getting schooled?”

Mel snorted from behind Owen, clearly amused.

“I heard you’ve been chatting it up with Helia lately.” Mel teased, causing Ellie to spit out her cheap beer.

“Fuck off…We friends is all.” Ellie answered quickly while rubbing her sleeve over her mouth.

“Come on Owen we gotta bring her to the other are upstairs.” Mel cheerfully said.

Ellie raised an eyebrow and followed. The three of them moved deeper into the aquarium, now a blend of ruined glass tanks and carefully rigged living quarters. Giant tanks once home to stingrays and octopuses were now makeshift meeting rooms and storage for supplies. As they climbed the stairs to the open welcome room for the aquarium and soon went up another stairs to the main visiting lunch room turned into the living room.

Ellie’s eyes scanned the room, spotting familiar faces, Nora nursing a cup of hot cocoa,  Jordan engaged in a heated discussion with Nick while Leah lay stretched out, her head resting comfortably on Jordan’s lap. The way she looked up at him with fond and serene.

“Alright, enough small talk,” Jordan called out when he saw her. “Come join us. We’re just debating if Owen here could survive a day without his coffee.”

Owen rolled his eyes. “You’re all lucky I didn't start turning tables.”

Ellie laughed, sliding into the empty space beside Nick. “So, what’s the verdict? Is Owen the caffeine king or a total addict?”

Nick grinned, raising his mug. “Definitely an addict.”

The conversation flowed, stories bouncing around the room tales of close calls, stolen supplies, and dumb mistakes. Ellie chipped in with dry humor, joking about her own misadventures on patrol and the time she nearly fell off a roof.

Mel, who’d been quietly tidying up nearby, caught Ellie’s gaze and approached with a warm smile. “Hot chocolate?” she offered, holding a battered thermos and a chipped enamel mug.

Ellie nodded without hesitation. “Yeah. That sounds good.”

Mel poured the steaming liquid carefully, the aroma of rich cocoa filling the air. “Coming right up.”

As Mel moved toward the small kitchen corner, Owen stepped out from the shadows near the aquarium tanks and called out softly, “Ellie. Got a minute?”

Ellie set her beer down and followed him through the maze of makeshift furniture and scattered supplies to a corner by the main window. Snowflakes swirled just beyond the cracked glass, drifting against the city’s skeletal skyline.

Owen gestured toward a small table where a handful of hand-crafted stockings hung from a string tied between two hooks. The stockings were mismatched, sewn from scraps of faded cloth, burlap, and colorful patches, each one a little piece of warmth stitched together with care.

Mel’s handiwork, Owen said with a proud smile. Ellie rolled her eyes at the sentimental gesture but felt a flicker of appreciation for the effort. She’d never been much for decorating or holiday traditions, but this felt different. Genuine.

Owen handed her one of the stockings. It was smaller than she expected, made from thick wool with a simple embroidered flower near the cuff.

Ellie stared at it, surprised by the weight of it in her hand. “You made these?” she asked quietly.

Mel appeared behind Owen, nodding shyly. “It took a few weeks. Figured something like this would help keep spirits up.”

Ellie swallowed a lump in her throat and gave a small, reluctant smile. “Guess I didn’t expect that from Mel.”

Owen chuckled. “She’s full of surprises.”

The conversation drifted, and then Owen turned to Ellie, his expression softening. “How’s Abby?”

Ellie raised an eyebrow, smirking as she took a slow sip of the hot chocolate. “You dumped her on a random Tuesday a while ago.”

Owen’s embarrassed chuckle was quick and genuine. “Yeah, well... I deserved that.”

“Yeah, maybe do it better than a note.” Ellie snarked back

Ellie lingered a moment longer by the window, feeling the warmth of the hot chocolate seep into her hands. Owen was watching her, quiet now, as if waiting for her to say something else  or maybe just to be there. But Ellie was used to silence, and comfortable with it. She gave a small shrug at him than walked toward the living room.

Ellie made her way back, the soft murmur of voices growing louder as she approached the cluster of couches near the tank. Nora was there, lounging on the armrest, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Well, well, speak of the devil” Nora teased, nudging Ellie’s side lightly. “Looks like someone’s been busy this month.”

Ellie groaned, slumping down on the worn couch, “What now?”

Nora’s grin widened. “You’ve been spotted talking to that girl…Helia, right? Heard you two have been pretty close.”

Ellie rolled her eyes dramatically. “God, it’s not like that. I talk to people.” Ellie groaned dramatically, slumping down beside them. “Please. I’m not some lovesick puppy.””

Jordan, leaning against the nearby wall with a lazy smirk, cut in with his usual dry humor. “Yeah, right. You’re just lining up the men, waiting for the harem to form.”

Ellie shot him a look and shot back, “Girls are plenty enough for me, More than enough, actually thanks.”

Leah, who had been quietly listening while flipping through a battered notebook, smiled warmly and gave Ellie a gentle nod. “She’s got good taste,” Leah said kindly. “Whatever her preference, Ellie’s no fool.”

Then, just as they were settling into the moment, a sudden, loud banging echoed from the staircase leading downstairs. The metallic clang reverberated sharply through the quiet aquarium halls, startling everyone.

Leah was the first to speak, her voice calm but cautious. “Who could that be at this hour?”

Nora glanced toward the door, eyes narrowing. “Could be trouble.”

Jordan shifted closer to the group, hand moving instinctively toward the pistol at his hip. “Could be Scars,” he muttered darkly.

The sound echoed again — a BANG, BANG, BANG, this time deliberate and measured, a quick three knocks followed by a pause, then another three. It wasn’t random or angry; it was a coded knock, a pattern familiar to anyone living in the WLF’s fractured world.

Ellie exchanged a glance with Leah, who stood up, eyes narrowing in cautious curiosity. The others stiffened, fingers inching toward weapons or simply bracing for what might come.

“That’s a friendly knock,” Ellie said with quiet certainty, standing up and brushing snow from her jacket. Her voice carried calm, but there was an edge to it — a warning, almost. “Most likely one of ours.”

Jordan smirked from the couch, teasing, “If it’s not, you’re dealing with it.”

Ellie gave him a sharp look but didn’t bother answering. She was already heading toward the stairs leading down to the heavy steel door of the aquarium’s hidden entrance.

The hallway was dark and cold, the faint hum of city snow muffling sounds from outside. Her footsteps were careful but confident on the concrete steps.

At the bottom, she reached the reinforced door and paused, hand on the handle. Then, three more quick knocks — BANG, BANG, BANG — echoed through the small entryway.

Leah glanced at Ellie, nodding. “That’s the friendly knock. Probably one of ours.”

Ellie stood up, brushing snow and dust from her jacket, and smiled faintly. “Most likely.” Her voice carried that confident edge — the kind that said she’d handle whatever waited outside.

Jordan, who’d been lazily leaning against the wall with arms crossed, smirked. “If it’s not, I’m gonna enjoy watching you try to handle it.”

Ellie rolled her eyes, but there was no mistaking the affection buried in his sarcasm. “If it’s not? Then I’ll deal with it.” Her tone was sharp but calm as she made her way toward the staircase. Ellie took a breath, swung the door open, and found herself face to face with Abby.

Her heart jolted.

Abby’s usually fierce features were drawn tight with exhaustion. The lines under her eyes were sharper, and Ellie could almost see the remnants of tears glistening at the corners, though Abby’s expression was carefully controlled, stoic as always. Two girls stood slightly behind her, alert but relaxed, carrying gear and worn backpacks. They exchanged wary, quick glances with Ellie.

For a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them — eyes locking, a silent conversation carried without words. Ellie noticed Abby’s quiet vulnerability but pretended not to see, stepping aside with a teasing grin.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” Ellie joked, her voice light but warm.

Abby rolled her eyes in a way that was both exasperated and affectionate. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Ellie stepped back to let them in, the door thudding shut behind them.

The two girls followed inside, glancing curiously around the battered aquarium. One was tall with tightly coiled hair pulled back into a ponytail, her eyes sharp and observant. The other was shorter, with a steady calm in her gaze, carrying herself like someone who’d seen more than her years could explain.

Ellie nodded toward them, offering a silent welcome.

Abby shifted her pack off her shoulder and exhaled, the tension in her shoulders slowly easing. “It’s good to see you.”

Ellie gave her a faint smile. “Yeah, glad you didn’t freeze to death.”

Abby’s jaw tightened, a flicker of pain flashing in her eyes. 

Ellie smirked and stepped aside, letting Abby in with a teasing tone. “You look like hell. Rough night, princess?”

Abby rolled her eyes, the corner of her mouth twitching with a faint smile. “Takes one to know one.”

Ellie shut the door behind them, the soft thud echoing through the quiet building. The two girls followed closely, their eyes scanning the space as they took cautious steps inside.

Abby’s voice dropped low as she and Ellie moved through the main hallway. “Is everyone here?”

Ellie nodded. “Yeah. Full crew. Usual suspects.”

Ellie caught Abby’s lingering sadness in her eyes. She smirked slightly, the familiar spark of mischief flickering to life. Reaching into her pocket, Ellie pulled out a worn coin, its edges smoothed by time and travel. She held it out with a teasing grin. “Hey, I know your collection’s been lacking a state.”

Abby glanced down, recognizing the embossed outline. Montana.

Ellie handed it over. “Here. A little something I found on my last patrol.”

Abby’s lips twitched into a reluctant chuckle, the weight on her shoulders easing, if only for a moment. “You always this generous, or just when I’m in a bad mood?”

Ellie shrugged with a grin. “Only when you’re my favorite pain in the ass.”

Abby let out a long sigh, a breath that seemed to carry the weight of all the battles and losses they’d endured. They entered the larger room where the others had gathered. Owen was there, standing awkwardly with his gaze fixed firmly on the floor. The shame in his posture was almost palpable, but before Ellie or Abby could say anything, Mel appeared carrying a steaming cup of tea and offered it gently to Abby.

“Here,” Mel said softly, her warmth like a small hearth in the cold room.

Abby accepted the cup with a grateful nod, fingers tightening around it as if it were a lifeline. The small room buzzed softly with quiet chatter and laughter as Christmas lights strung up along the walls flickered warmly, casting a golden glow over tired faces. The aquarium’s old concrete walls were softened by the twinkle of bulbs and the faint scent of pine brought in from a small, makeshift tree someone had scavenged and decorated with scraps of tinsel and a few shining baubles.

Ellie sat on a threadbare couch beside Abby, who mostly kept to herself, her gaze flickering across the room but not really focusing. The two shared the same space in a comfortable silence, broken only by the occasional murmur of voices. Abby was listening — that much was clear — absorbing the laughter and voices around her while carefully keeping her own thoughts tucked away.

Mel’s excitement was infectious as she clapped her hands and announced, “Okay, okay! It’s Christmas night! Time for gifts!”

Ellie blinked, momentarily taken aback. “Wait, gifts? Seriously?” she asked, trying to mask her surprise with a rough edge of skepticism.

Mel grinned widely, undeterred by Ellie’s cynicism. “Yeah! I got everyone something! Thought it’d be a nice change.” She glanced around at the small crowd, which ranged from visibly excited to begrudgingly amused. Jordan groaned loudly from his spot by the window. “Only one? Seriously, Mel? What’s this, a Christmas on a budget?”

Leah, sitting close beside Jordan, leaned over with a sly smile, resting her hand low on his thigh, fingers lightly tracing near his hipbone. “Quality, not quantity,” she whispered teasingly, making Jordan flush deep red, his grumbling fading into a sheepish smile.

Ellie rolled her eyes, shaking her head at the spectacle. “God, you two are disgusting,” she muttered under her breath, though a small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

Mel began handing out the small, carefully wrapped parcels, each one a little piece of the care and thoughtfulness that had gone into the night. Ellie accepted hers quietly, the wrapping paper crackling softly in her hands.

The room hummed with the soft sounds of rustling paper, laughter, and teasing comments. Ellie sat back, clutching her gift, her mind briefly wandering, the cheerful noise a comforting background to the flood of memories she’d been pushing down.

Suddenly, Abby reached out and lightly tapped Ellie’s shoulder, breaking through the fog of her thoughts. Ellie glanced up, startled, and the voice so clear and familiar echoed in her mind.

Joel’s voice. “I thought you’d like them.”

It was faint, distant, but unmistakable, like a ghost from another life, a whisper from the past that stirred something deep inside her. Abby’s eyes searched Ellie’s face, concern flickering there, but she said nothing, letting Ellie have her moment.

With slow, deliberate care, Ellie began to unwrap her present, careful not to tear the fragile paper more than necessary. Inside, she found a small stack of music tapes and a few classic albums carefully chosen: Jim Croce, Billy Joel, and the Bee Gees.

Ellie smirked, shaking her head in amusement. “Really, Mel? Jim Croce and the Bee Gees? What’s next, Barry Manilow? ”

Mel shrugged, unapologetically proud. “Hey, it’s timeless. You can’t go wrong with the classics.”

“Classics yeah more like you're calling me old. What are you trying to do, make me a relic?” 

Mel’s eyes twinkled with pride. “Haha hey I worked hard to get you those! I had to bribe Manny to break into your music collection.”

“You what!? Oh my god no wonder my room smelled like ass for a minute." Ellie’s smirk softened into a genuine smile. She looked down at the tapes as if they were fragile treasures. “Thanks, Mel. This means more than you know.”

Abby shifted beside her, eyes softening as she watched Ellie hold the tapes. For once, words weren’t needed.

Ellie’s fingers traced the edges of the tapes, and her mind wandered back to those rare moments of peace she’d shared with Joel. Ellie leaned back on the couch, clutching her gift close, and finally allowed herself to breathe, just for a moment.

The hum of the aquarium had grown quiet as the night deepened. One by one, the others had drifted away, their footsteps fading down hallways and up stairs to their bunks. The soft clink of mugs being set aside, low murmurs of goodnights, and the occasional rustle of blankets were the only sounds now, like the final breaths of a day trying to rest.

Ellie sat alone on the couch, clutching the mixtapes Mel had given her, her thoughts drifting like the slow tides beyond the windows. The weight of the past pressed down on her, heavy but oddly tempered by the warmth of the room. The laughter, the gifts, the quiet kindness — all of it was like an island in a sea of hardship.

Her eyes followed the faint glow of the string lights overhead, casting dappled shadows across the walls, when a gentle tap on her shoulder startled her. She turned to find Abby standing nearby, hands stuffed in the pockets of her worn jacket, a softness in her eyes that Ellie hadn’t seen much before.

“Hey,” Abby said quietly. “Can we talk? Somewhere private?”

Ellie cocked an eyebrow, a wry smile playing on her lips. “What, you planning on jumping off the roof or something? Because I am definitely not cleaning up that mess.”

Abby chuckled, a light, genuine sound that felt rare and precious in this place. She gestured toward the door. “No, come on.”

Curiosity won over skepticism. Ellie stood, slipping the tapes into her backpack, and followed Abby out of the room, through the dimly lit halls, and up the narrow staircase to the roof.

The door creaked open, and a rush of cold, salty air hit them the ocean’s scent sharp and clean in the night. Above, stars blazed in a black canvas stretched infinitely overhead, the city lights twinkling faintly below. The vast expanse of water shimmered in the moonlight, dark and endless, a stark contrast to the cramped, claustrophobic quarters they called home.

Ellie settled down on the edge of the rooftop, legs dangling over, the chill seeping through her jeans. Abby sat beside her, pulling her jacket tighter around her.

For a long moment, they just watched the waves roll toward the shore, the silence between them deep and unspoken.

Finally, Ellie broke the quiet. “So... what’s up? You look like you’re carrying the whole damn world on your shoulders.”

Abby sighed, her breath visible in the cold air. “It’s this time of year... Christmas. I don’t know how to do it here, you know? With all this…” She gestured vaguely toward the darkened city, the dim lights of the aquarium behind them, the world that never stopped hurting.

Ellie glanced at her, her expression softening. “What the darkness, I can get you a flashlight for your birthday.”

Abby nodded slowly. “Haha no…It’s about my dad. I-I-...I miss him so much, I could have I should have.”

Ellie’s eyes narrowed, not in judgment, but in quiet understanding. “Hey you can’t blame yourself…You don’t have to tell me. I get it.”

The weight of unspoken pain hung between them, heavier than the cold night air.

Abby’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Christmas was always hard with him even after mom died, he did his best but I saw how he struggled inside. I saw it every time he hid it behind his big dumb smile and his endless dad puns.”

Ellie nodded, chewing on her lip. “Sounds like I would have liked him”

Abby smiled faintly, a bittersweet curve of her lips. “Yeah I think he would have liked you too. And now, here, with all this...” She gestured again at the city, the scars, the battles, “it’s like I’m carrying all that hurt, plus this new fight. Sometimes it feels like it’ll crush me.”

Ellie looked away toward the horizon, the ocean’s endless dark blue reflecting the turmoil inside both of them. “I don’t have a dad to miss.I don’t know my dad's name but... Someone helped me. He wasn’t perfect, none of us are but he was all I had. And sometimes, when I’m alone, I still hear his voice.”

Her voice cracked a little at the admission, but Abby stayed silent, letting her have the space.

Ellie took a deep breath, then added, “I don’t even know if I can forgive him for everything he did. But I want to.”

Abby’s eyes met hers, a spark of something fragile and fierce passing between them. “Maybe that’s what keeps us going. The hope that we can fix what’s broken, or at least make peace with it.”

Ellie laughed softly, the sound surprising them both in the quiet night. “Peace. That’d be nice, huh?”

Abby nodded, and for a moment, the weight of the world seemed to lift just a little. Two broken souls sharing a moment under the stars, their fears and regrets laid bare.

Ellie shifted, leaning back on her hands, looking up at the sky. “You know, I never thought I’d be here. Christmas in Seattle, with a group of people who aren’t my family. But here I am. Maybe this is the family I needed.”

Abby smiled, genuine and warm. “Yeah. Maybe it is.”

When the cold finally drove them inside, Ellie zipped up her jacket and looked over at Abby. “Thanks for dragging me up here. I think I needed this.”

Just as she began to rise, a firm hand grasped her arm, gently but with undeniable strength, pulling her back down onto the rooftop.

Ellie’s eyes snapped open, confusion and surprise flooding her face. “What—?” she started, turning toward Abby, who met her gaze with something fierce and haunted, swirling in her own eyes.

“Back at the school I was going to tell you something…But I chickened out” Abby said softly, voice low but steady, her grip still holding Ellie’s arm as if anchoring her to the moment. “The crew...We came from Salt Lake City.”

Ellie’s breath hitched, her mind spinning as recognition dawned. Salt Lake City, the place she thought was behind her, a past she had tried to bury under miles of dirt and memories.

“Yeah I’ve been told by you guys.”

Abby’s eyes locked onto hers, unwavering. “We were Fireflies,” she said, the words dropping like heavy stones between them. “Before Issaic brought us in.” The silence that followed hung in the icy night air thick, suffocating.

“We—our only chance at life was taken from us. What he took…What that man took from me...” Her voice faltered, heavy with grief and rage.

Ellie’s eyes widened in shock, the blood draining from her face. A sharp pain stabbed at her chest. Her heart hammered violently against her ribs. The wind seemed to still; the night suddenly felt claustrophobic. The stars above blurred and swam.

“Who?” Ellie’s breath caught in her throat. The rooftop, the ocean, the sky, all faded away. The pain wasn’t just physical. It was the raw, jagged wound of everything she’d tried to bury.

“Joel Miller,” Abby said quietly, dark and deadly. “And when I kill him...I’ll kill him slowly.”

Chapter Text

Ellie stood in the shared room, by the kitchen table the dim morning light seeping through the large window. Her fingers moved quickly, stuffing a medical bag and a few essentials into her battered backpack. She heard the familiar rustle and grumble of Manny rolling out of bed nearby, his usual loud, friendly chatter filling the small space.

“Chica, up again this early? Thought you might wanna grab some breakfast before the morning briefing,” Manny called out, stretching with exaggerated flair.

Ellie ignored him, zipping her bag shut with a sharp snap. She didn’t feel like talking. Not today. Without a word, she stormed past him, the door banging softly behind her as she headed out.

The early morning sun cast long, sharp shadows across the towering concrete walls of the football stadium. The air was cool, tinged with the faint scent of damp earth and pine from the nearby woods. Ellie stood with her arms crossed, eyes sharp and defiant, facing Mike, her team leader whose scowl deepened as he watched her clutch the worn patrol roster.

“Ellie, it’s fucking too early in the morning for this crap again,” he grumbled. “You can’t just keep nabbing all the patrol rosters,” Mike said, voice low but firm, the weight of responsibility clear in every word.

Ellie smirked, her gaze locked on his. “And why not?! I’m a wolf, right? Let me hunt. Or is that dumb shit too?”

Mike sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly annoyed but not ready to back down. “You don’t get to pick and choose ‘cause you want to feel important. There’s a damn system.”

Ellie’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t back down. “I’m just making sure the job gets done. You don’t have to like it, but I’m not here to play nice.”

A beat passed, tension humming between them like the quiet before a storm.

They were still sparring with words when a low rumble echoed through the compound the unmistakable growl of a Humvee rolling up to the gate. Dust swirled in its wake as the driver wound down the window and barked, “Open the gate!”

Ellie’s eyes darted to the trunk, spotting the empty space just big enough for her pack and gear. Without missing a beat, she strode over and yanked the hatch open. Mike’s sharp glare followed her every move, but it faltered when she climbed in without hesitation, clearly dead set on hitching a ride.

“Ellie get back here! Goddamn it!” Mike let out a frustrated grunt, shaking his head like he was trying to will away the inevitable. “Fine. But because of this crap, you’re on southern bridge guard duty for a month. No exceptions.”

Ellie’s grin spread wide as she gave a teasing mock salute. “Yes, sir. Wouldn’t want it any other way.”

The Humvee jolted forward, tires crunching gravel as it rolled out of the gate. Ellie settled back into the cramped space, her gaze drifting toward Mel standing a few feet away, arms crossed and watching her with that same mix of concern and exasperation.

A low groan escaped Ellie’s lips. “Fuck me.”

She dropped her head against the cold metal wall, letting out a long, slow breath.

The Humvee groaned as it took the incline, a tired beast clambering up the broken vein of highway. Ellie leaned back against the cold metal wall, pack tucked between her boots, eyes fixed on the narrow rectangle of world sliding past the rear flap: gray sky, gray water, gray teeth of buildings. The engine’s thrum settled into her bones, a steady, low growl that made thinking feel like wading through wet cement.

Mel scooted closer on the bench, bracing herself with one hand as the vehicle lurched around a pothole the size of a bathtub. She gave Ellie a small, sideways smile gentle, unarming, like she was approaching a skittish dog. “You’ve ignored half of us for, like, over a month,” she said, voice light, a joke wrapped around something true.

Ellie didn’t answer. She kept her gaze on the slit of outside, jaw set, the muscle there jumping once. The month had stretched in her head like an elastic pulled too far snap, snap, snapping every time she tried to relax. She didn’t have the words to stack into a bridge between herself and anyone right now. Words just felt like holes people could fall through.

Mel breathed out, leaned back so her shoulder touched the rattle of the Humvee’s side. “Okay,” she murmured. “Message received.” She tilted her head, watching the gnarled skyline go by. “Traffic sucks today.”

Ellie snorted despite herself. “Yeah. Bumper to bumper corpses.”

“Great for gas mileage,” Mel deadpanned.

They rode the next mile in that almost-silence: boots touching, not touching; breaths fogging the cold space; straps slapping softly against metal ribs overhead. Across from them, a young WLF runner picked grit out of his nails with a multitool, pretending not to look at Ellie and absolutely looking at Ellie. Next to him, a grayer, slab-shouldered vet with an old scar down his cheek kept his eyes half-lidded, one glove resting on the butt of his rifle like he could nap and fight at once.

The Humvee slowed, then rolled to a stop, suspension sighing. Outside, voices called and answered, the clack of a gate lock followed by the chirp of a handheld radio. The rear flap lifted, winter coming in all at once wet, and sharp, and smelling like rain.

“Checkpoint,” said the vet. “Welcome to the scenic Highway 5.”

They piled out into the cold. It bit Ellie’s cheeks, slid down her collar, found all the places her jacket never quite covered. The bridge reared in front of them, two lanes of patched asphalt strung over water like a frayed bowstring. Sandbag berms and welded plate barricades choked the approaches. A watchtower, more ladder than tower, listed slightly at midspan like it was drunk.

Team lead Johnson , broad shoulders, clipboard, voice made of gravel and coffee stepped up as the Humvee doors slammed shut. “Listen up,” he barked without ceremony. “Guarding patrol today. Two on tower, two on east berm, two on west, two roving. Rotate on the hour. Keep the chatter tight, keep the safeties on until they shouldn’t be, and if you see a scarf and a bow, you yell before you shoot so we don’t all shoot each other in the panic. Are we clear?”

A ragged chorus of “Clear.”

Ellie shouldered her pack and, out of habit more than thought, drifted toward the edge of the east berm where the barricade teeth looked out over a ribbon of cracked frontage road and the skeletal backs of warehouses beyond. She sat on an ammo crate that had bled its stencils off years ago, pulled her cap down, settled into the posture she knew best: alone with her eyes open.

Mel followed like gravity, sat beside her, knees out, elbows on them, steaming breath hanging between them for a second before the wind tore it away. Ellie slid her glare over, hot enough to blister paint. “Can’t you find another spot?” she snapped.

“Nope,” Mel said, calm as a pond. “You joined me, so I can sit where I please.”

“I didn’t join—”

“You sat on my crate,” Mel said, nudging the corner with her boot. “We can share it. Look at us. Holiday spirit.”

Ellie rolled her eyes hard enough she was surprised they didn’t fall out. She looked back at the span, the water, the city whose ribs stuck through its skin. Somewhere seagulls argued about god knows what. Somewhere a generator coughed to life, then settled into its throaty purr. The world looked like it always did: damp and defiant.

Mel dug in her coat pocket and produced a dented thermos, unscrewing the lid with red fingers. “Tea,” she announced. “Well. ‘Tea.’ Sun-warmed floor sweepings. But it’s hot.”

“I’m good,” Ellie said to the river.

Mel took a sip, hissed. “Jesus, that’s awful.” She swallowed anyway and passed the lid over. “Your turn to suffer.”

Ellie took it without looking, more reflex than consent, let the heat kiss her knuckles, then her lips. It tasted like boiled twigs and the memory of lemons. Warmth uncurled in her chest like a cat. She rescrewed the lid, gave it back.

“Thanks,” she muttered.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Mel said. “It comes with a price.”

Ellie snorted. “Yeah? What’s the tariff?”

“You have to listen to me talk for five minutes.” Mel held up a hand. “Timed. I am a doctor; I can count.”

“You’re not a doctor,” Ellie said before she could stop herself. “You’re a whatever-the-WLF-made of doctors.”

Mel’s smile was small, wry. “A medic who once was a resident under the greatest surgeon.” She tsked at herself. “Anyway. Five minutes. You can stare straight ahead the whole time and scowl. I won’t even ask questions.”

Ellie considered telling her to shove it. Instead she shrugged, the tiniest tilt of her shoulder that meant fine, but if you make me regret it, I’m ghosting you for another month.

Mel set her watch. “Okay. First, I know you’re mad at the world. Good taste. The world deserves it. Second, you’re allowed to be mad at me, too, even if I’m adorable.” She held up a hand again before Ellie could bite. “Not joking. You can be pissed at me for sitting next to you. For not leaving you alone. All fair.”

Ellie’s jaw softened a fraction, then locked again. The water slapped the pilings like slow applause.

“Third,” Mel went on, “and I promise I’ll stop sermonizing in…YOu’ve stopped talking with the crew and I know you barely eat because you eat with us anymore. The ones who laugh loudest are often the ones trying not to choke. You’re not broken for pulling away. You’re human. Which, believe it or not, is still allowed.”

“Who says I’m human,” Ellie murmured, more to the wind.

Mel pretended not to hear. “Fourth. When you’re ready to tell me to shut up, just lift your hand and I’ll zip it. We can sit and watch nothing together. I’m good at nothing. It was my minor.”

Ellie exhaled through her nose, a tiny laugh that might have been a cough if she denied it later. She lifted her hand, palm open, not quite the gesture Mel had offered. Mel zipped her lips anyway, mimed turning an invisible key, and lobbed it into the river.

A radio crackled behind them. “Tower, rotate. East berm, check.”

The slab-shouldered vet, Torres’s shadow, climbed the ladder halfway, paused, looked down at the pair on the crate. “You two good on the teeth?” he grunted.

Mel gave him a thumbs up. Ellie gave him the kind of look you give a stray dog to see if it’s going to bite. He nodded like that, counted as an answer and kept climbing.

The first hour passed in fragments: a lone figure on the far bank with a bundle of firewood who turned out to be a scarecrow of coats on a post; a gull landing on the railing with the self-importance of a senator, then shitting and leaving; the echo of distant hammering from some repair crew doing God’s tedious work. Ellie’s shoulders settled a centimeter. The universe, when it wasn’t screaming, could be so very boring. Boring saves lives.

Mel, true to her word, didn’t push. She sipped her twig tea, adjusted her hat, and tracked the slick stripe of the river for any movement that meant danger and not fish. Every so often she’d tap Ellie’s boot with the edge of her own, not enough to annoy, just enough to remind: still here.

“Rotation,” the radio barked. The hour flipped on its back. Two rovers came to relieve, and Ellie and Mel crossed the span to the west berm, where the wind came raw off the water and knifed through seams. They took the lee side of a burned-out salt truck that had become part of the barricade, and the quiet folded back over them like a blanket spread thin.

“Why guard duty?” Mel asked, finally breaking her vow in a tone that made it a mirror more than a probe. “You hate it. You asked for patrol every day for two weeks. This is the opposite of patrol.”

The radio squawked again, an ugly buzzer bringing the world back. “North approach, two figures,” the tower called. “Hooded. Range one-fifty. Holding pace.”

“Can I ask you something not about work?” Mel said at last, voice careful, like she was stepping from rock to rock over a river.

“No,” Ellie said, automatic. Then, after a beat she couldn’t explain, “Yeah.”

Mel’s smile was small, surprised. “Do you still have the tapes? From Christmas.”

Ellie’s fingers twitched toward her jacket pocket, the jacket she wasn’t wearing. Up in her bunk, the tapes were stacked like tiny bricks. “Yeah,” she said. “Haven’t played them yet.”

“You should.” Mel pulled her beanie down over her ears. “Sometimes the old songs help.”

“That a medical opinion?”

“Peer-reviewed.”

Ellie didn’t realize her mouth had softened until the wind slipped in and she licked the salt from her lip and tasted not river but her own chapped skin. “Maybe I will,” she said.

“Rotation,” the radio called again. The day had been chewed down to a gray nub. Rovers swapped in; Ellie and Mel were assigned the tower for the last hour, where the cold lived permanently and the view made the world feel both small and too big by half. They climbed, boots ringing on the ladder rungs, breath blowing back into their faces. At the top, the platform creaked like an old boat. The city stretched out like a broken jaw.

They stood shoulder to shoulder, rifles cased for the moment, eyes on the long suture of road stitching water to land.

They finished the hour in a quiet that didn’t feel like punishment anymore. When the relief came, Ellie’s legs were stiff and her fingers numb enough that zipper teeth felt like tiny cruel smiles. She climbed down slowly, every rung a negotiation with gravity and pain that proved she was still here.

At the bottom, Mel bumped her shoulder lightly. “Same crate tomorrow?” she asked, like asking if a seat was taken at a diner they both pretended existed.

Ellie hesitated, then nodded once. “Yeah,” she said, and it came out easier than she expected. “Same crate.”

Mel’s grin was bright, unweaponized. “Cool. I’ll bring terrible tea.”

“Bring something worse,” Ellie said. “I like a challenge.”

“Peaches in syrup it is,” Mel said, walking backward a few steps before spinning and heading toward the transport. “Hey, maybe tonight would you like to come over? Owen worried about you. Ya know?.”

“You and Owen? Have I missed something?” Ellie questioned, causing Mel to blush looking away.

The ride back was quiet in that heavy, post-shift way, everyone sinking into the thrum of the engine, minds going soft around the edges. The Humvee nosed through the outer gate, brake lights washing the concrete in red before the inner iron slid open. Inside the stadium bowl, the pac lot was a patchwork of oil-dark stains and tire tracks. The driver killed the engine; the silence afterward felt huge.

They climbed down one by one. Boots hit wet asphalt. Radios crackled. A generator coughed and steadied.

Ellie fell in with the trickle of bodies moving toward the tunnel, then slipped sideways and disappeared before Mel could catch her eye. The corridor smelled like wet wool, gun oil, and that weird stadium mix, old nacho grease ghosting up from somewhere nobody had cleaned in a decade. She ducked into the launch room, what used to be a media lounge turned staging area with a dented soda fridge and a corkboard eaten by thumbtacks.

She nearly collided with Helia.

“Woah—sorry,” Helia said, steadying the tray in her hands—two mismatched mugs steaming hard enough to fog the air between them. Her hair was tucked back under a beanie, a few curls escaping at her temples; her eyes—dark, bright—flashed surprised, then warm. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Ellie said, forcing her shoulders down from her ears. “Checkpoint boredom. We survived.”

Helia’s smile tilted. “Congratulations to boredom. I brought contraband.” She lifted the tray a fraction. “Saffron tea. Not the good kind, but it tries.”

Ellie smirked. “Fancy. What, are you trying to start a black-market chai cartel?”

“My mother would be honored,” Helia said, laugh soft. “She used to insist we take tea to the neighbors even when the power was out. ‘Always hospitality,’” she added, mimicking an older woman’s cadence with affection. “Tehran rules.”

“Sounds nicer than powder coffee that tastes like a tire,” Ellie said.

Helia’s cheeks warmed, the pink that meant shy and pleased at the same time. “You can have one if you promise not to tell Nora. She’ll accuse me of enabling.”

“Deal.”

They slid into an easy lean against a table, elbows almost touching. Outside the doorway, voices swelled—Manny’s first, big and round, telling some heroic half-truth about a trader with six knives and zero common sense. Jordan’s dry rasp chimed in, Leah’s laughter underneath. Boots scuffed. Abby’s heavier stride lagged a step behind the group, that careful hang-back she did when she wasn’t sure if a room wanted her.

Helia dipped her head closer, lower voice now. “Um—so—are you… free later?” She blinked at her own boldness, then rushed, blush blooming. “I mean, not like a date-date unless you want the word, I— I just—” She laughed at herself, small and helpless. “God, ignore me. Tea makes me brave.”

Ellie opened her mouth to answer something easy, something deflecting then caught sight of the corridor. Manny had turned into the launch room doorway mid-boast, Jordan and Leah flanking, Abby a few paces back. Four sets of eyes landing on her at once. The air stuttered.

Something reckless came up in Ellie like a spring set free.

“C’mere,” she said, more to her own pulse than to Helia, and stepped forward.

She eased Helia back into the shadowed sliver of wall by the old vending machine—hands careful at her waist before one came up to cup her jaw and kissed her. Not a dare, not a show; a clean, hungry press with the softness of her mouth. Helia startled for a heartbeat mug clinking against the tray then exhaled into it, free hand catching Ellie’s jacket, kissing back.

At the doorway, Manny’s voice broke into a strangled, delighted, “¡Ay dios—!” followed by a choke-laugh. Leah made an oh sound, then the kind you make when you’re trying not to laugh at church. Jordan swiveled on his heel so fast he nearly ate the doorframe. Abby’s gaze snagged half a second longer than it should have, unreadable, then she looked down, gave the group a nudge with her shoulder like move it, people, privacy exists, and shepherded them past.

Ellie felt them go the way you feel a draft close. She pulled back, breathing a little unsteady, thumb still at Helia’s cheekbone. Helia stood flushed tomato-red, eyes wide, a smile threatening mutiny at the corners of her mouth. The tray trembled just enough that the tea made little rings.

“Sorry,” Ellie said, voice lower than she meant. The apology wore the wrong clothes—it wasn’t for the kiss; it was for the ambush, the audience, the messiness of a life lived in hallways. “That was public.”

Helia blinked, recovered, and then her grin arrived, full and warm. “That was… hot,” she said, the honesty of it knocking something loose in Ellie’s chest. “And extremely public. Ten out of ten on the chaos scale.”

A beat hung between them, then both of them laughed quietly, giddy, like they were getting away with something small and harmless in a world that punished joy.

“I’ll see you later?” Ellie asked.

“Ah-Ah- yes please!” Helia squeaked.

The library was a long rectangle of hush carved out of the old stadium’s bowels—a former film-analysis room someone had tamed with scavenged shelving and milk crates, spines of manuals and paperbacks turned into a makeshift skyline. The ceiling still wore a grid of projector mounts like dead satellites. A whiteboard, forever stained with ghost-plays and arrows, leaned in the corner beside a reel-to-reel that no one could coax to life. It smelled like dust, cold coffee, and the soft animal musk of old paper that had survived too much rain.

Ellie had claimed the back table under a busted sconce. A candle in a jar guttered there, folding her shadow around the edges of the page. Her journal lay open, wide-ruled lines filling up with slanted ink and angry scribbles, the left margin crowded by small drawings that spilled like weeds: a quick wolf head with its ears back, a coil of rope she couldn’t get right, an outline of the stadium with teeth for walls. In the lower corner she’d half-sketched a mouth—full, smiling—then crosshatched it out until the ink bled.

She wrote:

I kissed her.

Then, smaller:

I kissed her first.

Her pulse jumped reading it back. The words felt louder than the candle. She laid her palm over them, as if she could muffle ink.

An arrowhead doodle grew under her wrist, black and simple. She added rain to it, little slashes. She told herself she was practicing, that she was sketching what she needed to remember for patrols and briefings. But when she looked at the page again, the wolves had Helia’s eyes and the rope had turned into braids and the stadium teeth looked like she’d drawn them smiling.

The door hinges whispered. A shape filled the rectangle of dim light from the hallway, paused, then slid inside with careful shoulders—as if not wanting to wake the books. Abby. Jacket zipped half-up, hair braided back the way she wore it for training, a hardcover tucked in her hand. She stood for a beat scanning the spines like she’d never seen this many words in one room, then her gaze snagged on Ellie in the back.

Ellie bent lower with a speed that was not subtle, hunching over the journal like a squirrel over contraband. The candle flared and guttered again, throwing her crooked handwriting into too-crisp relief.

“Hey,” Abby said, the word soft and a little unsure. She lifted the book in her hand as if it justified her being there. “I—I was returning this. And, uh, trading.”

Ellie mm-hmm’d without looking up.

A nervous laugh, quick and quiet. “Can I—?” Abby nodded toward the empty chair at the end of Ellie’s table. “Sit?”

Ellie kept still long enough to be rude, then pushed the journal half-shut with her forearm and nudged a pencil out of the way. “Library’s not mine,” she said, trying for bored and landing closer to exhaustion. “Do whatever.”

“Already doing that,” Abby said, and set her book on the table with exaggerated gentleness, like putting a sleeping kid down. She perched on the chair’s edge, knees angled away, keeping space the way you keep a promise you’re not sure you can keep.

For a moment the candle’s little flame did all the talking. Rain ticked somewhere in the roof.

“So,” Abby tried, weak conversational opener loading… “This is nice.”

Ellie blinked. “A room full of dead trees and survivor guilt? Yeah. Cozy.”

Abby winced and huffed a laugh in the same motion. “Good point. I meant…quiet. It’s… harder to find lately.” She tapped her book’s cover with one finger. Tides and Currents of the Pacific Northwest. The spine was soft. Someone had dog-eared a lot of weather.

Ellie let her eyes flick down to it. “Homework?”

Abby’s mouth clipped toward a smile. It didn’t land. “You okay?” she asked after a second.

Ellie’s pen paused, then kept moving. “Why?”

“You’ve been… gone,” Abby said. “In rooms you’re not in.”

“Been busy,” Ellie said.

“With what?”

“Stuff.”

Silence folded itself between them. It wasn’t clean; it had grit in it, the way sand stays stuck in your shoes after the beach.

Abby took a breath that sounded like she was trying to stretch a cramped muscle. “Why’ve you been ignoring me?” she asked, and the question came out straighter than she meant it to.

Ellie’s pen clicked against the page. She set it down carefully and finally looked up, eyes sharp as glass. “Why’ve you been ignoring Owen?” she shot back.

Abby flinched like she’d been tapped with a live wire. “He broke up with me,” she snapped before she could stitch softer words around it. The snap echoed in the glass room. Her jaw tightened; she glanced away, swallowed. “He broke up with me,” she repeated, lower. “So—congrats. You win the point.”

Ellie stared at her a beat, then went back to her page and underlined nothing. Abby let the silence stand for three long breaths and then kicked at it again, gentler.

“You volunteer for every suicide patrol. You cut chow. You sleep in empty rooms. That’s not existing.”

Ellie’s pen tapped, tap tap tap. “You keeping a log?”

“I’m keeping you alive,” Abby said, voice hardening. “Or trying to. The crew misses you.”

“The crew survives without me.”

“That’s not what I said.” Abby leaned in, palms flat on the table. “Manny won’t say it because he thinks jokes are medicine, but he’s worried sick. Nora says you haven’t checked med stock in a week. Leah thinks Jordan’s jokes are getting mean because you’re not there to punch him for it.

Ellie snorted. “You want me to say sorry? I’m sorry the world doesn’t orbit your group chat.”

Abby’s lips ticked. “This isn’t about me. I told you something on the roof and you stared through me for a week.”

Ellie’s jaw jumped. “You dropped a grenade and expected me to smile while it cooked.”

“What else was I supposed to do—lie?” Abby’s voice went hoarse. “I told you because it was true and because I didn’t want to build anything with you on rot.”

“Build what?” Ellie shot back. “A mentorship? A friendship? A… what, exactly?”

“I know what it feels like to be eaten inside,” Abby said, lower. “I know what it makes you do. I know how it pretends to be purposeful.”

“Thanks,” Ellie said. “I’ll let Purpose’s manager know.”

“Answer me.” Abby didn’t blink. “Why are you shutting everyone out?”

“Because I want to,” Ellie said. “Because quiet’s the only room I can afford.”

“Bullshit,” Abby said, plain. “You’re scared that if you let anyone stand too close they’ll recognize what’s living behind your eyes and ask for its name.”

Ellie’s hand closed around the pen until the plastic creaked. “You don’t get to play mind reader because you benched-press your feelings.”

Abby took a breath, tried to soften it again, failed. “Then give me something real. Anything.”

Ellie flicked her gaze up, wounded animal bright. “You want real? Real is you telling me a man I—” She bit it off so hard the word cut the back of her teeth. “—telling me someone killed your dad and the Fireflies oh and also you and everyone in the crew was a part of them…I…Fireflires took things from me…like I’m not supposed to hear it like a gun going off in my mouth.”

Abby froze. The air wobbled between them. “I didn’t say that to hurt you,” she said, careful. “I said it because it’s the truth I carry. You asked what I was. That’s part of it.”

“Well, was this a good enough report for you?” Ellie snarled.

Abby’s face cracked, just a hair. Pain showed through before she could tuck it away. “I didn’t come in here to interrogate you. I came because I care.”

Ellie let out a breath that sounded like a laugh dying. “Yeah sure, I really feel it all from everyone. I’d like to be well enough alone.”

“You don’t get to decide that for us,” Abby said.

“Watch me,” Ellie said. The pen snapped between her fingers. She didn’t look at it. She snapped the journal shut so hard the lamp buzzed out, flickered back. The sound ricocheted off glass and shelves and Abby’s bones.

“So that why are you ignoring me?” she asked, quieter. “Answer.”

Ellie’s eyes lifted slowly. “I don’t owe you a—”

“Is it about liking girls or something?" Abby blurted, the words tumbling like she’d been holding them in her mouth too long. “Were you worried I’d hate you or something I—”

Something hot and mean ripped up through Ellie’s ribs. The journal slapped shut under her palm so hard the lamp rattled. The sound cracked down the aisle like a shot. “Are you serious? What the fuck broight that up!?” she said, voice tight, incredulous. “You think that’s the— Jesus, Abby.” She stood so fast the chair legs shrieked on the floor. The pencil cup hopped. The book under Abby’s hands shivered.

Abby’s eyes flashed surprise that turned to regret mid-breath. “Ellie, I didn’t— That’s not—” She reached a hand out instinctively, stopping short of touching the air between them.

Ellie shoved the journal into her bag and yanked the strap up, all hands and angles. “You don’t get to come in here and play guidance counselor because you saw me put my mouth on a girl,” she said, heat spiking color into her face. The words came too fast; she couldn’t slow them. “You don’t get to reduce me to a hallway and a rumor like everybody else with nothing better to do.”

“That’s not what I—” Abby tried, softer, a step behind every beat now.

Ellie shouldered past the corner of the desk, bag thumping her hip. “God your such a fuckin dead-head.”

Abby reached a hand across the table, palm up, empty. “Ellie—”

“Don’t,” Ellie said, and the word hit like a door slamming.

Ellie shouldered through the door hard enough that the frame thunked. The echo bounced off the concrete and metal like it was mad at her too. She flung her backpack at the couch—more a lumpy pile of blankets than furniture—and it slid, hit the armrest, and flopped over like it was surrendering.

“Son of a—” she muttered, pacing a tight loop. “Why does she—why does everyone—” The rest burned out in her throat. She scrubbed both hands down her face, hot and embarrassed and still buzzing like she’d licked a battery.

A crunch came from behind her. Not the building settling. Not a weapon being cocked.

Chips.

She turned slow, jaw already halfway to a grind.

Manny sat at the little dining table in a tank top and sweats, one foot bare, the other socked, a half-demolished bag of tortilla chips braced against his ribs like a beloved pet. He lifted two fingers in a lazy wave, mouth full. “’Ey,” he said around the mouthful, then swallowed. “You good?”

Ellie groaned and rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. “Fantastic,” she deadpanned, reaching for the door handle again.

“Nope.” Manny pointed a chip at the chair across from him without looking away. “You can’t leave.”

She gave him a look that could cut tin. He just tipped his head, patient as a stubborn mule. Something in her shoulders sagged a centimeter. She let go of the handle, stalked over, and dropped into the chair like gravity had opinions.

Manny pushed the bag across the table until it bumped her knuckles. “Room tax,” he said. “You slam a door, you owe me at least three.”

Ellie grabbed one like she meant to break it and shoved it in her mouth. Salt hit her tongue. Her heart slowed a hair.

“Water?” Manny asked, already reaching for a dented canteen.

She took it, sipped, set it down. “You’re very proud of yourself right now.”

“Siempre.” He propped his chin in his palm, studied her face—not nosy, just clocking the weather. “You wanna tell me which grenade you just hugged?”

“No.” Ellie pinched another chip, snapped it in two. “I want to sit here and pretend I’m a statue.”

“Okay.” Manny nodded, accepting the terms. “Statues can breathe, though.” He held up a hand and started counting with two fingers. “In on uno… out on dos.” He made a big show of breathing. It was stupid. She hated it. She did it anyway. Once. Twice. The third time didn’t feel like swallowing glass.

He didn’t fill the silence. He let it land, let it be a thing that didn’t need wrangling.

“Abby,” Ellie said finally, like the name tasted wrong. “In the library.”

Manny’s eyebrows did a small, understanding climb. “Ah.” He flicked a crumb off the table. “She pick at your stitches?”

“She brought a shovel,” Ellie said. “Asked why I’m ignoring everyone. Told me the crew misses me like that’s supposed to fix my head.”

“Could,” he said, a gentle shrug. “Or make you want to kick a door. Looks like door won.”

Ellie stared at the water, watched the thin film wobble with each of her breaths. “I’m tired of being a project,” she said. “I’m not a… group assignment. I’m not a broken gun for everyone to take turns cleaning.”

Manny nodded, slow. “You’re Ellie. Complicated model.” A beat. “Mi amiga.”

Her mouth twitched before she could stop it. “You gonna put me on a shelf? Dust me sometimes?”

“I will put you next to my finest ceramic rooster,” he said with solemn gravitas. “Top shelf. Out of reach of idiots.”

She huffed a laugh that almost hurt. The pressure behind her eyes eased enough that she could focus without the world going floaty at the edges.

Manny nudged the chips again. “Eat another. Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not a doctor.”

“I’m a Manny.” He tapped his chest. “It’s like a doctor who swears more.”

She took another, chewed slower. “She thinks I’m… stuck,” Ellie said, picking the words like burrs off her sleeve. “Stuck in something I won’t name.”

“Are you?”

Ellie’s jaw shifted. “I’m processing.”

“Good word,” Manny said, and meant it. “Sounds like work. Sounds like not running.”

She looked at him, surprised he didn’t laugh. He didn’t. He just sat there like furniture with warmth.

“I keep trying to make the ground honest under my feet,” she said, voice lower. “But it keeps… sliding.”

“Rainy city,” Manny said softly. “Bad for traction.”

They let that sit. Somewhere in the stadium a generator hiccuped, then found its rhythm. The pipes in the wall clinked as someone somewhere stole five extra minutes of hot water.

“I told her to stop digging,” Ellie said, the heat back in her throat edging the words. “Let me climb out on my own time.”

“Sounds fair,” Manny said. “Some of us dig with spoons. Some of us blow the wall. Both get you out. Just… different mess.”

Ellie rubbed her thumb hard across the line on her palm the Montana coin had left earlier. She didn’t pull the coin out. She didn’t need to.

“Also,” Manny added, tone tilting playful without losing the care, “for the record? If people miss you, it’s not because they need a mascot. It’s because when you are in a room, the room remembers itself. Even if you sit in a corner making murder eyes at the floor.”

She tried to glare at him. It came out softer than intended. “You’re laying it on thick.”

“Sí, because you are very stubborn.” He leaned back, chair creaking. “And because I’m sorry if I did anything to make you go quiet.”

“You didn’t,” Ellie said, quick, then steadier. “I just needed… space to figure out where to put everything. Inside.”

He nodded like this was a map he could follow. “We’re friends, you can always come to talk to me about anything. Bueno. But next time? You can tell me you need space and I will make space. I will go stand in the hall and sing Baby One More Time until everyone leaves you alone.”

She snorted. “Please don’t.”

“Okay, Livin’ la Vida Loca then.”

She covered her face with one hand. “God.”

“You see? Mood improved.” He grinned, but it gentled. “Seriously, Ellie. You can always talk to me. Or not talk. I can be a very handsome silence.”

“Debatable,” she muttered.

“Rude.”

They sat until the edges of her anger turned from jagged to dull. Manny topped off the canteen, slid it back. She drank because it was easier than telling him thank you again.

“By the way,” he added, tone tilting back toward mischief like a bird finding wind, “ That kiss. I am proud. Bold move. Ten out of ten. Saffron, huh?”

She flipped him off. “Say ‘saffron’ again and I’ll make you eat your beanie.”

“So wanna tell me what did Abby actually want?” he asked after a while, careful.

“She wants me present,” Ellie said. “To stop avoiding people. ” The corner of her mouth ticked. “Which is hilarious, coming from her.”

Manny’s smile said he’d thought the same thing and wasn’t gonna say it first. “Sometimes the advice we give is the ladder we’re scared to climb.”

“Poet Manny,” Ellie said.

“Shut up,” he said amiably.

She pulled in a slow breath, let it out without counting this time. “I snapped at her,” she admitted. “Hard. I didn’t… want to. But she kept… pushing.”

“Then you fix it when you want to,” he said. “Not tonight. Not because she needs it. Because you do.” He lifted a shoulder. “Or you don’t. You get to choose your doors.”

She nodded, small. Choice felt like a thing she could hold for three seconds at a time.

“You hungry?” he asked. “I can make you something that is legally food.”

“I’m fine.”

“Toast with that fake cheese? Manny melt?”

“That should be a war crime.”

“Agreed.” He scraped his chair back, stood, and dropped his hand on the top of her head for a quick, brotherly squeeze before she could duck. “Come on. If you’re not gonna eat, at least help me bully the cassette player into playing something not sad.”

She hesitated. “I already put on a tape earlier.”

“Which one?”

“Bee Gees,” she said, almost embarrassed.

Manny lit up like a marquee. “Ah! ‘Stayin’ Alive.’ Appropriate. Too on-the-nose.” He wiggled his shoulders in a tragic little dance. “Let’s annoy the neighbors.”

She couldn’t help it, she smiled. “Two songs. Then I’m crashing.”

“Two songs,” he agreed. “And if Abby shows up, I will stand in the doorway and say ‘No admittance, patient is processing.’”

“I will kill you.”

“Later.” He tossed her the chip bag as he moved to the ancient tape deck on the shelf. “Right now, estatua, you eat.”

“I’m… sorry,” she said at last, words rough from disuse. “For going dark on you. On everyone.”

Manny paused mid–shoulder shimmy and arched a brow. “Wow. An apology. Should I sit? Oh wait—I already am.” He softened it with a grin, then tapped the table twice. “I know, chica. It happens.”

“I didn’t mean to make you chase me,” Ellie added, eyes dropping. “Or make it feel like… like I don’t want anyone around.”

“You? Hate attention?” Manny gasped theatrically. “Next you’ll tell me water is wet.” He leaned back, more earnest. “Look, you do what you need to do. But, hey—movie night’s on tomorrow. Chef Boyardee and spies stopping the Soviets with cheekbones. Prime time to swing back in without making a speech.”

Her mouth twitched. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, irresistible.” He reached over, knocked his knuckles lightly against her forearm. “Come for the bad film, stay for the worse commentary.”

She nodded once, small, real. “Okay.”

The admin room felt overstuffed—maps layered like scars, radios hissing, rain needling the windows. Ellie slid in beside Manny and kept her eyes on the table. Abby was already there, a line of tension by the window; when Ellie entered, Abby’s glance snagged and held, then she looked away like touching a hot pan.

Isaac didn’t warm them up. “Enough probes,” he said, palms on the map. “We break their jaw. First invasion of the Seraphite mainland. Ferry yard and causeway—take both, or take neither. Torres leads Vanguard and the main assault. Ghosts blind the towers, Spear breaches. Medical at the dock. We hold what we take.”

He started assigning. “Torres, Vanguard. Mike, Spear One. Abby under command with Mat in Second Spear Two at the causeway.”

“I’ll go Vanguard,” Ellie said, before the next breath.

A ripple, then quiet. Isaac’s mouth ticked. “Good I never suspected anyone else. My hammer,” he said, and crossed to her, patting her shoulder like she was a tool he liked the balance of.

Abby’s chair scraped. “No,” she said, too fast. She forced her voice down. “Ellie should stick with her team lead Mike. She is still too green on the whole fighting part! She hasn’t even faced a Scar before!”

Ellie turned, heat jumping. “You don’t get to stamp ‘green’ on my forehead because it makes you feel safer.”

“I’m trying to keep you alive,” Abby fired back. “You need our eyes open.”

“They’re open,” Ellie said. “And they’re mine.”

Abby stepped closer, chin tipped. “You think being stubborn is the same thing as ready?”

“You think talking like a squad lead makes you God,” Ellie snapped. “I asked for the door. I’m walking through it.”

Mike grunted, impatient. “She says she can stand, let her stand.”

Torres finally spoke, level. “If she rides with me, she takes my calls.”

“I will,” Ellie said, not blinking.

Isaac lifted a hand; the room dropped volume like a dimmer. “Settled,” he said. To Abby: “You have your lane. She has hers.” To Ellie again, with that thin smile: “Hammer. Gear checks twenty-three hundred; boats at oh-two,” Isaac finished. “Eat now. Sleep if you can. We won’t tomorrow.”

Chairs scraped. Paper and bodies moved. The room bled out into task lists.

Ellie was still tight with adrenaline when she caught Abby’s voice low behind her, arguing with Isaac near the window. She pretended to check the tide chart and listened.

“Shift her to Bravo,” Abby said, controlled, urgent. “Or put her Ghost-only. We need her alive, not—”

“We need her where she’ll do damage,” Isaac cut in, calm as cut stone. “She volunteered. She learns fast.”

“You’re mistaking anger for aptitude,” Abby said. “That gets people killed.”

“I’m counting on her anger,” Isaac said, and that was worse because it was honest. “This is not delicate work.”

Abby exhaled through her nose, a quiet surrender that wasn’t agreement. “Then at least give her a senior on her hip.”

“She has Torres,” Isaac said. “That’s senior enough.”

Abby’s silence was a blade she didn’t drop. Finally: “Fine.”

Ellie turned back toward the table before Abby could catch her eavesdropping. The approval on Isaac’s face still crawled on her skin.

Manny bumped her shoulder with his. “So,” he said, forcing lightness into a voice that kept wanting to crack, “you signing autographs before the breach, Hammer, or after?”

“Shut up,” Ellie muttered, but it had no teeth.

He softened, eyes searching her face. “Hey. Watch yourself out there. I know, I know you will.” He held her gaze anyway. “But hear me say it. Come back in one piece.”

She swallowed, feeling the coin mark in her palm even without touching it. “I’ll bring your chips back too.”

“You better.”

Chapter Text

2 Years Earlier (Jackson)

The sky over the Tetons looked like someone had scraped a knife across pewter and left it to harden. Snow fell the way it does when winter has made up its mind steadily, without hurry, little grains that sifted into collars and cuffs and stayed there like a dare. The trail was half a logging road, half a suggestion; it curled through spruce and lodgepole, then tilted toward a ridge where the trees thinned and the wind found you whether you wanted it or not.

Tommy put two fingers between his teeth and whistled softly at Ellie to slow up. “Easy,” he said, wiggling his gloved hand like he was coaxing a skittish colt. “Ice under this drift. You bust your ass here and I gotta haul you home like a sack of beans, and my back doesn’t qualify for that much charity.”

Ellie snorted and eased her weight, boots testing the crust before she trusted it. “Thought you were looking for an arm workout.”

“I’m looking to live long enough to collect social security,” Tommy said. “Which, as you know, is right on schedule.”

“Yeah,” she muttered. “Any day now.”

They picked their way around a downed spruce, its needles iced into glass. The forest breathed that sharp, clean cold that leaves a taste on your tongue like metal and pine sap. Somewhere a raven barked, the sound bouncing off trunks and coming back thinner.

Tommy let the quiet ride along with them for a minute, then nudged it. “Joel’s worried about you,” he said, like he was mentioning a weather front you could see coming no matter what you did. “Keeps asking me if you’re eating, if you been sleeping, if the patrol rotations are chewing you up.”

Ellie tucked her chin deeper into the scarf Maria had thrust at her that morning. “I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh.” Tommy made a little show of not believing her. “That’s my favorite lie.”

“It’s a classic,” she said. “Tested by generations.”

They stepped out onto a flatter section where the road wound around the ridge. The snow smoothed every broken line, made the mangled world look neat for once. Tommy tapped his thigh absently with one hand, rifle slung low and easy. He had that way of moving alert without advertising it that made Ellie think of wolves.

“Look,” he said, and then didn’t for a few steps, letting the word settle before he added anything to it. “I ain’t here to be a go-between. If you want to give him the silent treatment until spring thaw, that’s your call.” A grin flashed, quick and crooked. “I’ve been on the receiving end of the Maria Edition of that particular tactic. It is a harsh winter.”

Ellie’s mouth twitched despite herself. “Maria can talk without words. It’s terrifying.”

“Woman’s got an entire dictionary of looks,” Tommy agreed. “She hit me with the ‘disappointed school principal’ for a week after I forgot our anniversary last year.” He winced, remembering; you could hear the creak of the couch in the sound of it.

Ellie’s eyebrows lifted. “You forgot your anniversary?”

“Sure did.” He hiked his shoulders up, playing up the shame just enough to make it funny. “Went out to check a fence line. I found myself a busted post and a nest of barbed wire that decided to introduce itself to my forearm. Took me half the day to un-knot it. Got back late, bleeding, and she’s got a roast in the oven, candles, she even yelled at two teenagers to quit making out behind the Tipsy Bison so the nice tables wouldn’t have to watch.” He sighed theatrically. “And in I come with a ‘Hey, babe,’ smelling like cow and tetanus.”

Ellie barked a laugh that echoed once and fell flat in the snow. “What’d she do?”

“Gave me that quiet I mentioned,” Tommy said. “Then” He held up a finger. “Two days later she slides a plate at me. Cake. Homemade frosting. The whole deal. And it says ‘Happy Tuesday’ on top.”

Ellie blinked. “That’s cold.”

“Whoo boy,” Tommy said, grinning. “Colder than this ridge. I apologized with woodpile labor and a new door handle she’d been wanting since spring. And I wrote the correct date on my hand for a month so I couldn’t forget it again. Still got the dent from her eyebrow.”

Ellie shook her head, a ghost of a smile still there. “You forgot your own anniversary.”

“I’ve forgotten my own birthday,” Tommy said cheerfully. “Maria baked me a pie this year with ‘Old’ written in the crust, just to cover any missed occasions.”

“She sounds nice.”

“She’s mean as a snake and I deserve every drop.” He let the joke run its course, then peeled it back to what he’d brought up in the first place. “The point is, people mess up. People worry. Joel’s bad at saying the thing without making it sound like…Well. So I’m… what’s the phrase… ‘translating.’”

“I got it,” Ellie said, eyes on her boots. “I’m fine.”

Tommy clicked his tongue. “You said that already.”

“It’s still true.”

“Mm.” He filed it. “If true, good. If it's false, still good you said it out loud.”

They came up on the overlook almost by an accidental shoulder of rock swept clean by wind where the trees fell away like a curtain. The whole valley opened: Jackson Hole spread wide and white, the Snake River a long gray vein curling through it, the walls of their town a faint, steady line raised against winter. Smoke lifted from chimneys, thin as thread. From up here the place looked too fragile to hold all the lives inside it; it looked like something you could set on your palm and blow warm air across until it glowed.

Tommy stopped and lifted his glove, signaling without thinking like he had on patrols a thousand times. Ellie stepped up beside him. Wind reached under her coat and licked the sweat off her back in a way that made her skin shout. She pulled the scarf a little tighter, felt the scratch of wool and the little curl of comfort that came with it.

“Never gets old,” Tommy said softly. Not the fireworks kind of impress something quieter, a gratitude you keep in your pocket and touch when you need to remember you’ve got hands.

Ellie didn’t say anything at first. She traced the lines she knew from insideMain Street’s kink where the old hardware store used to be, the crooked row of houses that had learned to lean the same way against the wind, the stout box of the generator building with its chimney working hard. The outer wallthick timber and salvaged steel made a scar around all of it that somehow looked like a hug from up here.

“Looks small,” she said, almost to herself.

“Everything does from far enough away,” Tommy said. “Problems too. And they grow when you get your nose right up on ’em.”

“Scientific,” Ellie murmured.

“I’m full of peer-reviewed wisdom.” He slid her side-eye. “Joel used to bring me up to ridges like this back in Texas.” His smile softened, went a little uneven. “He’d point at a place and spin me some story about how it could be‘We’ll fix that roof, and I’ll plant tomatoes in that patch, and maybe there’s a little bit of a herd that runs that way come fall.’ Didn’t matter if the patch was a gravel pit and the herd was two half-frozen cows. He needed to say it out loud so the world had to hear him.”

Ellie swallowed. The wind brought the smell of wood smoke from the valley, threaded so thin you almost had to imagine it, and something clenched behind her ribs eased a fraction. “He still does that,” she said, and then wished she hadn’t.

Tommy didn’t pounce. “Yeah,” he said simply. “He does. And he’s real bad at not doing it to you. He worries and it comes out crooked. You can be mad at him for that. You can be mad at him for anything you need. But, El, don’t turn away from the warm part just ’cause you don’t like the shape of the fire.”

She made a face that was supposed to be a shrug and landed closer to a wince. “I didn’t ask you to”

“be uncle?” he finished lightly. “Too bad. Comes with the family. I got the title, I’m gonna wear it. Embarrassing stories, unsolicited advice.”

“You always smell like the Tipsy Bison,” she cut in.

“That’s because I work there,” he said, offended, then grinned.

She blew a white breath that might’ve been a laugh. Down in the valley a team of riders traced a bead of movement along the wall, barely visible except when the sun slid through a crack in the clouds and gave them a glint. The wall itselfugly and beautifullooked like someone had decided to teach trees how to stand shoulder to shoulder. It had taken a year and a half of back-splitting labor, deals with small gods, and more arguments than anyone could count. Ellie remembered the first day she’d walked in through the gate, the way the cold air changed when the metal closed behind her.

Tommy nudged her with his elbow. “Hungry?”

“Always,” she said, carefully disgruntled.

He dug in his pack and handed over a waxed paper bundle. “Jerky. Don’t ask which animal; it’ll upset your ethics.”

“My ethics are elastic,” she said, tearing a piece with her teeth and chewing like it could distract her brain from itself. It was salty and smoky and something else that might’ve been maple or wishful thinking. He passed her a dented thermos next. The coffee inside was more hot than good, which made it perfect.

They ate standing, eyes on the valley, sharing the easy quiet that happens when two people have known each other long enough to let the air between them do some of the talking. The wind stepped down for a minute. A gray sun peeked, frowned, and went back in.

“Maria’s still pissed?” Ellie asked finally, surprising herself with the little leash of curiosity on her voice.

“She was,” Tommy said. “I made amends.”

“With a door handle.”

“And a roof patch, and mending the fence line in real time, and” He hesitated, a little sheepish. “I built her a cold frame. Little greenhouse box. So she can start the greens early and feel like spring’s coming even when winter’s being rude.”

Ellie blinked at him. “That’s… actually sweet.”

“Don’t tell nobody,” he said. “Ruin my reputation.”

“They already know.”

“Damn.”

He capped the thermos and tucked it away. “Come on. We keep standing here and your toes will revolt.”

They left the overlook and took the trail that threaded the spine of the ridge before curling down into a switchback run of packed snow. The walk down was always different from the climb; gravity took a little of the work and asked for payment in attention. They angled their steps to avoid skating. Twice Ellie put a hand out and caught a trunk, the bark cold and rough in a way that made her palm remember it hours later. Tommy pointed out a drift lip that looked safe and was actually a hollow“Snow belly,” he called it, then jabbed at a line of small tracks stitched across the path.

“Snowshoe hare,” he said. “See the big back feet? If we’re lucky, we’ll catch one in a snare tomorrow and not tell Maria in case it’s someone’s favorite.”

“I thought Maria had a list of all the rabbits with names,” Ellie said.

“She does,” Tommy said. “We cook the unnamed ones.”

Ellie pictured a council meeting about lagomorph identities and shook her head. “I’m moving,” she said, more to herself than him. “I’m fine.”

“Mm,” Tommy said again, letting the word carry what he didn’t push. “You still got that coin I gave you?”

She slid a thumb into the tiny watch pocket of her jeans. The bison’s fat curve was a little comfort she pretended not to keep checking. “Yeah,” she said.

“Good.” He nodded, satisfied. “Old cowboy trick. Something small you can hold onto when you can’t get your hands around the big stuff. You don’t need it when you’re happy. You need it when you want to punch a hillside.”

Ellie’s mouth pulled sideways. “You’re full of tricks today.”

“I’m trying them out so I can write a book,” he said. “Tommy’s Guide to Not Being an Idiot All the Time. Chapter One: Remember Your Anniversary. Chapter Two: If a child says she’s fine, bring snacks.”

“Chapter Three: Stop talking,” Ellie suggested.

“Oh, chapter three is the longest,” he said solemnly.

They hit a bend where the trail cut through a stand of aspen, their white trunks inscribed by old elk rubs. The wind came back around the corner and stuffed snow down the back of Ellie’s neck. She yelped, tucked her chin, and swore into her scarf. Tommy laughed, then did the same yelp two minutes later when the trail got its petty revenge on him. That small fairness warmed parts of her that coffee hadn’t reached.

“Joel is” Tommy started, then paused like he’d reached a word he didn’t want to waste. “He’s working on it. On… how to be with you. He’s trying to not push and also not leave you alone. He’s real bad at the middle. We both are. Middle’s where you gotta listen.”

Ellie kept her eyes on the trail. “You two weren’t exactly champions at ‘listening’ when you were saving the world by arguing with it.”

“Lord, no,” Tommy said. “We were champions at being loud. We’re trying to be less loud now. Doesn’t always take.” He nudged a rock out of the way with his boot. “You don’t have to tell him anything you don’t want to. Just” He stopped again, found a different path. “Don’t build walls on top of walls. We already got plenty.”

They curved down through an old cut where stumps made a graveyard of knees under the snow. A gust dense with ice pellets rattled through the spruces and made a sound like applause that didn’t care what it was clapping for. For a while they just walked, breath and crunch and the occasional creak of leather. At a shoulder where you could see town again, closer now, Ellie slowed. From here the sounds came up as whispers metal on metal, a distant dog, a voice that might’ve been someone calling to a kid to come inside and wash hands. She let the town’s noise hook her ribs and pull a little. Tommy stood beside her and didn’t say anything because he was smart enough to know when to let the world talk for him.

“Two years,” he said after a while, as if he’d just remembered a fact. “Feels like ten. Feels like two minutes. I can’t tell anymore.”

“Time’s fake,” Ellie said automatically, then softened it with, “It… moves weird.”

“Like walking on river ice,” he agreed. “Solid until it isn’t. You get better at reading it. You still fall in sometimes.”

“Good pep talk.”

“I’m a motivational speaker.”

“Do you do birthdays?”

“Only if I remember them.”

She rolled her eyes and started down again. The switchbacks stacked like pages turned carefully. The wall grew taller the closer they got; the details sharpenedscars where logs had been replaced, spots where the gate’s hinges had been greased, the paint someone had taken a brush to in summer to cover graffiti that now peeped blue under snow. Guys on the catwalk above paced and stopped and paced again, shoulders hunched in their coats, eyes on the whitening world.

At the last bend, Tommy touched her elbow to slow her a fraction. “One more uncle thing,” he said, half-apology in his voice.

Ellie braced for it and tried not to show the brace. “Shoot.”

“You’re allowed to hold two things at once,” he said. “Hate and love. Anger and… whatever the opposite of anger is.” His smile went a little crooked. “Cake. You can hate a thing someone did and love the someone. You can be mad at Joel and still let him worry and feed you and shove a glove into your hand when he notices your fingers are blue.” He made a face. “That last one is autobiographical. He did it to me yesterday.”

“I wondered where my glove went,” she said dryly.

He laughed. “I’ll steal you a better pair.”

They finished the last drop to the gate, breath fogging, cheeks hot from cold. The sentries hailed them with mittened hands; one swung down to spin the wheel that drew the inner bars back. Metal complained, then relented. The air changed, just a little warmer because it didn’t have far to go to find a wall to bounce off. Ellie felt it in her shoulders, that cave instinct that never stopped working: we’re in, for now.

They stamped snow from their boots on the grates just inside the gate. Someone had chalked a crooked snowman face on the metal post and stuck two dandelion-murdered twigs where arms would be. It looked opportunistic and brave. Maria would’ve liked that.

“You coming by the house later?” Tommy asked, casual but not. “Maria’s making a stew that could resurrect a corpse.”

“Tempting,” Ellie said, because it was.

“And, uh,” he added carefully, “movie night is on. Not mandatory. Not a trap. Just if you want to be in a room with people who’ll argue about spies and accents instead of… anything else.”

She tipped her head like she was considering. “Spies and cheekbones.”

“Exactly.”

“I’ll think about it,” she said, which in Ellie meant maybe.

“Good enough,” he said, which in Tommy meant he’d set a seat anyway.

They split at the corner where the path to the stables veered off. He did a little two-finger salute and wandered toward the Tipsy Bison with the gait of a man who had forgotten and remembered the same thing twice in one day. She watched him a second longer than she meant to, then turned

SPRING (Jackson)

“Babe hold still,” Cat said, leaning close enough that Ellie could count the freckles fanned across her nose. “If you twitch again, the fern is going to look like it grew up next to a power plant.”

“It did grow up next to a power plant,” Ellie said.

Cat’s mouth tugged sideways. She dipped the hand-poke needle into the little metal cap of ink, tapped off the excess, and set the point back into Ellie’s skin with careful, steady pressure. The sting came on the second jab, then settled into that stubborn burn that made your teeth hurt if you thought about it too hard. Witch hazel and green soap cut the blood-metal smell; Vaseline made the skin slick and shiny where the stencil lines marched in crisp blue.

Jesse lounged on Ellie's busted chair nearby, boot propped on a box. Dina stood with her arms folded just inside the garage door, eyes flicking between the open street and Ellie’s forearm like she was guarding both. Sunlight hit her braid and lit it up like a line of honey.

“Does it… have to be that big?” Jesse asked, wincing in sympathy as Cat set another dot. “What’s the theme again?”

“Nature says ‘screw you’ to everything that tried to kill it,” Cat said without looking up. “Fern wraps here, moth sits there.” She thumbed a spot near Ellie’s elbow crease, eyes flicking to Ellie’s for permission before she touched. “The leaves climb in like they were always part of you.”

“Edgy,” Jesse said. “Ten out of ten apocalypse aesthetic.”

Cat glanced up at Dina. “If you want to wait outside of Ellie's garage apartment, this part’s boring. It’s going to be hours of me poking your friend with a stick.”

Dina didn’t move. “I’m fine.”

“Hey, so can I play on your Playstation 3? You got the better model!” Jesse asked as he pointed his finger at her tv.

“No, I don't want your greasy fingers on my collector edition!” Ellie felt the word brush the back of her neck the way Dina meant it: I’m watching. I’m not leaving you alone. Also, I don’t have anything better to do with my hands.

“You don’t have to babysit me,” Ellie said, trying to keep it light. “I’m a big girl. I can sit in a chair and get stabbed repeatedly all by myself.”

Dina’s mouth did a small, humorless smile. “You’re very brave.”

Cat rolled her shoulders, shook out her wrist, then bent back to the work, setting the rhythm again: press, lift, blot, breathe. She’d built the rig out of a shaved chopstick and a sewing needle, wrapped in tape like a cast. No gun hum. Just the soft percussion of spring wind and Cat’s breath counting inside her head.

“Okay,” Cat said after a minute, too casual to be casual. “So. You’re really going south.”

Ellie held her breath on the next set of dots, let it out slow. “Yup.”

Jesse made a face. “So south. Maria said as far as Salt Lake.” He glanced at Dina. “You sure this is a good idea?”

“It’s a supply run,” Ellie said, and heard how rehearsed it sounded. “Long one, yeah. Hospital down there might still have stuff we can use. Sterile packs. Suture. Antibiotics. Manuals for fixing ancient hospital crap we keep pretending will run forever.”

“Might,” Dina said, the word landing like a pebble that wanted to be a rock. “Might have. Might be full of spores. Might be full of people who don’t want you taking their scraps.” She moved closer without seeming to, shoulder brushing the sun stripe on the concrete. “I don’t like it.”

Cat’s hand stilled for half a second on Ellie’s skin. She wiped, gentle. “Salt Lake’s far,” she said, almost to herself.

“Joel says the roads south are clearing,” Ellie said, because that’s what you said when the person you were talking about had already decided. “Less snow. Easier travel. We hit it before summer bands start roaming.”

Jesse snorted. “You say ‘summer bands’ like they’re a high school marching thing. They’re raiders, El.”

“Tommy thinks raiders could take a swing at the east road any week,” Ellie said, like she was reading from a memo. “It’s better if it’s just us. Smaller target. Quieter.”

“Just you,” Dina repeated. “You and Joel.”

“Yeah,” Ellie said, and the sting in her arm suddenly felt easier to manage than the conversation. “We travel well. He shoots. I shoot. We don’t… talk the whole time.”

“That's the part you’re selling me on?” Dina asked. “The silence?”

Cat dabbed gently, voice soft. “Don’t make her jump.”

Jesse leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Maria’s not sending backup?” he asked, brows pulling. “A pair of outriders a day behind? A second truck you can radio if—”

“Maria can’t spare bodies,” Ellie said. “Calving season. Water lines. Gate repairs. And if Tommy thinks the east road’s soft, you don’t send your whole poker hand south just ’cause a hospital had a sign once.”

“You sound like you’ve been in three different briefings,” Jesse said dryly.

Ellie shrugged her good shoulder. “I eavesdrop. It’s a hobby.”

Dina uncrossed her arms, recrossed them. “I don’t like him taking you back there.”

“Back where?” Jesse asked, confused.

Dina didn’t look away from Ellie. “Salt Lake.”

“Never been,” Ellie lied, the syllables sliding too smooth.

Cat glanced between the three of them, worry showing under the professional calm. She put the needle down, flexed her fingers, and pressed a fresh wipe against the reddened skin to keep the ink from migrating. “Break,” she said, voice decisive. “Get water.”

Ellie blew air out in a slow stream, grateful for the excuse to stand. “Bossy.”

“Artist,” Cat corrected, mouth softening. “Don’t argue. Go.”

Jesse hopped up like he’d been waiting to be useful. “I’ll grab cups.” He disappeared toward the kitchen, whistling some off-key approximation of a song that had survived the end of the world by being catchy enough to be immortal.

Dina moved into the space he left, lowering her voice. “You don’t have to go,” she said. Not pleading. Not commanding. Just setting another option on the table and daring Ellie to say no to it.

Ellie rubbed the itchy, angry skin around the tattoo with the back of her knuckle and didn’t scratch. “It’s easy,” she said, pushing the joke back into her throat because it was the only way it would go down. “We’ll be back before you finish alphabetizing the beans.”

Dina didn’t smile. “You make jokes when you’re scared.”

“I make jokes when I’m trying not to punch walls,” Ellie said, matching the honesty because anything else felt like a half-lie that would taste worse. “It’ll be fine.”

Jesse came back with chipped mugs that said WORLD’S BEST BOSS and JACKSON DAYS in fake balloon letters. He handed one to Ellie, one to Dina, took a sip from his and made a face like it had betrayed him. “Who made this? It tastes like the color gray.”

“Joel,” Ellie said, because of course it did. “He thinks boiling is a personality.”

Dina set her mug down untouched. “Jesse,” she said without looking away from Ellie, “tell her this is dumb.”

“It’s dumb,” Jesse said promptly, then softened it with a wince. “And also maybe necessary if the hospital isn’t stripped. Which it probably is. So—dumb and brave and also… dumb.”

“Wow,” Ellie said. “You’d make a great keynote speaker.”

“Thank you,” he said. “My rate is one (1) canned peach.”

Cat cleared her throat, wiping her hands on a towel. “I can keep going,” she offered. “Or we can pick it up tomorrow. No shame in starting slow.”

Ellie looked at the outline—the fern curling up her forearm, the moth waiting to be born in negative space. It already looked like it belonged there, like it had been under her skin since before she had a word for why she wanted it. “Keep going,” she said. “If I bail now, Jesse wins.”

“Your fear of my victory is valid,” Jesse said.

Dina stayed where she was, hands on the back of the busted chair, fingers tapping a rhythm Ellie recognized as the one Dina used when she was building a case in her head. “If something happens,” Dina said, and had to stop and start again because the sentence had broken its ankle on the first step, “If you don’t radio, I’m coming south.”

“You’re not coming south,” Ellie said. “Maria will chain you to the catwalk.”

“Maria can try,” Dina said. The look she gave Ellie was full of stubborn, shining worry. “You come back. Or I come get you.”

Cat shot Ellie an apologetic look like sorry, I tried to make them drink water. Ellie breathed around the tightness climbing up her throat and nodded once. “Okay.”

Dina’s jaw unclenched a notch. She squeezed the chair back until her knuckles whitened, then let go. “Okay.”

Cat got the rhythm back. Press, lift, blot, breathe. The pain settled into that manageable hum that turned the world into bright pieces. Outside, a kid ran past with a stick dragging along the fence, the clack clack clack measuring the afternoon. Someone’s radio two doors down fuzzed into a chorus of a song nobody remembered the verses to.

“Seriously, though,” Jesse said, calmer now that the conversation had crested. “Why just the two of you? Even a third mouth to argue with thieves—”

“Tommy says smaller is safer,” Ellie said, fixing on a knot in the wooden workbench so she didn’t have to look at any of their faces. “Less dust. Less tire to read. If someone is watching the road, two is a couple looking for family. Four is a caravan looking for trouble.”

“And Maria signed off on that?” he pressed.

“Tommy made the case,” Ellie said. “Maria hates it. She hates everything about south. She also hates what happens when we run out of sterile scalpels and have to boil knives again.”

Dina made a wounded noise that might’ve been a laugh. “Romance.”

“Welcome to the modern hospital,” Ellie said.

“Tommy didn’t mention raiders?” Jesse asked, still playing logistics because logistics was kinder than feelings.

“He did,” Ellie said. “That’s why small. If they’re moving between towns, we don’t want to be the prize. We want to be boring enough to ignore.”

“You’ll never be boring,” Dina said, automatic and fierce. It landed low in Ellie’s ribs and warmed there in a way nothing else could get to.

Cat finished a section fern frond curling up toward the inner elbow and sat back to admire, rubbing a thin sheen of ointment over it. “It’s taking beautifully,” she said, proud. “You’re easy skin.” A small smile escaped her lips as she shot a wink

“I’m very accommodating,” Ellie said.

“Agh, get a room you two.” Dina said.

Jesse peered. “Next Ellie is gonna want a leather vest. Calling her biker gang “The Lost & Damned” 

Cat’s smile went softer, shadowed by the worry she’d been trying to keep to herself. “That’s the idea.”

They took another break because Cat insisted, which meant Jesse found crackers that tasted like dust and Dina finally risked a sip of Joel’s coffee and didn’t even try to pretend she liked it. The conversation turned small for a few minutes: who'd won at cards, whether the chickens had staged another coup, if the school roof was going to hold through the spring storms. Ellie listened, said things, made faces at Jesse when he deserved it, and built the thin skin of ordinary back over all the sharp things that lived underneath.

When Cat went back to work, the light had shifted; the sun stepped down from the doorframe and left the garage in a softer gray. The last of the linework pulled across Ellie’s skin like thread through cloth. Cat wiped one more time, sat back, and put the needle down like a tool you were grateful to.

“Done,” she said. “For today.”

Ellie looked. The fern climbed; the moth waited. The skin was mad and beautiful. For a second she saw the hospital floors in Salt Lake—what she imagined of them, anyway—saw green punching through tile, saw a moth beating itself against a window that had never been meant to open.

Dina came closer without being asked, careful not to crowd. “It’s… good,” she said, surprised by her own relief. “It’s you.”

Jesse whistled. “Badass,” he decided.

Cat taped a light plastic wrap over the fresh lines and smoothed it with her knuckles. “Don’t take it off until tonight. No scratching. Wash with the soap I gave you. Ointment twice a day. If it gets angry-angry, you come back.”

“Yes, doctor,” Ellie said, dutiful.

“I’m an artist,” Cat corrected again, smiling. It faltered. “Be careful.” She leaned over and gave a quick kiss on Ellie’s lips.

SALT LAKE CITY (Late Spring)

Dawn hadn’t broken so much as smeared itself along the edge of the mountains, a thin bruise of light over Salt Lake. She sat on a sun-faded crate with the red cross mostly rubbed away, shoulders hunched into a jacket that wasn’t warm enough, thumb worrying the tape deck’s rewind nub until it clicked and snapped back under her nail. The recorder was scuffed, the foam over its mic half-crumbled. She could feel the little machine’s heat in her palm, the way it held on to the last bit of life like that meant something.

“…Most people have left already. I don't know which group I'm going to join… I was one of the ones that wanted to go after the smuggler and the girl. They said…” the voice rasped, tinny and tired. “…Even if we found her, or by some miracle found someone else that's immune, it'd make no difference. 'Cause the only person who could develop a vaccine is dead.”

Ellie hit rewind with the flat of her nail. The tape whirred, caught, played again.

“…miracle found someone else that's immune, it'd make no difference.”

Rewind. Play.

“…miracle found someone else that's immune, it'd make no difference. 'Cause the only person-”

Hoofbeats cut across the gravel and broken glass. A shout, ragged with fear: “Ellie!”

They grew louder and ragged up the cracked drive fast, wrong for the hour. She didn’t stand. She didn’t hide. The horse slid into the mouth of the bay and threw steam. Joel swung down before it stopped moving.

“Ellie!” he shouted, and the name bounced off tile and steel like something dropped from too high. He crossed the space, gathered her up hard, breath hot against her hair. “The hell were you thinkin’? Runnin’ off in the middle of the night like that. You talk to me. You don’t just leave me a goddamn note—”

She pushed him back, palm to his chest, not violent, just done. He took a half step and steadied like a man catching himself in a doorway.

Her voice came out steady in a way that cost her everything. “Where are the Fireflies? What happened here? Why is there a mass graveyard on the lawn!? Joel, what I saw wasn’t a group attack, one person did all this.”

Joel’s jaw tightened. “Fireflies were not known for their fighters... Raiders. Maybe FEDRA leftovers. Maybe some nomad group swept throughI don’t know.”

“Don’t.” Ellie stepped closer, shaking but holding his eyes. “The bodies are all in their uniforms. The doors blew inward. Single direction of fire. One person walked through this place.”

Joel lifted a hand, let it fall. “I saw enough. I ain’t standin’ by while some lab butchers you for a maybe.”

“Then say it,” Ellie whispered. “Tell me please, what happened here?”

“Ellie—”

Ellie’s breath hitched; she swallowed it down. “Stop. Stop talking like the weather did this.” Her eyes shone but didn’t blink. “Please. Joel, I am begging you…Please just tell me the truth.”

He closed his eyes. Took a breath that shook at the start and straightened by force. When he opened them, he’d already chosen. His mouth shaped something that might have been honest in another life. Then he let it go. “It wasn’t gonna work,” he repeated, softer. “So I got us out. I swear.”

The sentence sat between them, clean and small. It could have been mercy if it didn’t cut. Her shoulders fell. The fight ran out of her legs first, then her hands. She slipped the recorder into her pocket like it was suddenly too heavy to hold.

Ellie stared at him long enough for the cold to climb her spine. She sat back on the crate because her knees didn’t trust her. The recorder was still in her hand; she didn’t remember picking it up again. She pressed play and the Firefly’s voice came back, patient as a knife:

“…the only person who could develop a vaccine is dead.”

She put her forearm over her eyes even though there was nothing bright to block and her shoulders shuddered once, twice, the kind of crying you try to keep inside your teeth. Joel took a half step, stopped, hands open and useless.

“Please don’t touch me…” Ellie whispered as she stepped back.

When the tears ran out, she dragged her sleeve across her face and looked at the floor until it held still. The hospital loomed behind her like a pulled tooth. She set the recorder down on the crate, careful, as if the plastic could bruise.

“Okay,” she said. Not agreement. Not forgiveness. The smallest word a person could use to end a conversation without ending anything at all.

Joel nodded, relief and ruin in the same breath. He reached for the reins, for motion, for anything that didn’t require another answer.

SUMMER (Jackson)

Ellie sat with a bowl she hadn’t touched, elbow on the table, chin in her palm. The stew had a skin already, onions going sweet in a way that made the back of her teeth ache. Her spoon kept migrating to her hand without her noticing; her hand kept setting it down again.

Cat slid onto the bench beside her, close enough that Ellie could smell the faint witch-hazel-and-soap mix Cat always carried out of the studio. Cat bumped their shoulders like a hello that had learned to be gentle. “Tastes better than it looks,” she offered, nodding at the bowl.

Ellie made a noncommittal noise. She’d chosen the seat by the pillar because it meant people only had two angles to approach from. Cat had used the third: sat down first and then became an angle.

“You should eat,” Cat said after a while, no edge to it. “Or I’ll have to start sneaking egg sandwiches into your pockets like you’re seventy.”

Ellie tried on a smile that didn’t fit. “I’m working on a new diet. All resentment, no calories.”

“Bold.” Cat’s knuckles brushed Ellie’s forearm where the fern and moth lived now, healed and part of her. It was a quick ghost of a touch, comfort, check-in. Ellie pulled away before she could stop herself, the movement so small it could’ve been an itch scratched. Cat’s hand retreated like she’d been the one burned. “Sorry,” she said, a reflex.

“It’s fine,” Ellie said, reflex back.

A ripple of voices at the doorway made the room tilt toward it. Joel came in with Dina at his side, her braid dark with sweat at the nape of her neck, his hat pushed back in concession to the heat. They were in conversation about something small—sprinklers or fence posts—faces open in that easy, unhurried way you wear when you don’t have to pick your words. Joel said something that made Dina roll her eyes and shoulder him; he chuckled, slow. They looked like what Jackson liked to pretend it could make out of people if you put enough dinners and chores and quiet between them.

Dina clocked Ellie, lit a little, and waved. She said something quick to Joel; he nodded, a small, almost-shy acknowledgment in Ellie’s direction, and peeled off toward the serving line. Dina cut a path between tables and slid into the space across from Ellie, palms flat on the wood like she was grounding herself before she tried.

“Hey,” Dina said.

Ellie’s spoon made a tiny ding against the bowl. “Hey.”

“How’s your day?” Dina asked, the kind of question you throw like a life preserver even when you know the person you’re throwing it to is going to pretend they don’t need it.

“Fine,” Ellie said. She pushed the stew skin under with the back of the spoon, watched it rise again. “Yours?”

“Hot,” Dina said, lips quirking. “Jesse tried to fix the sprinkler again. It now waters the road with great enthusiasm.”

“Road needs love, too,” Ellie said, voice flat as a counter.

Dina took that in, didn’t push. “Cat,” she said with a nod, and Cat dipped her head back, half-smile the kind you give a person you keep wanting to fix with tools you don’t own. Then, to Ellie, softer: “I was going to swing by later with a tape. Jesse found one that’s only slightly chewed. ELO. It sounds like the inside of a tin can. You’ll hate it.”

“Can’t wait,” Ellie said, which was almost yes.

Joel passed behind Dina with his tray; he gave Ellie a small nod that didn’t ask anything, didn’t tell her anything either. She felt it land and not sink in. He kept going toward an open space by the window, a little sun-bleached square of floor he’d made his set place by using it enough.

Dina leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping under the room. “You don’t have to decide everything today.”

Ellie let the sentence skim off. “I’m fine,” she said, the word a shield that got thinner every time she held it up.

“Okay,” Dina said, backing off because backing off was an exercise she’d been practicing. Her eyes did the worry thing anyway. “Eat, at least.”

“I will,” Ellie lied.

Someone two tables over knocked over a cup; everyone within splash distance jumped and then laughed and scolded in the same breath. Ellie used the noise to stand. “I’m gonna—” she said, and let the rest be the room’s problem. Cat watched her go with a little crease between her brows; Dina did too, not trying to turn herself into a wall this time, just letting Ellie pass.

Outside, the evening heat had softened to something less hostile. Gnats made galaxies in the slant of sun. Ellie cut around the back of the hall toward the side street that ran the long way to the dorms. She walked like a person who had places to be and no idea where they were.

Tommy appeared from the shade of the water tower, adjusting a wrench at his belt like he’d just finished pretending to know what he was doing. “Hey, trouble,” he called, easy. “Got a minute?”

“Not really,” Ellie said, not stopping, which he ignored because that was his right as an uncle and a man unconcerned with being told no.

He fell in beside her, matched her clipped pace. “We’re putting together a group run up through Teton Heights in the morning. Light, in and out, eyes on the cabins up there. You wanna ride along?”

“No,” Ellie said.

Tommy took the hit without flinching. “Copy that. I’ll put you down for moral support from afar.”

They walked three more steps. He cleared his throat. “Jesse mentioned you had a rough time in training today.” He said it like you say there’s a nail in your tire, not like a cop with a notepad. “You okay?”

Ellie stopped. Turned. The glare she gave him wasn’t big; it was precise. “Do you know what happened?”

The question landed between them like a tripwire. Tommy set his hands on his hips the way he did when he was trying to look like a man with tools for a problem that didn’t have screws. He let out a breath through his nose, looked down the street at nothing, then back at her.

“Ellie,” he started, and it was almost an answer.

She held his eyes. Waited.

He sighed, long and tired, and shook his head once, the gesture not quite no, not quite yes—just the universal sign for I can’t do this with you here, like this. “I-I Ellie look, I-” he tried.

“The truth,” she said. It came out calm and small and hot enough to burn.

Tommy’s mouth pressed into a line. “The Truth?” he said, the substitute laid out neat on the table. “I know you’re a good kid. I know—”

“Got it,” Ellie said, the words snapping clean. She stepped around him and kept going.

He didn’t follow this time. “Door’s open,” he called after her, because he had to say something.

She lifted a hand without turning, a gesture that could have been anything and chose to be nothing. On her way past the laundry, the heat from the dryers hit her like a wall; for a second she wanted to stand in front of it and let the hot air sand her down to a smoother shape. She didn’t. She cut through the gap by the gear shed and into the little alley where the shadows came sooner and the world quieted.

Night pressed flat against the garage windows, the kind that made the glass feel like it was holding its breath. Ellie’s place smelled like oil and detergent and the faint sweet of old wood. A single bulb over the workbench drew a hard circle of light; everything outside it looked like it had decided to be someone else’s problem.

She packed like a person counting out an argument: map, folded twice and then again; compass; water tabs; the good knife; spare socks rolled into tight little fists; tape and gauze; ELO tape Dina had brought by and Ellie hadn’t listened to yet; a handful of beef jerky that tasted like salted question marks; the .22 magazines she’d cleaned and miscounted on purpose.

The switchblade went in last. It always did. She zipped the pack, unzipped it, and shoved a small sketchbook into the side pocket because leaving it felt like proving a point to the wrong audience.

The door hinges gave themselves away a half-second before the knock. Ellie stiffened and swore under her breath. “Shit.”

“I brought some-” Cat started as she stepped in, voice bright on purpose, then stopped mid-syllable. She’d come with a chipped plate balanced in both hands, a wedge of cake listing under a dented smear of frosting and a single stubby candle jammed off-center. 

Cat’s eyes found the pack in one motion and did something she couldn’t stop them from doing—widening, going wet at the edges. “What are you…?” She put the plate down on the workbench without looking, hard enough the fork jumped. “Ellie.”

“It’s not—” Ellie started, then let the lie die under the bulb with everything else. “I have to go.”

Cat stepped closer automatically, two small palms up like that might slow the world. “It’s your birthday,” she said, like that could change the math. “I brought cake. I stole sugar for the frosting. I almost burned down my kitchen making it-look.” She gave a choked laugh and swiped at her cheek with the back of her wrist. “It says ‘Happy—’” She didn’t finish the joke Maria had told weeks ago. It would have hurt both of them.

“I can’t stay here.” Ellie kept her voice low; it made it feel less like shouting in a church. “Not with so many liars.”

Cat flinched like that had a trajectory. “Who? Joel? Tommy?” She shook her head fast, hair sticking to her face. “Okay. Okay. Whatever they did we can-People can be awful. But we—” She tapped her chest, then pointed at Ellie’s. “We can make it better. We can make it—” The word she wanted wasn’t available. She took a deep breath, found another. “Stay. Please.”

Ellie shouldered the pack. The weight made everything she hadn’t said sit lower in her body. “It’s not about making it better.”

“Then what?” Cat closed the gap, grabbed Ellie’s forearm where the fern climbed her skin, fingers curling over the healed lines like she could anchor her with the art she’d put there. “Tell me what it’s about and I’ll fix that. Or I won’t. But I’ll sit on the floor with you and be useless until it’s less heavy. Just—don’t walk out…”

Ellie looked down at Cat’s hand. The grip trembled. Cat noticed and clamped harder, like strength could be faked if you held your breath long enough. “I can’t,” Ellie said.

Cat’s face broke in quiet pieces. She reached up without thinking and framed Ellie’s jaw with both hands, thumbs shaking where they met at Ellie’s cheeks. “Then breathe out here,” she begged, eyes searching Ellie’s like there might be a lever to pull. “Breathe with me. Scream. Throw a wrench. Eat the stupid cake and tell me you hate it. Let me be bad at helping. Don’t—don’t go.”

Ellie yanked free before her resolve could slip, the move sharper than she meant it to be. Cat’s hands fell and she caught one against her own stomach like she had to keep something from falling out. Tears came without a scene; they just came, hot and offended, turning the tip of her nose red.

“Ellie,” Cat said, and there was nothing left in the word but plea.

Ellie grabbed her jacket off the peg and shoved her arms into it like if she moved fast enough, the room couldn’t catch her shape to hold it.

Chapter Text

Ellie burst out of the black water on a wave’s back, coughed salt, stumbled to her knees, and tasted iron. A cut zigzagged through her hairline; blood ran warm into one eye and pinked the rain on her cheek. Something deeper burned along her left side hot, stiff every breath snagging on it like a hook.

What happened? How did they know?

Boats, skiffs, flatbacks were strewn crooked across the shallows, some capsized, some burning with fat orange fire that threw a broken light across the rain. Oil made a rainbow sheen where the surf tore it thin; the smell of fuel and wet ash turned her stomach. WLF bodies dotted the sand in irregular punctuation: a hand open to the sky, a boot half-buried, a face turned away into rain. Arrows bristled from flak vests and wet canvas like black reeds. A helmet rolled and knocked against her shin, then spun away with the tide.

Ellie pushed to her feet, swayed, then planted her boots wide and made her world small, get under cover, stop the bleeding, and find a gun. She yanked her cap down tight, blinked blood from her lashes, and crabbed toward a jumble of basalt outcrops where the beach kneed into a low headland. The rocks were slick and barnacled; she skinned a palm and didn’t bother to look. Overhead, the island’s ridge hunched dark with trees, palisade a black stitch against the sky. 

She slid behind a log wedged between two rocks, pressed her shoulder to it, and took stock. The cut on her temple was shallow and messy, but not the skull-splitting kind. The heat in her side was worse. She pulled up her jacket and shirt and hissed. A tearing line across the obliques, four inches, deep enough to sing. Board edge? Nail? She couldn’t remember hitting it. The memory flickered.

Something knocked against Ellie’s boot. A body rolled in the well at her feet, face to the boards, WLF radio half-clipped to his vest by a miracle and a bent carabiner. The handset spat a ragged hiss, then a man’s voice pushed through like a fist through wet paper: “—Bravo, status. Bravo, anyone—Come in!”

Ellie snatched it with wet fingers and squeezed the call button so hard her thumb hurt. “This is—” She checked her mouth, picked a voice that might get listened to. “West beach. We’re scattered.”

“Identify,” the voice snapped, crisp in a way that made everything else around it sound like mud. “Who the fuck is this?”

“Ellie,” she said before she could come up with a lie that would hold under teeth. “With… with…Bravo, fuck.”

The name put a weight in the skiff that wasn’t water. Ellie’s throat went tight. “It’s a disaster,” she said, and the sentence cracked on the second word. “They knew. There’s fire everywhere. I don’t— I don’t know what to—”

“Listen.” His voice didn’t get louder. It got narrower, until there was only room for orders. “All units are in full retreat. Full retreat to the east side. If you are on the west side, you will not make it by water. Do you copy?”

Ellie barked a bitter laugh.. “Copy,” Ellie said, because the word was cheaper than honesty. “I..I… I’m west. Near the headland. Boats are… gone.”

“Then you cross,” The man said. No sympathy. No cruelty either. “Cut inland. Stay off the ridgelines. Scars own the high ground. You’ll hit a logging camp first, big cedar stumps, racks of tools. Past that, a prayer field with posts and ribbons. Keep the bell tower to your left. You’ll see a causeway through the marsh. That leads you to the mission trail. Follow it east. You’ll see the Space Needle keep it ahead of you whenever you can. We’re holding at the docks for as long as we can.”

“How long is ‘as long as we can’?” Ellie asked into the spray.

The handset crackled. The man didn’t give them a number. “You move now,” he said instead. “You keep low. If you hear three short whistles and one long, they’re circling you. If you hear two long, they’re calling reinforcements. Do not stop to count bodies. Do not stop.”

Ellie’s mouth moved before her brain caught it. “Please don’t leave.” It fell out small and ugly, the part of her that still believed in adults bargaining with storms.

Silence. Rain and engine and someone crying in another boat like a song they didn’t know the words to.

“No one’s coming to get you,” The said, and somehow it wasn’t cruel. It was a brick you could stand on. “Get to the docks. Then I can help you. Until then, help yourselves. Do you copy?”

Ellie closed her eyes, felt her own hand tighten on her knee like an answer. “Copy,” she said. “West side. Logging camp. Prayer field. Bell left. Causeway. Trail. Docks.”

“Good.” A click, then a final, flat sentence: “May your survival be long” The line went to dead air. Somewhere behind that, other voices clamored, other lives needing sorting. The little red light on the radio winked once and gave up.

“May your death be swift.” Another cough. This one pulled a ribbon of blood off her lip to remind her she was meat. She peeled back the tape on her side an inch, glancing. The cut had seeped through the rag and gone purple at the edges, not the kind of purple you wanted. “Fuck it,” she told the ocean and the trees and the part of herself that yelled safety lectures. “What’s the worst, right?… I’m screwed.”

She rolled to her knees. The revolver was cold in her palm in the way a good tool is honest. She popped the cylinder. Four fat brass moons looked up. She clicked it shut because rituals matter.

The forest started ten yards off, the beach giving way to a slope of salal and sword fern and old cedar roots that had decided to be stairs. She tucked her chin, took a breath that tasted like pennies and rain, and went

Ellie kept to the runoff cuts like the man had said. The dark veins of wet earth that braided downhill. They made noise that covered her noise. Twice she stopped and laid her fingers to the mud to feel if the water pulled right. Twice she changed course because feeling was smarter than looking. Whistles ghosted through the trees: three fast, two slow, answered from somewhere she didn’t like. Hymns rose under them, a call-and-response that didn’t care if you didn’t know the words. She crouched by a stump and let them pass through her like weather.

A chime cluster hung low over the path ahead, green glass leaves knocking their own music. Someone had tied strips of cloth to the line, prayers written in a hand that leaned left. Ellie put her palm under the line to quiet it, slid beneath, and risked cutting one strip free with the tip of her knife. She tucked it in her pocket because petty theft felt like bravery.

Her side sang when she moved wrong. She stopped in the dark between two cedar boles and rewrapped the tape, pulling it until her breath had to go around it. She found a scarf someone had dropped, a kid’s, blue with little white dots and used it as padding. It was warm from nobody and made her want to cry for something that wasn’t here.

Footsteps. Close.

“Fuck fuck.”

She slid down into the cut and went flat, cheek against wet root. Two shapes moved along the path above: Scar silhouettes. Ponchos dark with rain. One carried a lantern whose flame fought under a hood; the other had a bow at low carry and a knife doing the thinking. When the knife one paused, every part of Ellie’s body decided to itch. The lantern turned, the light smeared across the fern, root, her hand. She didn’t breathe. The light slid on. A whistle laughed somewhere to their left and the bowman’s head snapped toward it; they melted that way like they were made of the same stuff as the trees.

She slid forward on her belly until her fingers found water. The cut deepened where a culvert had blown out sometime last winter. A thin runnel sheeted over a slab of rock and dropped into a pool inked with tannin. Ellie rolled in without negotiating with her body about it. The shock made her see stars. She took the scarf off, shoved it under her shirt to hold the bandage, and lay there, mouth to moss, while the water took her heat.

She lay there until her teeth stopped trying to leave. Then she hauled herself out, every inch of her skin deciding to be loud. The revolver’s grip was slick; she wiped it on her jacket. The scarf had turned from blue to bruise. She tucked it back against the tape and told herself to pretend it was fine until it was.

The next stretch ran through an orchard that had gone to memory. Rows of apple trees with lichen taking them back into the idea of trees. A shed leaned on its own shadow at the far end, door cocked like a drunk’s grin. She limped to it, pushed in, and found the smell of dry wood and mouse. On a peg, a poncho waited oil cloth patched with prayer ties. It might not have been a good idea. 

On a shelf: a tin of salve, labeled in a block hand RESIN + HONEY. Next to it, a roll of clean cloth. Ellie stared at them like they were a trick, then unscrewed the tin and smelled something pine and sweet. She dabbed a little on the cut’s edge. It stung like justice. She wrapped the cloth snug and retaped. Better. A little.

By the time she hit the next ridge, the rain had turned to a heavy mist that got in your eyes and decided it paid rent. The trees thinned. Through them she saw a slice of the east gray water prying at a rock point, firelight low and ugly along a shore that might have been boats or might have been wishful thinking. A horn blew from that direction, short, short, long and the sound pulled something up under her ribs like a fish.

The gasp is small enough to be a bird. Ellie turns, reflex first, heart next and the muzzle of her revolver finds a girl in a bark-colored tunic, hair braided tight, eyes too big for the face that holds them. The kid freezes, little chest stuttering under the rain. Ellie lowers the gun so fast it hurts her shoulder.

“Hey,” she whispers, palms open. “Shhh. I’m not—”

The girl’s mouth opens instead. “WOLF!”

The word tears the trees. Chimes shiver. Answering voices snap out of the undergrowth men, women wet feet and wet hands and wet rope. Ellie bolts, cutting past a cedar, and runs face-first into a wall that turns out to be a man.

Seven feet if he’s a rumor, a head and a half taller than any sense, shoulders like a doorframe, a hammer the size of Ellie’s torso swinging low. It comes up and in a black arc and hits her across the gut.

Air leaves her like a trick. She folds around the blow and goes to ground on instinct, the forest tilting, sound smeared. The revolver jumps from her hand and disappears into sword ferns with a betrayer’s rustle.

Hands on her armpits, rough and certain. One man, then another, dragging. Her boots carve stupid commas in the mud. “Get off—fuck—” Her voice is thin and high to her own ears. The rope waits where a limb crosses the path, loop already true, wood-worn from too many lessons.

They shove her down against the post. A wet knot skitters around her throat and kisses the pulse there, eager. Ellie jerks once, twice, kicks backward into someone’s shin and gets a boot across the spine for her trouble.

A woman steps into the circle the others make. She wears a revolver in a chest holster like it’s a confession, the leather dark with rain; a long knife rides her belt. The left side of her face is a ruin, skin melted and healed shiny, one eye gone to a milked pearl. The right eye is sharp and mean.

She bows her head just enough for weather to think it’s reverence. “A corrupted soul,” she whispers.

“May she guide us,” the others answer in a hush that makes Ellie’s skin crawl worse than shouting.

“Suck a bag of dicks,” Ellie croaks, because her body knows how to throw a punch even if it can’t make a fist.

“Nested in sin,” the woman says like Ellie didn’t speak at all. She draws the long knife with two fingers and points it at Ellie’s belly. The chant shifts, the call-and-response Ellie heard out in the rain straightening into ritual: “Free her, and may she know Her love.”

“Yara,” the woman says, turning her head without taking her eye off Ellie. “Come, child.”

The girl from the path slips into view, she looked no older twelve at most, rain threading her braids into her neck. She looks at the rope, at Ellie’s face. The woman rests a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Do not be afraid. Wolves alone are weak.”

The brute with the hammer catches the tail of the rope and gives it a testing tug. “Child to become a warrior you must set the wolf free.” The loop bites around Ellie’s throat. Panic is a live animal now. She can feel it; it has claws. As the child walked closer and closer with a dagger in her hand.

“I’M BITTEN!” Ellie shouts, scraping raw for volume. “I’M INFECTED!”

Everything stutters.

The rope man freezes mid-pull. Someone swears and steps back like infection travels on syllables. The girl, Yara, flinches. The burned woman’s good eye cuts quickly to Ellie’s arms, her throat, her face.

“Where?” the woman asks, voice suddenly all clean edges. “Show me. If you are lying then your death will be slower.”

Ellie tapped her arm as she clung to her old bit wound under her jacket. The burned woman stepped in close, knife tip kissing rain off Ellie’s shirt. Ellie let her chin sag like she was done and popped her switchblade with her thumb. The silver winked once. She came up fast and mean, slashing a tight half-moon.

Cartilage gave with a wet rip.

The woman screamed, stumbling sideways, her good ear split into two bloody petals. The circle hiccuped. Ellie surged to her knees, fingers clawing the rope, wrenching it over her jaw and off her throat. Air came back like a punch.

“Back,” the brute barked, hammer lifting—

Ellie was already on the woman, ripping the chest holster loose. The revolver slid into her palm like it had been waiting there all day. She came up with it leveled at the brute’s sternum.

“Try it,” she rasped.

He froze—just enough.

Ellie staggered back a step, then another, hauling the noose over her head and flinging it off like a snake. “You’re a crazy fucking people,” she spat, voice raw. “Find a new hobby.”

A Scar lunged from her flank with a rope tail, face painted and certain. Ellie half-turned and shot him center mass. The impact folded him like bad furniture; he hit the mud and didn’t argue.

“Yara!” the burned woman shrieked, clutching the ragged ear, dragging the girl behind her. Bows creaked. Someone shouted “TAKE HER—”

Ellie runs for it.

Branches scratch at her face like they’ve been waiting. Chimes swing wild, scolding her for not being holy. Someone behind her remembers they have a bow; an arrow whispers past her ear and finds a tree that did nothing wrong. She doesn’t look back because looking back is a shape that gets you small and dead. The path off cut is a slick throat. She throws herself down it, slides on her ass, boots, palms, the revolver like a hot stone in her wet hand. The first turn saves her; whoever shoots from the path hits the place where she just was. Rainwater takes her down another two body-lengths and dumps her into a gully that smells like wet cedar.

A shadow peeled off the slope above, cloak first, then knees, then the weight of a whole person finding her like gravity had an opinion. He hit her low and hard and they went down together, shoulder to rock, breath detonating out of her chest.

She didn’t get three steps.

“Got you,” the Scar hissed in a voice that sounded like bark. His knee drove into her hip. His hand found her left side and shoved.

White. Soundless.

Ellie saw the world tilt and go narrow. Pain zipped out from the cut like wire, hot and electric, and her scream came out wrong—thin, fury strangled into a ribbon. Heat flooded her mouth; she tasted metal and rain and her own stupid heartbeat.

He pressed harder on purpose. “You come to our home! You wolves have no idea our fangs bite back!” he said, as if he was reading from a schoolbook.

Ellie spat in his face.

It wasn’t elegant. It was all she had. It caught him above the lip and he flinched the way anyone would. She kicked, heel thudding into his thigh, then again, lower, the spot where legs complain. He grunted and his weight shifted just enough that air remembered her.

She rolled, trying to squirm backward, palms slipping in the churned mud of the runoff cut. The revolver dug into her ribs under her jacket, trapped by the angle; she couldn’t get her hand on it. Fingers clawed at the slick bank. She made the sound animals make when a trap closes.

He caught her by the jacket collar and yanked. Her back slid over roots that wanted to write their names in her skin. “You’ll die here,” he ordered, and the word made something laugh in her even while she choked on it.

Her right hand found the little split in the pocket seam she’d been meaning to fix for six months and never did. She hooked her thumb in, fished blind, and felt the cold flat of the switchblade. She popped it with the practiced flick that felt like a bad habit and brought it up between them.

He slammed his palm down on her cut again, like it was a lever God had left there just for him. He swung his fist down colliding with her jaw, her head smacked down hard on the ground.

She saw stars. The scream came clean this time, yanked out of her like a rope. It scared birds out of a tree somewhere and made the chimes on the slope above shudder. Blood slicked her teeth; she spit again, red this time, and the Scar recoiled enough for her to draw breath.

Ellie stabbed.

Not pretty. Not skilled. Straight in and hard, low on his chest where the vest had gaps because people forgot about places. The knife went through wet cloth and into heat. He sucked air like he’d been slapped. His face did surprise badly.

He rocked back a hand’s width, instinct pulling him off her to assess the thing that shouldn’t be there. Ellie didn’t let him think. She came up on one elbow, put all of herself behind her shoulder, and drove the blade again, higher, into the side of his neck where necks have that soft shelf.

His mouth opened but no words came out. He made a sound like a question mark.

His hand shot for her throat and found it. Fingers clamped, knuckles hard across her windpipe. He squeezed with the kind of certainty that comes from practice.

The world went coin-small.

Ellie’s vision pinholed. Her hands went stupid. She felt the blade handle, then didn’t, then did again. Rain ticked on leaves. Somewhere a dog bell talked to itself, distant and wrong.

She shoved. Once. Not enough. Twice. Not enough.

She aimed for the part of him that was looking at her.

The third push was all arm and panic. The knife met his eye, glassy and close and bigger than it should have been, and went in. Resistance, then less. He spasmed. His fingers crushed her throat a fraction tighter and then forgot they were hands and not things.

They fell together.

For a second they were a knot: her back to the mud, his weight slumped over her, her breath a bad memory. The knife handle stuck from the place it shouldn’t live, and his face—his whole face went slack like a door that had been closed for years and finally gave up.

Ellie bucked and rolled him off. It took two tries. He was heavier dead in the way every person gets. She ended on her hands and knees, coughing like a machine that hadn’t started in winter, throat raw, vision ringing at the edges.

She staggers on, breathy and hysterical, and laughs, “Okay,” she told the mud, in a voice that sounded like someone else’s. “Okay. Okay.”

She crawled three feet because standing was a rumor. Her palm slid into the cold skin of the runoff pool and she let it, pressing her burning throat there just for the chill. She coughed again and watched the ripples wreck the fern reflections. It looked like breaking a mirror without bad luck.

Behind her, the Scar tried to decide if he might be alive. He wasn’t.

She forced her knees under her and sat back against the cut’s bank. Her whole body had decided to be a bell. Every part of her rang.

“Get up,” she told herself, and didn’t.

She pressed the heel of her hand into her side and hissed. The field wrap she’d stolen from the orchard shed had taken the brunt of the tackle; blood had pushed through anyway, a new dark spreading at the edge of the tape. The salve smell of pine and honey had gone to something else. She peeled the tape an inch, decided she didn’t like knowledge, and pressed it back. A small black humor thought sprinted across her brain: resin + honey + fight you didn’t have time for.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist. Red. Less than it felt like. She swallowed because spit was a resource. Her breath still rasped; the choke had put sand in it. She coughed until the itch went away enough to think.

offered a downhill run toward dimmer trees and the smell of salt coming back, faint and real. East.

She moved.

The slope tried to be helpful by being terrible, slick, and fast. She let it carry her in short, planned slides, butt and boots, hands skimming roots to steer. Twice she froze when the chime of whistles echoed floated close; twice it turned out to be wind in a bottle cluster and her heart embarrassed her.

Her throat pulsed. Her side pulsed. Her head had its own metronome. It all knitted into a single rhythm she could march to if she pretended hard.

A low fence of split cedar appeared, a boundary line around nothing visible. She moved through a stand where bark had been cut into patterns spirals, eyes, hands old and new, some fresh enough to shine under rain. 

Ellie broke out of the trees into wind and fire

The beach area was a bad math problem, piers at wrong angles, ropes whipping, flames chewing at tarps, men and women sprinting three directions at once like that might make a fourth. Someone screamed about weight distribution like that ever mattered when panic was driving.

She kept low, shoulder on fire, side a furnace under tape, revolver tight in her palm. The east landing jutted into chop, skiffs kissing the pilings too hard, backs of boats stacked with bodies with too much red in the water.

“ELLIE!”

She flinched, turned, and there, Torres up on the nearest flatback, one foot on an edge one hand windmilling big as a flag. Her other forearm was wrapped, soaked through, but her grin made you think about summer anyway. “ELLIE!” she yelled again, voice cracked and happy. She waved like a kid seeing a friend across a gym, all teeth and relief. “Over here!”

Ellie’s mouth did the thing before her brain could stop it-it smiled. She trotted crooked down the slick boards, almost laughing, because for one stupid second the math worked out.

Manny’s head popped up behind Torres, helmet gone, hair plastered to his skull, eyes huge. “¡Mira!” he whooped, pointing, and Owen shouldered into view too, big, bearded, soaked, that foolish soft look he got when things didn’t suck. Both men lit up at once like someone had thrown a switch. Manny cupped his hands. “Ellie! Move your ass! Come on!”

She was five steps from the gunwale when the air kicked.

The arrow hissed past Ellie’s ear so close she felt the heat, then buried itself in Torres’s throat with a damp, solid sound. Torres’s smile snapped off. Her hand went to her neck like she was fixing a collar; blood slipped between her fingers too fast to be believed. She made a small surprised noise, like losing a word. Her knees went wrong. Owen lunged for her; Manny screamed something that started as her name and turned into a prayer or a curse halfway through.

“DOWN!” Owen bellowed, dragging Torres as she sagged backward. Manny’s rifle came up, eyes hunting the tree line, mouth a hard line.

“Ellie, ¡abajo!” Manny shouted, and Ellie started to drop. When something punched her from behind, high and mean, and the world snapped white.

The arrow took her in the shoulder blade and drove through skin like it had hated her for years. Her arm lit up with pins and ice; her hand forgot the revolver and it clanged off the planks, bounced once, went greedy into the gap. She pitched forward, legs guessing, breath going somewhere else. The dock rose to meet her and missed on purpose. The cold rushing water closed over her head like a door slamming; the sea took her. The last thing she tasted was salt.

Chapter Text

Heat, wet canvas, iodine, and blood, so much blood the air tasted like a bag of coins. Cots jammed in rows. People everywhere: boots, hands, torn sleeves, the sharp bark of a medic saying “My arm oh god my arm!” Someone screamed until the sound turned hoarse and started again.

“GODDAMN IT, I NEED MORE BANDGES!” A voice shouted through the crowd.

Manny’s boots skidded on the rubber mat as he and Owen lurched through the flap with Ellie slung between them on a torn poncho. She was soaked through, hair pasted to her forehead, an arrow jutting from her shoulder like a wrong idea that wouldn’t let go. Blood threaded the water on her skin into pink ropes.

“Med—!” Manny’s voice cracked. “Medic! Necesitamos ayuda, ahora!”

Cots lined both sides, bodies on all of them—groans, someone sobbing in a high, breathless loop, a man whispering a prayer into the crook of his elbow. A medic with a headlamp looked up from a leg wound, clocked the arrow at ten paces, and stabbed a finger toward an open stretcher. 

“There—lay her there. Don’t touch the shaft. You—” he pointed at Owen, “—hold her steady.”

They eased Ellie down. She made a small, animal sound when her shoulder brushed the cot. Her eyes fluttered, rolled, found nothing, slid shut again.

“Ellie,” Manny said, too loud and too close, his hands hovering uselessly over nothing and everything. “Oye, Ellie. Mira mí. Aguanta, ¿sí?”

Nora shouldered in like a storm—gloves already on, hair tied hard against her skull. “Arrow through the shoulder?” She didn’t wait for their nods. “Airway first.” She bent to Ellie’s face. “Ellie, can you hear me? Breathe for me.” Two fingers to the jaw, tilt, a quick look in the mouth. “Good airway. Breathing… shallow. Pulse?” She grabbed Ellie’s wrist and frowned. “Rapid, thready.”

Owen braced the poncho under Ellie’s back, knuckles white. “She fell in the channel. Took rocks. There’s a head cut.” He jerked his chin at the matted hairline where blood had drawn a crooked line into her eyebrow.

“I see it.” Nora’s tone didn’t change. “You—” she snapped at Manny without looking, “—gloves. Pressure on the scalp laceration, not too hard. Don’t mash.”

Manny’s hands fumbled into a pair of nitrile gloves that felt two sizes too small. He pressed gauze to Ellie’s temple, fingers trembling. Warmth seeped through in seconds. He swallowed it down. “Está bien, chiquita. I got you.”

Another medic slid in on Nora’s left with an IV kit. “I’m in,” she said, already swabbing Ellie’s forearm. “Nora?”

“Cut the shaft,” Nora said, nodding to the arrow. “Not the head—leave it. Stabilize after.” To Ellie again, voice low and firm: “Stay with me. That’s an order.”

Owen snatched trauma shears, slid them under Ellie’s torn jacket, sliced clean from cuff to collar. The fabric parted to skin alive with rain and gooseflesh. He cut the wooden shaft near the entry wound with a hacksaw someone shoved into his hand; the arrow vibrated once, sickly, then settled. Nora cupped both sides of the wound to keep the head from shifting. Ellie hissed between her teeth and tried to twist away. Manny pressed his free palm to her sternum, not hard just there.

“There we go,” Nora said when the shaft dropped. “Pad it. Tape it. Don’t let it wobble.” The second medic slid foam blocks around the stump and wrapped it with a speed that said practice. “O2 on,” Nora added, and a mask bloomed over Ellie’s mouth, fogging with quick, shallow breaths.

“BP ninety over sixty,” someone called from the monitor. “Heart rate one-forty.”

“Fluids wide open,” Nora said. “Two large-bore.” The IV nurse nodded, needle in, bag spiked, clear fluid hurrying down the line like an answer arriving late.

Manny kept pressure on the head cut and tried to think about the texture of gauze instead of the heat eating through it. He’d never seen Ellie look small. Not like this. Not even when she slept on the bus seats between shifts, mouth open, hair in her eyes. “No te vayas,” he said, voice breaking on the second word. “Don’t leave, okay? Don’t—”

She stirred under his hand, eyes slitting open. Green, unfocused. “Man…” Her mouth worked around his name and couldn’t find it. “It— burns.”

“I know.” His laugh came out wrong. “’Cause you’re very dramatic.”

“Shut… up,” she breathed, and the smallest smile—there and gone—hit him like oxygen.

Nora peeled back the gauze at Ellie’s temple, checked the edges. “Good scalp bleed. Annoying, not deadly.” She slapped on clean pads, wrapped a head bandage that made Ellie look like a stubborn, waterlogged boxer. “Shoulder’s the problem.”

“Can you pull it?” Manny asked before his brain could catch up to his mouth.

“Not here,” Nora said. “Arrowheads are barbed. We don’t know what it nicked, and I’m not rolling dice without a lamp and quiet.” She glanced past them. “Where’s Mel?”

“Operating tent,” the IV nurse said. “Two abdominal wounds ahead of you. Twenty minutes if we’re lucky.”

“We’re not,” Nora said. She looked at Manny. “You staying or are you going to pass out?”

“I’m staying,” he said, even if his knees had petitions. “Tell me what to do.”

“Keep pressure. Talk to her.” Nora’s tone turned dry. “Use that voice you use when you’re about to lie to a poker table.”

“Sí, doctora.” He bent to Ellie. “Hey. I’m gonna say the worst news first: the soup tonight is terrible.”

Owen huffed, a short, frayed sound. “He’s not lying. It’s… gray.”

A young medic with too-wide eyes sets a tray down; instruments clink like teeth. “We need to cut the shaft,” he says, voice going high. “We can’t pull it back through.”

“No, you cannot,” Nora agrees, neat and certain. Her gloved fingers bracket either side of the wound. “Clean around it. Manny, hold her. Lock her forearm. If she thrashes, we lose more than we save.”

Manny moves without thinking, catching Ellie’s wrist and pressing it to the tarp above her head, body across her good shoulder. He feels the wiry strength in her even slack like this the coil of a fighter asleep and ready to wake wrong. He hates that he knows it. “I got you,” he tells her. “Mira, mira. I got you.”

Ellie’s gaze swims, catches his face, slides away. “’S fine,” she mumbles through lips gone gray. “M’fine.”

“Liar,” Manny says, voice breaking on the laugh. “That’s my line.”

Nora saws the shaft clean in two quick bites with a small wire tool. Ellie gasps; the sound cuts Manny’s name in half and throws it on the floor. “Okay,” Nora says, to Ellie and to the room and to herself. “Okay. On three. We push through. It’s cleaner. Less garbage on the barbs. Ready?”

The young medic isn’t. Owen is but has to go there are more coming, always more. He touches the bedframe with two fingers like a benediction and backs away. “I’ll be outside,” he tells Manny. “If you need—”

“I need you to bring me good news,” Manny says without looking up. “Go.”

Nora meets Manny’s eyes. “On my count,” she says. “You keep her still.”

“I’ll keep the whole tent still,” he says, and believes it long enough to help.

“One.” Nora breathes. “Two.” The canvas walls rattle. “Three.”

She drives the broken shaft forward with a steady, horrible grace. Wood and iron head out the back of Ellie’s shoulder in a slick pop that Manny will hear for the rest of his life in thunder and doors and the snap of a branch. Ellie screams. The whole tent flinches like a single body. Manny bears down with his chest, cheek next to her wet hair, whispering nonsense 

“Ya casi, ya casi, that’s it, shit, that’s it”—until the scream snaps and her body goes from stone to water under him.

“Pulse?” Nora asks, breath tight.

“Fast,” the young medic says, fingers at Ellie’s wrist. “Fast but there.”

“Good.” Nora’s hands move in a blur—packing, pressure, the clean ballet of someone who has built muscle memory in hell. “Pressure bandage. Broad. Shoulder immobilized. Two hundred of fluids when we get a line. She’s not bleeding into the chest. Thank every god you know and one you don’t.”

Manny pries his hands off Ellie like they’ve been glued there by fear. The blood on his palms is already drying in the creases. His heart doesn’t believe Nora because his heart is an idiot and has decided to live in his throat.

“Hey,” he tells Nora, mouth suddenly dry. “She passed out.”

Nora glances up long enough to put a gentle weight in her voice. “That’s good,” she says. “Her body’s turning the volume down. She’s not gone, Manny. She’s protecting herself.”

He sags a fraction and then catches himself, because if he starts he won’t stop. The tent noise swells and shrinks around them: somebody praying in a language Manny doesn’t know; somebody else bargaining with a god in English and numbers—“four units, please, four, come on.” Metal drops. A radio squeals. A man sobs once and then not again.

“Go,” Nora tells him, already taping gauze in a clean X across the exit wound. “Wash. Come back. I’ll need hands when she wakes up mean.”

“I’ll be here,” he says, stupidly, like he can stitch fact into the future by announcing it. He staggers out, dunks his hands into a bucket that used to be blue and now looks like rust. Blood becomes pink, then nothing. He scrubs until skin stings, until he can feel the shape of his fingers again, and then he goes back in because he said he would.

Hours become a trick. Time is measured in IV bags collapsing and lanterns burning lower. Manny sits in a folding chair that bites his thighs and refuses to break for him. He counts the lift and fall of Ellie’s chest. He counts the drops on the line. He finds a rhythm—four of hers, one of his, four of hers, one of his—and lets his brain rock against it until it stops hitting the walls so hard.

Manny dozes in brutal, guilty snatches wakes himself with a snore and a jerk that makes the chair scream on the packed dirt. Each time, Ellie is still there, breath still doing its bright, mean work. He talks to her when nobody’s listening. He tells stupid jokes quietly enough that the tent won’t hear and loud enough that maybe the part of her in charge of staying might be convinced. He says prayers his mother taught him and ones he invents on the spot. He calls her chiquita and cabróna in the same breath and means both with love.

When morning finally shows itself, it does it reluctantly gray sneaking under the edge of the canvas, voices outside changing shape in that way that sunrise makes them. The tent smells like the world’s worst soup iodine, sweat, old blood trying to be metal and failing. Manny’s neck has decided it is a stake pounded into the ground. He stands, stretches until something pops, hisses, and then leans over Ellie again.

Her face looks less gray by half a shade. The bandage at her shoulder is clean where it shows; the one at the exit site holds steady. The cut at her hairline has splayed and then knit under butterfly tape. He studies the lines of tension around her mouth and decides they have loosened enough for him to breathe without counting first.

Nora appears beside him with a metal cup that sweats. “Sip,” she orders, and Manny drinks because he has learned. Her eyes do a sweep of Ellie and then land on him. “You didn’t leave.”

“Chair and me, we’re dating now,” Manny says, throat sandpaper and humor a rag he keeps wringing out. “I think it’s serious.”

“Mm.” Nora lets the corner of her mouth admit the shape of a smile. “She’ll wake up today. Pain’s going to think it’s owed something. We’ll argue it down.”

Manny nods, jaw flexing once. He sets the cup down and rubs a thumb over a clean patch of tarp like he could polish luck into it. “I’m gonna be here,” he says again, to Nora, to Ellie, to the morning that’s finally decided to show its face.

“You better,” Nora says, already moving to the next cot. “She’ll be pissed if you miss the first thing she says.”

“What’s that gonna be?” Manny calls after her, voice finding a little of its old roundness.

Nora doesn’t turn. “Probably ‘fuck.’”

Manny huffs air through his nose, the shape of a laugh. He slides the chair closer so his knee touches the bed frame and settles in, eyes on Ellie’s breath, listening for the first change that means the world is tilting back toward them. Outside, the base wakes up around the tent—the clatter of mess kits, the scrape of boots, someone shouting roll call like the night hadn’t tried to eat them whole.

He leans forward, forearms on his thighs, and speaks into the narrow space between dawn and her sleep. “Oye, Ellie,” he says, soft as he’s got. “We got you. Come back slow.”

By mid-morning the tent had settled into its grim rhythm clatter, hiss, a chorus of pain turned down to a low, permanent hum. Manny hadn’t moved far from Ellie’s cot; his chair had a groove in it now that matched the ache in his hips. He was watching the slow tide of her breathing when the flap snapped open and Leah stumbled in with Jordan on her shoulder.

Leah saw the bandage at Ellie’s shoulder, the IV, the tape butterflies along her hairline and gasped like someone had struck her. She covered her mouth, eyes shining hard, fought the sob back down, and failed a little. Jordan caught her elbows, steadying her.

“I got you babe.” he murmured, but his own voice wasn’t steady.

“Those Scar bastards,” Leah said through her fingers, the curse turned to glass in her throat. “They—” She shook her head, swallow jagged. “Is she… is she going to—?”

“She’s safe,” Manny said, and meant it as far as he could. “Nora got the arrow. She needs rest.”

Jordan tried for air and found a joke. “Good. ‘Cause she sleeps like it’s her job.” He pointed at Ellie’s frown. “Even angry about it.”

Leah cracked a small, wet laugh, the kind you let out to prove you still can. She dragged a crate over with her heel and sank beside the cot, elbows on knees, knuckles to her mouth. “Owen told me, ran into him outside. He said you brought her in.” She looked up at Manny like she was seeing him for the first time. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” Manny said. “She's the one that fell into the water.”

Jordan squeezed Manny’s shoulder on his way past, then planted himself at the end of the bed like a guard dog with a limp. His eyes kept flicking to the bandage, then away. “Crew’s coming,” Leah said. “We got a hold of Nick. Mel’s finishing a round at the secondary tent—she and Owen will be here soon as they can.”

“Bueno,” Manny said. He reached out and tugged Ellie’s blanket up a notch without thinking, the motion small and fatherly in a way that would’ve earned him a punch if she were awake.

Time became the kind of thing you measure in visits.

Nick slid in before noon face gray, hair plastered with sweat, a strip of someone else’s bandage wrapped around his wrist like a souvenir. “She okay?” he asked, voice pitched low, like loud might break something stitched. When Manny nodded, Nick blew out a breath he’d been hoarding. He planted his hands on the cot rail and stared at Ellie the way you stare at a friend who owes you a debt you don’t want paid back. “You owe me like three beers,” he told her, trying to sound bored and landing somewhere near grateful. “Don’t make me collect posthumously. It’s tacky.”

Leah handed him the clean rag Nora had left and Nick wiped his face in slow, deliberate passes. “They hit us out of nowhere,” he said to nobody in particular. “Fog like soup. Heard the horn. Next thing—” He lifted the rag, decided against finishing the sentence, and tucked it into his belt. “I’ll be back. Switching out at the line.” He thumped the cot rail once, gentle. 

Owen and Mel arrived in a pocket of early afternoon that smelled like melted canvas and iodine. Owen stood at the flap a beat longer than made sense, shoulders squared, as if bracing for a wave. Mel went straight to the chart at Ellie’s feet, flipped it, scanned, and nodded in the crisp, efficient way that dropped the tent’s anxiety two notches all by itself.

“Exit wound’s clean,” she said to Manny as if he were part of the medical staff now. “No bubbling under the bandage, breath regular, color coming back. Nora did good.”

“Nora always does,” Manny said, and meant you do too.

Mel’s face softened when she finally let herself look at Ellie’s. “Hey, trouble,” she murmured, fingertips hovering a respectful inch above the blanket as if she could smooth pain without touching it. “You did the hard part. Let us do the boring part.” She checked the IV line and the immobilizer one more time, then turned to Manny. “You eat?”

Manny made a face. “Define ‘eat.’”

Mel’s eyebrows lifted. Owen bumped Manny’s arm with the back of his hand. “Sit,” Owen said. “I’ll bring you something that pretends to be soup.”

“Bring two,” Leah put in. “Mine evaporated.”

Owen’s mouth twitched. “On it.” He glanced down at Ellie—just a glance, quick and hungry—and then ducked out, his tide chart hands suddenly empty with nothing to measure.

Afternoon stretched. The tent’s light changed from yellow to gray without ever admitting to sun. Manny dozed in single-breath patches, waking to new sounds each time—someone cursing the way only the wounded can, Nora’s quiet orders, the flap cracking like a sail when the wind shifted. He counted Ellie’s breaths anyway, because it kept the chair from eating him.

She stirred once—head turning a fraction, brow pulling. Manny was already leaning in, palm hovering above her forearm. “Oye,” he said, soft. “Stay where you are. You earned it.” Her face eased a notch like some part of her heard him and decided to take the deal.

Late day, when everything felt rubbed thin, the flap lifted and Abby stood there, huge and still. She didn’t come all the way in—stopped just past the line where the dirt went dark with spilled antiseptic. The light knifed across her face at an angle that made hollows where there weren’t any. She looked like someone who had been holding up a wall all day and wasn’t sure what would happen if she let go.

Manny watched her watch Ellie. Whatever lived in Abby’s stare wasn’t simple, anger’s ash, worry’s raw edge, the thousand-yard look of someone still seeing water even after they’d found land. She didn’t speak. Her jaw flexed once, then again, like she was chewing rocks and trying to pretend they were bread.

“She’ll make it,” Manny said, low, as if the tent might penalize volume. “Nora says so. I say so.” He forced a grin he only half felt. “She owes me an apology for scaring the hell out of me.”

Abby’s eyes cut to him, quick; the corner of her mouth moved a millimeter, then failed at the idea of smile. “Good,” she said, voice scraped. She looked back at Ellie. “She hates IVs.”

“Then she can fight it when she wakes up,” Manny said. “I’ll referee.”

“I can’t—” She swallowed. The rest scraped on the way up. “I can’t lose another person, Manny.”

“I know,” he said, and didn’t tell her who she’d already lost because he knew she was never not carrying that list. “Look at me.” She did. He tipped his chin at the cot. “She’s here. She’s mean as a snake even asleep. That’s a good sign.”

Abby dragged a hand over her face like she could wipe the memory off. “Last time we talked, I—” The word she wanted was ruined; she chose argued. “I pushed too hard.”

He offered the smallest smile. “You? Hard? Never.” Then, softer: “That wasn’t the last time.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” He nodded at Ellie’s shoulder, strapped and stubborn. “Because she’s too petty to let you have the last word.”

Abby stood there another long, tight breath. She shifted like she meant to reach, didn’t, and stepped back. “I have to—” she started, and stopped, because they all did. Orders didn’t pause because your chest did.

“Go,” Manny told her. “I’m not moving.”

She nodded once, sharp. At the flap she hesitated and looked over her shoulder. “Yell,” she said. “If—when—”

“When,” Manny said. “I’ll yell loud.”

She was gone, swallowed by the tent’s edge and the noise outside. Leah let out a breath she’d been keeping quiet. “Everyone’s rattled,” she said, like she was apologizing for it.

“Everybody’s alive enough to be rattled,” Jordan said from his post at the bed’s foot. He tried to smirk and found it again. “I’ll take rattled.”

Evening leaned in. Owen returned with bowls that steamed like optimism; Manny ate because Mel stood over him until he did. Leah dozed against Jordan’s shoulder and jerked awake with a snort that made him grin despite himself. Nora checked vitals and slipped away without taking more space than she needed. The tent’s lanterns were lit one by one, small suns in cloth sky.

Ellie’s breath changed near full dark, deeper on the inhale, a thin sound on the exhale like a thread pulled through fabric. Manny sat up straight, chair squealing. Leah was already leaning forward, hand finding the edge of the mattress.

“Ellie?” Manny said, as tender as he’d ever said anything. “Hey. You’re late for formation.”

Her eyelids shivered. The frown returned, familiar as a bad habit. The first word out of her mouth was exactly what Nora had predicted.

“Fuck,” Ellie rasped.

Manny grinned, sudden and foolish with relief. “There she is.”

Isaac’s office felt like the inside of a clenched fist. Maps layered the walls, tide tables, sketched shorelines, pencil notes written hard enough to tear the paper. A fan clicked in the corner and only moved hot air from one place to another. The stadium’s hum pushed through the concrete distant marching, the metallic cough of a winch, somebody shouting roll call like it could change yesterday.

Manny sat on the edge of a metal chair that wobbled when he breathed. He kept his hands quiet on his knees. Isaac stood over the central table with a grease pencil, drawing and erasing the same arrow until it was just a scar of wax.

“How did they know?” Isaac said without looking up. “We hit the window; we split the boats; we jammed their towers. And they were waiting like we wrote them an invitation.”

The woman from Logistics Hale, hair scraped back, eyes that had not slept flipped a clipboard and read in a voice that wanted to be steady. “After two weeks I can report casualties are higher than the preliminary count. Four hundred and twelve confirmed KIA from the beaches and causeway. Wounded… two hundred sixty-one, of which fifty-six are critical.” She swallowed. “Vanguard lead Torres is confirmed KIA. Spear One’s Kline confirmed KIA. We’re still matching tags off the north sand.”

The fan clicked. Isaac’s pencil snapped. He looked at the broken wax like it had betrayed him personally, then set it down with care like the care might control something else in the room.

“Four hundred,” he said, and the number didn’t sound like a number in his mouth. “We bled four hundred trying to turn a tide.”

Hale didn’t move. “Yes, sir.”

Manny cleared his throat because if he didn’t say something he was going to take the chair apart just to make a different sound. “They knew,” he said. “Like you said. That fog wasn’t luck. Their archers didn’t feel around; they placed shots. Feels like there’s a mouth in here talking to a Scars ear.”

Isaac’s gaze slid to him flat, weighing. “A spy.”

“Could be,” Manny said, shoulders hitching. “Or a leak that doesn’t know it’s leaking. Comms, tides, boat counts—someone’s singing, jefe. Maybe they don’t even know the tune.”

Hale shifted, papers rasping. “We rotated codes a week before the operation. Patrol schedules were sealed. Beach assignments were oral only.”

“Oral gets repeated,” Manny said, then lifted a hand, palm out. “With respect.”

Isaac stared at the map long enough that Manny heard his own heartbeat, then drew a small box around the ferry yard with a new pencil like a man refusing to admit the old one had broken. “We audit comms,” he said. “We split squads that have grown too familiar. We tighten the circle until we can breathe again. Anyone with an excuse to have known the load numbers and the window gets a conversation.”

Hale nodded, already writing. “I’ll start with Boats, Shore Recon, and Med staging. Radio room, too.”

“Quietly,” Isaac added. “I won’t feed panic on top of grief.”

“Yes, sir.”

He finally looked at Manny like a person. “How’s she doing?”

Tension Manny didn’t realize he was holding eased a quarter turn. “Stubborn,” he said, and let the word do double duty as affection and diagnosis. “Up and walking since she had no business doing either. Sling, shoulder immobilizer, headache that hates everyone. Nora says two more days before she can change to a soft wrap.”

Isaac’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “And her head?”

Manny pretended not to hear the second question under the first. “Hard, as always. And she’s got a shadow.”

Isaac’s brows tipped. “A what.”

“Bear.” Manny couldn’t help it; the corner of his mouth went. “Big idiot won’t leave her side. He learned how to open the infirmary door with one paw and a look that says ‘I pay taxes.’ If she shifts on the cot, he huffs like she’s doing it wrong.”

Isaac’s face warmed by a degree that would not show up on a thermometer. “Dogs know where the hurt is.”

“Yeah.” Manny let himself picture it for a second: Ellie glowering over her sling while Bear wedged one enormous head under her good hand, satisfied with the job. “He’s got better bedside manner than most of us.”

Hale flipped another page, business dragging the room back. “Boat inventory is at seventy percent. We lost three engines to salt in the intake. Salvage teams have one hull we might coax back to life if we feel like being insulted by a machine.”

The stadium was in its late shift rhythm: boots slapping concrete in pairs, a whistle somewhere insisting that time still mattered, the generator’s throat-clearing hum under everything. Down in the bowels the air smelled like wet canvas and iodine; up here it smelled like dust and old popcorn and the lives they’d shoved into places built for weekends.

He took the long way back on purpose, looped past the catwalk where you could look down and pretend the field was still green instead of a patchwork of tents. The metal was warm through his palm. He told himself he was checking the sightlines, inventorying the faces, but really he was stalling because sitting meant thinking and thinking meant circling the same three facts: the island had known, Torres was dead, and Ellie was alive. Two boulders, one bright rock. He’d take it.

His door stuck, like always. He thunked it with his hip and the latch gave up. “Aja, gracias,” he muttered to the door, then to the room, louder: “If anyone is in here stealing my—”

He stopped.

Ellie was on the rug in front of the low table he’d inherited from a VIP lounge, one leg straight, the other pulled up, the sling holding her shoulder stiff and stubborn. A pad of paper lay on her knee, the page a mess of pencil lines that had already decided what they wanted to be. Bear had arranged himself against her shin like a sandbag, chin on her sneaker, one ear flicking every time her pencil scratched. The dog gave Manny a look as if to say, You’re late to your shift.

Manny let the door fall shut behind him. “Breaking and entering, niña?” he said. “Rent is due in doodles.”

Ellie didn’t look up. She flipped him off without ceremony, then kept drawing. “Your lock is trash,” she said. “I could open it with a spoon.”

“I like my trash lock. It keeps out the refined thieves.” He dropped his key on the table and toed his boots off. “What are you defacing? Is that my glorious face? Mírame, you captured the jawline.”

“It’s a dog,” she said flatly.

“Same thing.”

Bear thumped his tail once as if he’d heard his name and then decided the joke was beneath him. Ellie’s mouth twitched. For a second the room felt like it remembered how to be a place instead of an address.

Manny hung his jacket on the pipe that pretended to be a hook and tried to read the drawing sideways. Bear was there, sure—big head, the little velvet fold where one ear liked to go wrong, paws like someone had attached mittens. But behind him the lines suggested more: the curve of a hull sitting wrong on wet sand, the stiff angle of a broken oar, a horizon you only draw if you’ve stared at water until it stared back.

He didn’t comment on that part. You learn when to name a thing and when to let it live under its sheet.

“You’re supposed to be horizontal,” he said instead, pointing at the sling. “Nora’s orders. My orders. Bear’s orders.”

Ellie made a face at the paper. “I got tired of the tent walls telling me when to blink.”

“So you came to my walls.” He pressed a palm to his chest. “I am honored.”

She finally looked up at him, eyes red-rimmed from sleep and anger and the dry air. “Your dad came by,” she said, like she was telling him he’d left the lights on. “Dropped off some kind of old-person Mexican soup in a pot that could stop a bullet.”

Manny’s whole body said yes before his mouth did. “¡Pozole!” He beelined for the counter beside the hot plate. There, like a saint in aluminum, sat his father’s dented stockpot with a dish towel clipped over the lid by two clothespins. A plastic bag bulged beside it, full of precious noise: the rattle of radish slices, the whisper of shredded cabbage, the dry ch, ch of oregano in a twist of parchment. A lime, scarred and perfect, had been tucked like a jewel on top.

He kissed his fingers and touched the pot lid. “Bendito,” he said. “My old man is a ángel.”

“He insisted on the word ‘old-fashioned’ like three times,” Ellie said. “Then he patted my head, told me to tell you to ‘stop eating soldier food’ and walked off humming something that sounded like a funeral.”

“That’s just boleros,” Manny said. He had the lid off and the smell hit both of them at once—deep and round, pork and hominy swimming in brick-red broth, the chile’s warmth lifting without burning. He groaned like a man after a long road. “Ay, Dios. This is medicine.”

“Smells… like something,” Ellie admitted.

“It smells like home and healing and you better sit down before I make you,” Manny said. He reached for the bowls, then thought better and grabbed the plastic storage tubs instead. Bowls chipped if you looked at them wrong; tubs were indestructible. “These are all for you,” he told Bear, who had come to supervise with high professional standards. “Except the onion. Onion is not for kings.”

Bear breathed in Manny’s face and then huffed, which Manny chose to interpret as approval.

Ellie snapped the sketchbook closed and started to push herself up. Manny was moving before she got past that first stubborn hinge. “Oye, no.” He planted a hand on the table in front of her and the other lightly on her good shoulder, pressure like a warning, not a wall. “You want to see the soup? The soup comes to you. That’s why we invented civilization.”

“I can carry a bowl and a spoon without bleeding out,” she said, chin going up. “I’m not glass.”

“You are duct tape and bad ideas,” he agreed cheerfully. “But also, you got stabbed by a tree and the tree won. Sit. If you stand up again I will call Bear and he will sit on you.”

Bear thumped his tail twice as if he had heard and was measuring her in pounds of dog. Ellie’s fighting stance faltered. She sighed through her nose and sank back down. “Fine.”

“Gracias. That’s a good patient voice.” Manny ladled pozole into the tubs, the ladle dragging on hominy bricks like treasure. He squeezed the lime over each, showered them with cabbage, radish, a pinch of dried oregano rubbed between his fingers, the way his father had always done it with a little flourish like magic. From the bag came two tostadas, miraculously whole. He warmed them on the hot plate until they smelled like corn and scored them with a butter knife so they’d break where you wanted them to.

He set one tub and a tostada in front of Ellie like he was presenting evidence in court. “Exhibit A: joy.”

She took the plastic spoon and dipped it. He watched her face the way a man watches a fuse. The first taste turned her mouth skeptical, then surprised. She froze. He tried not to grin like an idiot and failed.

“It’s… good,” she said, as if admitting a crime.

“Claro. It’s my father. He could make a boot taste like a hug.” He plopped down across from her, balanced the tub on his knee, and took his own first mouthful. The broth hit the back of his throat and something unclenched behind his ribs that hadn’t unclenched since the beach. “Carajo. I’m going to cry.”

“Please don’t,” she said. “Not in my bowl.”

“If you are not moved to tears by hominy, you are dead inside.”

“Cool. That explains a lot,” Ellie murmured. But she took another spoonful, larger this time, and then another. Bear put his head on the table at exactly the height that would make guilt operate. Ellie carefully held out a radish slice between two fingers. Bear accepted it with the gravity of a vow.

“No onion,” Manny said automatically.

“I gave him a radish.”

“I am being a protective tío.”

“You’re being a nerd.”

“Both can be true.” He broke his tostada into quarters and dunked one until it soaked and broke on purpose. The crunch under the soft was the point. “My old man says this is caldito pa’l susto,” he said. “Soup for the scare. When life kicks you in the lungs, you drink this and tell your body to shut up and listen.”

“Hard to imagine him telling anyone to shut up,” Ellie said around a spoonful, but there was no heat in it. The soup was doing its job. Her shoulders had dropped half an inch. Her mouth had found the habit way it turns down when it is busy being pleased and trying not to show it.

“He tells me to shut up every day,” Manny said. “Usually with a tortilla.”

“You’re food-violent.”

“I am passionate.”

They ate until the edges of the day stopped gnawing on them. The room did that thing Manny loved: it shrank to fit the people in it and nothing else. Outside the suite, somebody dragged a crate down the hall and a radio burst into a bar of song and then died. Inside, the only noise was Bear’s breathing and the clack of plastic on plastic and Ellie mumbling hot, hot when she misjudged a chunk of chile.

Halfway through his second helping, Manny caught her studying the tub like it had become a map. “What do you see?” he asked.

She blinked, caught, then rolled with it. “You’re going to make me say something dumb like ‘home.’”

“I was going to accept ‘red.’”

She scratched her jaw with the back of her spoon. “It tastes like… like a whole room full of people who know where the knives go. Like you all have a job while it cooks and nobody’s allowed to be dumb near the pot.”

Manny swallowed against the thing in his throat. “We used to… back when.” He shook his head like a dog shaking off lake water. “Long time ago.”

“Your mom?” she asked, softer.

“Mm.” He blew out through his nose. “She taught my old man. He pretends he knew it first. But the way he salts? That’s her hand.”

Ellie nodded, a small ceremony performed properly. She set the spoon down long enough to reach for the sketchbook. “I was drawing Bear,” she said, flipping it open and turning it so he could see, like she owed an explanation for being seen drawing at all. “He only has two expressions and both are stupid.”

Bear lifted his head to demonstrate an expression that could be cataloged as King Disappointed In Your Lack Of Meat. Manny put a radish on his nose. Bear crossed his eyes at it, suffered, and then flipped it into his mouth with a flourish. Ellie snorted.

“You got the ears right,” Manny said, tapping the page. “And the… what do you call that…”

“Jowls? He has a lot of face.”

“Mucha cara,” Manny said. He pointed past the dog in the drawing at the sketched curve of a hull sitting wrong. “You sure you want that piece in there?”

Her jaw set. “Yeah.”

“All right.” He didn’t push. He didn’t close the book. He just let the page sit there between them like a fact.

Ellie wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and then remembered she was supposed to be a person and grabbed the rag instead. “I should take the pot back,” she said, like she’d decided a decision and was daring him to argue. She started to stand.

Manny was already shaking his head. “Nora will murder me and use my bones to stir her coffee.”

“I can say thank you without dying.”

“You can say thank you later, when you’re not a bag of sticks tied together with stubborn.” He tipped his chin at the sling. “You promised me—no, you looked at me and I decided you promised—to take the slow parade today.”

She stared at the door a beat too long, like a person sizing up a cliff. “He made me feel… like I didn’t do anything wrong,” she said, not looking at Manny.

“My old man?” He smiled sideways. “He has that. Makes you believe you’re a good person on purpose, not by accident.”

“I’d like to believe I’m not a disaster someone has to clean up,” she said, too quick to be a joke.

“You’re not,” he said. “You are a tornado that occasionally organizes closets. Different.”

She snorted again, the sound earning its laugh this time, and sank back onto the rug. Bear sighed and resettled his chin on her shoe like the earth had returned to its axis.

They ate until the tubs were mostly red echoes and white hominy ghosts. Manny put his spoon in his empty tub and let his head fall back against the couch. For a second he closed his eyes. His body tried the trick of sleeping on him and he startled back with a sound he pretended had been a syllable. Ellie tilted her head at him, caught, and made the effort to look unimpressed.

“You’re supposed to rest,” she said.

“Hypocrita,” he said, pointing his spoon at her sling. “You first.”

“I hate lying still.”

“I know.” He stood, groaned as if the act were brand-new, and carried the tubs to the sink to rinse before the color set. The water ran pink for a long time. He thought of the pink bucket by the tent, his hands going from red to not, and shook his head to knock the overlap loose. He packed the leftovers back into the pot with the reverence of a priest closing a reliquary. “I’ll take this back later,” he said. “He’s probably asleep in a chair he pretends he doesn’t love.”

“Tell him thanks,” Ellie said. She didn’t quite look at Manny when she added, “It helped.”

“I will.” He dried his hands on the towel that hadn’t been clean in a week and tossed it back over the sink arm. “You want air? Balcony, two minutes. No stairs, no heroics, no pretending the sling is fashion.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Bear, you coming?”

Bear stood like a tent rising, shook once from nose to tail, and sneezed theatrically as if to clear the air for them. Manny held the balcony door open and the evening put its hand on their faces—cooler than the day, the kind of wind that carries gossip. The stadium’s bowl turned the noise into a soft, constant ocean: a hammer somewhere, a laugh, a generator coughing. The sky was the color of old denim with a rip at the seam where the first star had the nerve to show up.

Ellie leaned her good shoulder against the metal frame and let the air look at her. Bear parked his rear across both of their feet with the calculation of a chess player and the weight of a small bear. Manny folded his arms and tried to see the place the way someone not from here might, if anyone not from here was allowed in: brutal and temporary and stubbornly alive.

“You ever going to tell me what exactly you were trying to do on that beach?” he asked after a while, voice kept to the balcony’s edge.

“Not die,” she said.

“Gracias, that helps.” He chewed the inside of his cheek, then chose a different angle. “Isaac asked for you.”

“Of course he did,” she said. “He needs a hammer.”

“He needs a person,” Manny said, then added because it was also true and he wasn’t going to pretend otherwise, “and a hammer.”

She watched the field without blinking. “I’m not ready.”

“Good,” he said. “Saying that out loud is what ready sounds like, two days before it becomes true.”

“Did you read that in a book?”

“I wrote that book.”

“I hate your book.”

“You love my book.” He bumped her shoulder with his elbow, the lightest contact. “We’ll do a loop tomorrow. You, me, Bear. We will make fun of Owen’s beard. We will not even look at the training yard.”

“We’re not making fun of Owen’s beard,” Ellie said. “He’ll cry.”

“He cries anyway.”

She smiled, tiny and dangerous to the integrity of her tough act. He let it sit there between them like the first star.

After a while she said, quiet, “You really think there’s a spy?”

He picked at a flake of rust on the balcony rail until it lifted. “I think somebody said the right thing to the wrong ear. Could be a mouth, could be a wall with holes. Isaac is going to tighten everything until it squeaks.”

“You think he’ll squeeze the wrong people on the way.”

“I think… we have to watch how we do the right thing so it doesn’t turn into the wrong thing while we’re busy patting ourselves on the back.” He shrugged. “And I think you don’t have to carry that. Not today.”

“I’m not carrying it,” she said, which was only kind of a lie. Then, after a beat: “I’m carrying other things.”

“I know.” He let the quiet take a lap. “You and Abby gonna…?”

“Don’t,” she said, not unkind, just tired.

“Copy.” He clicked his tongue at Bear. “You gonna mediate?”

Bear’s answer was to roll onto one hip and emit a noise that could have been a fart or a philosophical statement. Ellie snorted. Manny fanned the air with dramatic offense. “¡Hombre! We have guests.”

“He’s family,” Ellie said. The word slipped out like a coin you didn’t realize was in your palm until you heard it hit the table. She didn’t chase it back.

They stood there until the sky made the switch from denim to ink and the first of the night lamps buzzed to life along the catwalk. Manny herded Bear back in with a click of his tongue and the promise of a treat. He shut the balcony door and the little room took the night gently.

“Couch or bunk?” he asked. “Place your bets.”

“Couch,” she said. The argument had bled out of her face. “Less chance of me rolling onto the shoulder.”

He pulled the blanket off his own bunk and made a nest, tucking the edge where she could reach it with one hand. Bear circled once and then claimed the floor at a vector that meant Manny would be stepping over him all night. Manny found the spare pillow under the chair and tossed it to Ellie; she caught it one-handed because muscle memory is rude.

He turned off the overhead and clicked on the little lamp with the shade he’d stolen from a suite lobby—a fake palm tree whose fronds had long since given up. The light puddled on the table, ran out of bravery before the corners. Ellie slid down until the sling sat where it wanted to sit and pulled the blanket up. Bear put his chin on the couch cushion just under her knee and exhaled into the fabric like he could fill it with patience.

“You good?” Manny asked, soft because the day had asked for too many loud things already.

Ellie’s eyes were already at half-mast. “Soup helped,” she mumbled. “Don’t tell your dad or he’ll take credit for saving my life.”

“He will anyway,” Manny said. “It’s his superpower.”

She made a sound that might have been a laugh and might have been sleep catching up. He watched her for a count of ten the shape of her breath, the way the frown smoothed when she finally quit fighting gravity. He got up and did the same stupid little chores he always did when he didn’t want to think: rinsed the spoons again, wiped the counter with a clean corner of a dirty rag, lined up his boots under the chair.

By the time he sat on the edge of his bunk, Ellie was out. Bear cracked one eye. Manny leaned his elbows on his knees and let the room pour itself into his ears. For the first time and what felt like entirety  he finally could sleep.

Chapter Text

They’d turned the fifty-yard line into rows of food—beans climbing cord, squash shouldering aside the weeds, tomatoes in cages that sang when the wind threaded them. From up on the concrete lip, Ellie could see the whole patchwork: hoses snaking, scare tape flashing, two kids chasing each other with watering cans like it mattered who got the last drop. The stadium used to hold noise; now it held green. Both were loud in their own ways.

She sat with her back to the warm wall, leg stretched, the other bent, a scuffed guitar across her lap. Leah and Jordan had scavenged it—a “recovery gift,” they’d said, half-joking, like they’d dragged home a stray. The top had a cigarette burn near the soundhole and the pickguard was clouded, but the neck was straight and the action was kind. She’d already cleaned mouse shit out of the case, rubbed lemon oil into the fretboard until the thirsty wood drank its fill, and wrapped a strip of cloth around the headstock where a chip made the E tuner bite.

The new strings still smelled like nickel. She tuned by ear, fifth-fret harmonics ringing thin then true, feeling every turn in her shoulder, the ache a line that ran from collarbone to elbow like somebody had drawn it there in dull pencil. Soft wrap instead of a sling now. Progress measured in inches.

She let the low E buzz under her thumb and picked the shape Joel had drilled into muscle: bass note, brush, bass note, brush. The pattern was a porch light—familiar even after too long away. She tried the song and got as far as, “If I ever were to lose you…” before the next words rose like a tide and she shut her mouth on them. The rest lived in her throat anyway. She let the melody hum under her breath where nobody could hear it but her.

“Thought you only threatened people with that thing,” a voice said, too light to be brave.

Abby’s shadow landed on her hands before the woman did. Ellie didn’t look up. She ran her thumb across the strings, listened to the ugly jangle, and twisted the B peg half a turn. “Depends on the crowd,” she said. “Some audiences deserve it.”

Abby came into her peripheral like weather boots dusty, hair back in a knot that sacrificed neat to speed, knuckles taped where the bar had kissed them wrong. She had that post-storm stillness about her, the kind that made everything near her want to shiver and then didn’t let it. She set a canteen down by Ellie’s heel and hovered a second like she was deciding whether the concrete could hold her weight.

“You tune like you’re defusing a bomb,” she said, trying for a tease and landing somewhere between awkward and careful.

Ellie snorted. “You punch like you want the building to apologize.” She pinched the G harmonic; it bloomed pure. “We all have hobbies.”

Abby lowered herself to the step with a grunt and left a span of neutral ground between them big enough for Bear to lie down in, which he promptly did, as if summoned by the thought. The dog had followed her, snout dusted in dirt from somewhere he had no business being. He nosed Ellie’s knee and then Abby’s shin, and, satisfied with the inventory, flopped so his ribs brushed both of their boots.

“Traitor,” Ellie told him. Bear sighed as if to say I am Switzerland.

They sat with the garden in front of them and the stadium’s cool shade at their backs. The sprinkler on the north end clicked and spun, flinging diamonds onto the beans. Somewhere two levels down, somebody swore at a wheelbarrow in a way that implied a deep history.

Abby tapped the step with two fingers, then stopped, then folded her hands like she’d remembered she had them. “Leah told me they found that in a storage cage under the suites,” she said, nodding at the guitar. “Nosy raccoons beat them to the strings, but the body looked good.”

“Jordan said the raccoons could’ve cut a better nut,” Ellie said, deadpan.

“They probably could,” Abby admitted, and that earned her the smallest corner of a smile.

Silence took a turn. Ellie adjusted the bridge by a hair, not because it needed it but because touching the guitar made it easier not to look sideways. Her shoulder twinged; she didn’t give it the dignity of a flinch.

“How’s it?” Abby asked finally, chin tipping at the wrap. “Nora says two more days and you’ll be back to terrorizing doorframes.”

“Doorframes had it coming.” Ellie flexed her fingers, felt the stretch tug along the healing. “It’s fine.”

“That your favorite lie?” Abby asked, and when Ellie shot her a look, she softened it. “Mine is ‘I slept great.’ I never have.”

“Try getting stabbed.” Ellie said. “You’ll sleep like scary princesses.”

Abby huffed. “You scared the hell out of half the base.”

Ellie plucked a dissonant two-note because the truth got itchy. “Wasn’t on purpose.”

“I know.” Abby’s voice went quieter, the kind that didn’t want to start a fight or a confession and might have done either if Ellie let it. “Still counts.”

Bear’s paw twitched in some dream where rabbits obeyed traffic laws. Ellie let the E minor settle under her hands, the chord weighty and obvious. “You come up here to make sure I’m not sneaking over the wall?” she asked, lighter than she felt.

“I came up here because Manny said you were being mean to the sun,” Abby said. “And because—” She cut herself off and shook her head, a tiny abort. “Because.”

“Profound,” Ellie said. She slid into a C. The guitar liked it; the whole thing eased; her shoulder didn’t growl.

“You were… singing,” Abby said, careful like she was setting something fragile down. “Before I got here.”

Ellie kept her eyes on the frets. “Nope.”

“Sounded like you,” Abby said. “But I’m concussed on a monthly plan, so who knows.”

Ellie stole a drink from the canteen so she didn’t have to answer, the water metallic and warm. She let it sit on her tongue until her mouth remembered desert and gratitude were neighbors. “Leah and Jordan pick this out because they owe me beer and can’t count?” she asked, diverting hard.

“They said you needed something to do with your hands that isn’t sharpening things,” Abby said, accepting the detour like a person who’d learned to walk around tripwires. “And because it shuts Manny up when you play. He gets… reverent. It’s unnerving.”

“Good.” Ellie’s mouth tipped. “He deserves it.”

“Agreed.” Abby’s shoulders eased a notch. After a breath: “I brought you something.” She reached into her pocket and came out with a rough little triangle of wood and leather. “Capo. Sort of. Bike tube and a cut-down shim. Owens swears by them when strings are trash.”

Ellie took it despite the itch under her skin that said don’t accept, don’t owe. The thing was ugly as sin and probably worked great. “You make this?”

“Don’t spread it around,” Abby said. “I have a reputation as someone who only builds walls.”

“You also build weird gym contraptions that terrify Manny,” Ellie said. She clipped the capo at the third fret and struck an A shape. The new key sat closer to her range; the melody didn’t scrape on the way out. “Huh.”

“Less reach,” Abby said. “Less shoulder.”

“Less pretending this doesn’t hurt,” Ellie said, and didn’t quite keep the gratitude out of it.

Abby stared out at the beans. “I was an asshole,” she said abruptly, quiet, like confessing to the garden so the garden could tell on her. “Last time. In the library.”

Ellie swallowed. The memory lived close to the bone: Abby asking, digging, assuming; Ellie snapping, storming. “We’re good at that.”

“I don’t want that to be our thing,” Abby said, and the admission sat between them, unarmed.

Ellie let the guitar answer for a while pluck, brush, the capo taking the edge off the reach. Down on the field, Manny’s father waved a hat at someone and yelled in Spanish that the squash had no sense. A gull carved the sky like it owned tinder and flint.

“I don’t know what our thing is,” Ellie said at last. “Some days I think it’s just… being in the same place when the world wants us in different ones.”

Abby’s jaw worked like she was chewing something she hadn’t ordered. “I don’t have a good answer for that.”

“Me either.” Ellie shifted, found the seat for her shoulder where it didn’t bark. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

“We never talk about it,” Abby said, not quite a complaint.

“Yeah,” Ellie said. “And we don’t have to today.”

Abby nodded like a person agreeing to terms that weren’t fair but were real. “Okay.”

They sat with that for a while. The sun moved just enough to drag a stripe of heat across Ellie’s knee. Bear dreamed through another democracy of rabbits. Ellie took the capo off, then put it back on, then took it off again because indecision was a safer muscle to stretch than any other.

“You gonna play the porch song,” Abby asked, half-smile threatening, “or just ring the same sad pretty chord until the plants revolt?”

Ellie rolled her eyes and let her fingers land where they wanted. The pattern started itself. She sang the line she could say out loud. “If I ever were to lose you…” and stopped before the rest could hurt anyone. Abby didn’t push for more. The not-asking was a kindness Ellie recognized on contact and filed under Things I Owe Someone Somewhere For Later.

“Good song,” Abby said.

“Shut up.” Ellie said.

Abby glanced over. “You always this cheerful?”

“Only when concussed strangers bring me garbage capos that work,” Ellie said, and Abby laughed, quick and surprised. It softened everything.

Ellie looked at her then a real look, full-on. Abby had the salt-line under the eyes of someone who’d slept bad for a long time and had built a life anyway. Callus on the palm where bar met hand. A tiny cut at the corner of her mouth she hadn’t noticed yet. She looked like a person who tried, even when trying meant lifting a load that wasn’t hers alone.

“Thanks,” Ellie said, and meant the tool and the space and the not-fight.

Abby tipped her chin. “You can pay me back by heckling Manny at dinner.”

“Easy,” Ellie said. “That’s charity work.”

Ellie kept the pattern going thumb, brush, thumb letting the sound knit the silence. Abby watched the garden like it might answer a question if she stared hard enough. When she spoke again, her voice had sand in it.

“I still wake up in that hospital,” she said. “Even when I don’t sleep.”

Ellie didn’t look over. “You…Have nightmares about it?”

“I keep thinking if I can find him—” Abby’s jaw worked. “If I can make the math even. If I can.” She exhaled, sharp. “It’s all I had for a long time. The man who killed my dad. The man who killed what the Fireflies were trying to be.”

“Abby…I just want to make sure, what your doing is-is like…Your dad wouldn't want this for you?” Ellie spoke.

Abby’s face went hard in profile, like weather settling in. “I will find him,” she said, not a wish, a forecast. “I saw what Joel left behind. My dad was on the floor, his throat cut open. Hallways slick, doors hanging, half the Fireflies in his path not getting back up.” The words came flat, sanded of drama, which somehow made them worse.

Ellie’s grip tightened; the chord soured under her fingers. The certainty in Abby’s voice felt like a blade being honed, purpose against stone. She could almost see the future it pointed to and the hole it would carve through the middle of Abby to get there. Bear’s ear flicked; the sprinkler clicked; the garden pretended not to listen.

The strings buzzed under Ellie’s touch. She damped them with her palm and the sound died, too clean. “Abby—”

“I know what you’re going to say.” Abby’s mouth went quick and bitter. “That it won’t bring him back. That it’ll just take more. That it’ll turn me into something I don’t want to see when I brush my teeth.”

“I was going to say it scares me,” Ellie said quietly. “How much you want it.”

Abby flinched like she’d been tagged on a bruise, then reached for the safer ground of anger. “You want to talk about wanting?” She turned, the look bright and hard. “You used yours to throw yourself at an island full of people who wanted you dead. You bled out on a beach to prove what, exactly? That you can hurt as loud as I can?”

Ellie felt the heat crawl up her neck. “I didn’t go there to—”

“You went there because your insides were on fire and you wanted the outside to match.” Abby’s voice didn’t go up; it got tighter, like the lid on a jar that won’t turn. “Don’t lecture me about revenge when you almost drowned in fog because you wanted to punch a coastline.”

The words hung there between them, mean only because they were true. Bear lifted his head, ears flicking, and pressed his skull into Abby’s shin like he’d learned it from Manny.

Ellie swallowed and tasted metal. “Okay,” she said. “Fair.”

Abby looked away so fast it might have hurt. “I shouldn’t—” She stopped, jaw unhinging and rehinging like it took muscle to keep sentences from rattling out. She sat down too hard, elbows on knees, hands laced so tight her knuckles went pale. “Last time we talked we made a mess of it,” she said, voice low. “I said things I shouldn’t. You walked away. You went on that op. And then they carried you in with a piece of wood in your shoulder and I thought—” She broke off. The next breath stuttered. “If that had been it—if that stupid argument in the library had been the last thing—” She shook her head, a tight, furious motion like she could dislodge the picture. “I wouldn’t have known what to do with myself.”

Ellie set the guitar down, careful with the headstock, and turned until she was facing Abby full-on. Abby’s eyes were shiny, furious with it, like tears were an insult she refused to accept.

“I don’t forgive myself for a lot,” Abby said, laughless. “That’s not news. But that—” She pressed her thumbs into her brow like she could sand it down. “I don’t know how to carry that and keep standing.”

Ellie sat there long enough to make sure the words didn’t knock anything over. Then she reached out and, slow enough to be refused, set two fingers against Abby’s wrist where the pulse lived. Abby could have pulled away; she didn’t.

“You don’t have to carry it,” Ellie said. “You can put it down and pick up something else. Doesn’t have to be me. Doesn’t have to be… anything big. Pick up a… dumb capo you made out of trash. Pick up Bear’s leash. Pick up dinner trays. Just don’t pick up the thing that eats you first, okay?”

Abby huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t stumbled. “You’re giving me coping skills.”

“I’m giving you busywork so you stop sharpening your teeth,” Ellie said, and that got the smallest, unwilling smile out of Abby the kind that admitted defeat to common sense.

Ellie squeezed once at Abby’s wrist and let go. “You’re not the only one who thinks about evening a ledger. I’m saying it out loud so you don’t have to pretend you’re the worst person in the room.”

“I am often in the running,” Abby said.

“Same.” Ellie nudged Bear’s ear with her toe; he leaned his whole head into her ankle until her boot slid. “You said finding him is all you had. Maybe get a second thing. A worse hobby.”

“Like what.”

“Crochet.”

Abby made a face. “Manny tried to teach me. I stabbed the yarn.”

“On brand.”

Abby wiped under one eye with the heel of her hand like she was sanding off a scuff. “I’m not used to… asking for help,” she said, the admission small and defiant at the same time. “Or… comfort.”

“Me neither,” Ellie said. “So we can be bad at it together.”

They sat with that, the quiet not empty for once. Down on the field, Manny’s father bellowed that the beans were dramatic, and three kids pretended not to have heard. The sprinkler ticked to a stop, rope glitter falling back to earth.

“I don’t know how to not want it,” Abby said after a while, almost whispering. “Him. The man. The end of the wanting.”

“I don’t know how to not want mine,” Ellie said honestly. “But I know how to not make it the only thing I’m allowed to have.”

Abby looked at her, really looked, the fight in her expression replaced by something nearer to scared. “What if I can’t.”

“Then you keep failing at it in smaller, less catastrophic ways,” Ellie said. “Fail at it by showing up and sitting down instead of hunting. Fail at it by… bringing me a stupid capo and not asking me to sing the rest of the song.”

Abby’s eyes flicked to the guitar, then back. “I’m sorry,” she said, sudden and clean. “About the library. About… all the ways I’ve tried to make you answer questions I didn’t earn the right to ask.”

Ellie nodded, because the word deserved a place to land. “I’m sorry I left it there and went to the island like an idiot."

“Okay,” Abby said. She sat back, shoulders lowering a notch, and let out a breath that sounded like surrender to gravity, not defeat. “Okay.”

Bear flopped onto his side and offered his stomach like a peace treaty. Abby scratched absent circles without looking. Ellie picked up the guitar again, returned the B, it had drifted while they weren’t watching—and laid her fingers on a chord that didn’t ask for much from her shoulder.

“You’re not alone in it,” Ellie said, eyes on the frets. “The hate. The hole. If you want somebody to sit there with you and not make it worse, I can do that.”

Abby nodded once, quick. “Same,” she managed. “If you need… sitting.”

Ellie played two soft measures, let them fray into air, and didn’t push her voice into the space they’d made. The garden breathed. The stadium exhaled. Above them, gulls drew white commas on the afternoon.

“Dinner?” Abby asked after a while, wary of spooking the fragile thing they’d set down between them.

“Yeah,” Ellie said. “We can heckle Manny’s beard.”

They stood slow. Abby offered her hand without thinking; Ellie eyed it, then used it—weight shared for the one second it took to get upright. Bear sneezed like a judge returning a verdict and herded them toward the ramp with the casual authority of a creature who knew both of them would follow.

Dinner was the kind of beige the mess hall specialized in—rice pretending to be fluffy, stew pretending not to be yesterday’s stew, tortillas pretending not to be rubber. Manny had two trays like he’d robbed a train and spread them across the table. Abby and Ellie took the spots against the wall; Bear parked his bulk under the bench and exhaled like a radiator.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Manny told Ellie’s tray. “It’s food. Your body doesn’t know the difference between delicious and serviceable.”

“My mouth does,” Ellie said, spearing a piece of carrot that had sacrificed texture for longevity.

Abby was in better spirits than she’d been on the steps. She still had that tightness around the eyes, but the corners of her mouth were thinking about forgiveness. “Nora said if I keep stealing gauze for my hands she’ll charge me rent,” she reported.

“You could try… not punching steel,” Manny offered.

“Gym’s out of people who deserve it,” Abby said, deadpan. “Steel is next.”

They were halfway through heckling Manny’s beard when the door from the kitchen swung and Mel and Owen came in together, shoulders brushing in that way people don’t notice when they’ve started moving like one thing. Mel laughed at something Owen murmured; she had a little flour on her cheek like a thumbprint.

Abby’s eyes found them like a compass they hadn’t asked for. The lines around her mouth hardened, then smoothed into neutral too late to hide the first expression. She put her fork down with care. “Bathroom,” she said to no one in particular, already standing. “Be right back.”

Manny’s gaze flicked to Ellie—you got this?—and then to Abby—you sure? Abby’s jaw did the small stubborn set that meant drop it. She slipped between chairs and was gone, the flap of the door admitting a slice of cooler air and then nothing.

Ellie watched the space Abby left, then looked back at her tray. The stew hadn’t improved in the last five seconds. Manny cleared his throat and changed lanes with the grace of a man who’d been doing it all week.

“Oye, mira quienes son,” he sang as Mel and Owen spotted them and veered over. “The prodigals.”

“Stop calling me biblical things,” Mel said, pulling out the chair opposite Ellie. “Makes me itchy.”

Owen gave Manny a mock salute and set his tray down with the care of a man transporting a small ecosystem. “You got the last of the good tortillas,” he accused.

“I have distribution privileges,” Manny said solemnly, then to Mel: “Señora doctora, how’s the triage empire?”

“Held together with tape and threats,” Mel said, and gave Ellie a quick once-over—doctor, friend, both. “You look steadier.”

“Soup,” Ellie said, tilting her spoon at Manny. “And being bullied into not lifting pots.”

“That’s my specialty,” he said. “Bullying in the public interest.”

Owen leaned back, balanced on two legs of the chair, and stole a glance at the door Abby had gone through. If he felt the absence, he kept the shape of it small. “They posted assignments,” he said, aiming the topic in a safe direction. “I’m off boat detail for a bit. Isaac’s sticking me with a new team.”

“Sticking is a strong word,” Mel said, nudging his knee under the table.

“Gently affixing,” Owen corrected. “Team Eight. We’re doing supply corridor sweeps out past Fremont.”

“Who’s the unlucky?” Manny asked.

“Me, Danny, a new kid from Wall Two named Lark, and—” Owen squinted like the name would show up on the back of his eyelids. “Torres’ old comms guy. Kal.”

“Danny,” Ellie repeated, tasting it. She remembered a rangy guy with a crooked grin who did card tricks badly and swore the fish in the canal had unionized. “He the one who cheated at rummy and then cried when Leah caught him?”

“That’s him,” Manny said, fond. “Cried earnestly. Very moving.”

“You’re on corridor sweeps for how long?” Ellie asked.

Owen flashed the palm of his hand like a calendar. “Two weeks to start. Then Isaac’ll reshuffle. He wants eyes in places we got complacent.” His mouth went a little sideways. “You miss two dinners and the whole world turns over.”

Ellie huffed and pointed at her sling wrap. “I miss two weeks and you’re on a new team, there’s rumors of spies, and somebody taught Bear how to open doors.”

“That last one was me,” Manny said proudly. “I regret nothing.”

Mel chased a grain of rice around her plate and then seemed to remember a social script she’d meant to follow. She looked at Ellie. “Oh—also—we’re…” She flicked a glance at Owen, then at Manny, like she was checking for incoming jokes and bracing anyway. “We’re, uh…”

“Dating,” Owen supplied, not sheepish so much as resigned to being teased.

“Dating,” Mel echoed, squaring it up like a medical term. “Which you probably figured out because we’re not subtle.”

Ellie nodded once, neutrally. “Cool.” She meant it in the simplest way—received and processed—and left it where it lay. She didn’t have room in her head for anyone else’s algebra tonight. “Make sure you tell Manny’s dad. He needs to know who to feed more.”

“He already knows,” Manny said. “He reads a room like a telenovela.”

“God, he does,” Mel said, laughing. “He slipped me an extra empanada like a bribe.”

“It worked,” Owen said. “I have the paperwork.”

They ate, the conversation finding its balance without Abby to tilt it. Manny told an exaggerated story about Nick trying to fix a broken hose with duct tape and willpower; Mel corrected the physics; Owen acted out Nick getting sprayed and doing a dance that made three tables over pay them half an ear. Ellie let the noise wash and recede, took her sips of it where she could stand to.

Abby didn’t come back. Manny checked the door again, once, and set his fork down. “I’ll take her a plate,” he said, already stacking tortillas.

“She’ll say she’s not hungry,” Mel warned.

“She will be when she smells beans,” Manny said. He rose, gathering a ration he’d created out of their leftovers—her favorite parts, whether she admitted it or not. He paused, glanced at Ellie. “You good if I—”

“Go,” Ellie said, the word bare of anything but permission. “Tell her she owes me one heckle.”

Manny tipped two fingers at his brow and slipped through the crowd, a practiced current in a river of bodies. Mel watched him go with a small smile. “He’s getting worse,” she said.

“He’s getting better at pretending the world can be fixed with food and jokes,” Owen said. “Honestly? I’ll take it.”

They drifted back to assignments. Mel had a list even when she wasn’t holding a clipboard: suture counts, antibiotic rotations, which cots needed new slats before somebody fell through and sued the concept of gravity. Owen made fun of himself for not being able to grow a proper beard in winter. Ellie contributed exactly enough sarcasm to be counted as present.

Halfway through her stew, Ellie felt the small tug in her gut that meant she’d caught herself staring at the empty doorway again. She covered it by tearing a tortilla into neat strips and feeding one to Bear under the table like bribing a priest.

Manny came back ten minutes later, an empty plate and a sheepish lift of his shoulders doing the talking. “Her door was locked. I left it outside,” he said, sitting. “If nobody steals it, that means she still loves us.”

“Great metric,” Owen said. “Next time we’ll leave a scientific instrument. A… thermometer of affection.”

Mel rolled her eyes, but there was a ghost of a smile. Ellie pretended she didn’t feel the small knot untie in her ribs at the words her door was locked. Locked meant inside. Inside meant breathing. She let Bear lick a smear of beans off her fingertip and told herself that counted as optimism.

They finished slow, knives ringing on the bottoms of bowls, conversation drifting into that post-meal fog where everyone is full enough to be honest. When the room began to get too loud again, Mel touched Ellie’s elbow. “C’mon. I’ve got mending upstairs and you can put ice on that hip like a person who wants to keep walking.”

Owen gathered the dishes. Manny offered to “heroically” carry the pot to the wash barrel. They filed out with the easy choreography of people who had done the same dance a hundred times, up the stairs that used to smell like popcorn and spilled beer when this building was someone’s idea of entertainment. Now it smelled like wet wool, floor cleaner, and rain getting serious about being rain.

Mel’s apartment—hers and Owen’s, though the word made Owen do a whole performance of not being territorial about a bed none of them ever actually saw—was a neat rectangle of found furniture and stubborn plants. A poster of a surf break peeled from one corner. There were mismatched mugs lined up on the sill like they’d been caught trying to escape. The radiator clicked like teeth. Ellie sat on the patched couch, iced her hip, and watched Manny stand the broom in the corner without being told.

Owen dug in a crate and came up with a jar of something that claimed to be peaches. “Dessert,” he announced, reverent. “Don’t all applaud at once.”

Mel produced four spoons and a knit throw that had clearly been in a dozen camp sites before it had a couch. “Two spoons,” she corrected, and handed the extras to Manny and Ellie. “One each for the children.”

“I’m sixteen,” Ellie said.

“Child,” said Mel, with the authority of someone who had been awake for thirty-six hours and therefore older than gods.

They were halfway through the jar—peaches that tasted like summer had tried to send a postcard and the rain had gotten to it first—when someone knocked. Not the quick rattle of a neighbor who needed a needle, not the coded rap of a runner back from the perimeter, not Owen’s ridiculous guitar-call that meant bring beer. A slow, certain thud. Then another.

All four of them looked at the door like it had spoken. Manny’s mouth flattened; Mel’s chin lifted; Owen lost the joke dangling off his lip.

Mel stood, wiped her hands on her pants, and opened the door.

Isaac filled the frame not because he was especially big—he was, but that wasn’t it—but because he carried space with him like a coat. He had a cap in one hand, rain pinned to the brim. His jaw was a set line of grayed beard, his eyes the calm that came after a storm you’d ordered to be there. His gaze moved once around the room, quick, taking inventory that wasn’t supposed to be inventory. When it landed on Ellie, it stayed just long enough to register and not long enough to be a challenge.

“Evening,” he said, the word oiled and warm. “I heard there was contraband fruit.”

Owen barked an involuntary laugh, the kind men did when they were relieved and remembered they hadn’t asked permission to be. “Sir. We, uh, we have… forks? Spoons. Mel has a system.”

Mel stepped back. “Of course. Come in.”

Isaac nodded, like he was accepting a favor he’d already paid for. He stepped out of the hall and into the room. The four of them stood without thinking about it. Ellie found her knees obeying before she decided to.

“Please,” Isaac said, easy. “Don’t get up on my account.” He took the chair nearest the window, the one with a view of the street, the alley, the quick way out. He set his cap carefully on his knee. “I won’t keep you. I’m only here to be rude and ask if I can steal your dessert.”

Manny recovered first, popped the jar to Owen as a silent offer. Owen passed it to Isaac. The leader of the Wolves accepted the jar like a priest receiving a sacrament, spoon clinking once against the glass. He took a bite, closed his eyes like he was considering something complicated, then said, “That’s terrible. I should take the rest of it so none of you suffer.”

It earned him the laugh he was angling for. Ellie’s mouth twitched. She resettled the ice and felt the sting push into a numb she could stand.

Isaac looked back at her. “How’s the hip?”

There it was, the switch. The room ticked a degree away from casual without anyone moving. Ellie made herself meet his eyes. “Fine. Mel says I’m being dramatic.”

“Mel is rarely wrong,” Isaac said, and in the corner of her vision Ellie saw Mel fail at hiding satisfaction. He nodded toward the ice pack. “You keeping up with the work?”

“Mostly,” Ellie said, which in her mouth meant yes, which Isaac knew. He set the jar down on his cap hand and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, all attention. Not the interrogator. The father who used to be a drill instructor. “I heard you did two laps around the inner track this morning.”

“Word travels fast,” Ellie said, because her mouth reached for a joke whenever her throat closed. “Do I get a sticker?”

“Stickers are for kids,” Isaac said, without a smile. Then he softened it with one. “But if you want one, we’ll find you something shiny.”

Owen snorted. Manny cut him a glance, half warning, half don’t ruin this. The tension moved through the room like a breeze that only touched the edges of objects.

“You looked rough the first week,” Isaac said, matter-of-fact, not cruel. “Like you’d been dropped from a great height and left there with your thoughts. People get lost in that space. You didn’t.”

Ellie’s hand stilled on the ice. “I had help,” she said, and it came out more defensive than she meant. It was hard to sound like anything else when someone reached in and named the shape of your private failure.

“You took the help,” Isaac said. “That’s the hard part. Pride’s louder than pain, most days.” He let the words sit a second, then tapped the jar lightly. “We’ve got a rotation starting up on the south wall. Light duty. It’s a way to be on your feet and off your head. Short shifts, then rehab. You’re not ready for a rifle in your hands, but a hammer would suit you fine.”

Mel cut a look at Ellie. Owen looked at Isaac. Manny didn’t look at anyone; he looked at Bear, who was asleep with his muzzle on Ellie’s sneaker, a long, contented exhale fogging the rubber.

Ellie said, “You recruiting from the dessert line now?”

“I’m recruiting the people who show me they’re not going to quit,” Isaac said, mild. “You can say no. You can say later. You can say I’m full of shit and tell Manny I scared your appetite away so he has to bring you extra beans tomorrow. But I’d rather you say yes. Because work helps. And because there are eyes on you that aren’t yours.” He slid a glance toward the door, toward the decks of the stadium, the whole humming city-within-a-city. “People watch the ones who fall and get back up. Decide what they can ask of themselves.”

Ellie felt it, the neat stitch of responsibility tugging through her like a suture. She hated that it worked. She liked that it worked. She was exhausted by the contradiction of wanting to be left alone and wanting someone to tell her where to put her hands and her rage and her ghosts.

“Light duty,” she said, trying to make it sound like a negotiation. “And if Mel says no, it’s no.”

“If Mel says no, it’s no,” Isaac agreed, immediate. Mel’s eyebrow rose a millimeter; that was victory, pinned and labeled. Isaac picked up the spoon again, took another small bite, then set the jar back on the table as if it belonged to the room and not to him. “Proud of you,” he added, as if he were reminding her of a memo: short, docketed, undeniable. “You’re moving.”

The words hit something old in Ellie, something that didn’t have Joel’s name on it but had his outline. She tipped her head, feigning suspicion. “Careful,” she said. “Say too many nice things in a row and someone’s gonna accuse you of having feelings.”

“Perish the thought,” Isaac said, deadpan. “We’ll keep this between us. Strictly unprofessional admiration.”

“Gross,” Owen muttered, to rescue them from sincerity, and Mel flicked him with a dish towel.

They drifted into the kind of talk that wasn’t about anything but did the work anyway: who had seen the sunrise between squalls, which guard tower had the good radio, whether the bakery had any flour left that didn’t taste like wet cardboard. Isaac asked questions that weren’t officially questions—about pain management, about sleep, about whether Ellie was eating anything that hadn’t been invented by beans. He nodded through her answers, offering small corrections like he was reminding himself what kindness sounded like when you couched it in orders.

Manny watched, quiet. He knew Isaac’s cadences better than anyone. He’d been made and unmade by them twice. He saw the way the older man’s attention narrowed when Ellie spoke, the way he let the silence lengthen until she filled it, and he registered the tactic with the part of his brain that made lists of where everyone sat and why. But he also saw the thing beneath it, the way Isaac’s mouth softened around certain words, how he angled his body to take the pressure off Ellie’s, how his gaze flicked to the ice pack every few minutes as if it were an egg he was guarding.

After a while, Isaac stood. He settled his cap back on his head, brim toward the weather. “I’ll let you all be,” he said. “South wall at eight, if Mel hasn’t chained you to a radiator.”

Mel lifted her towel in a salute that might have been a threat. “We’ll see.”

Isaac moved to the door. He paused, looked at Manny. “Good instincts,” he said, and Manny blinked, once, surprised into honesty.

“Gracias, jefe.”

Then Isaac turned to Ellie. He didn’t reach out—he wasn’t a toucher, except when he was—but he tilted his head in something like a bow. “You keep moving,” he said, and made it a request and a command at the same time.

Ellie felt the nervous joke come up—what if I move the wrong direction, what if I move until I fall off the map—and she strangled it into something workable. “If I show up tomorrow, do I get a bigger spoon?”

Isaac’s mouth did that fraction of a smile again. “You get a hammer,” he said. “Spoons come later.”

“Bummer,” Ellie said. “I was gonna make soup.”

“Make soup when it over” Isaac said, which was as good as saying never. He rapped the door once on his way out, a benediction or a habit, and the hall swallowed him in plain clothes and quiet authority.

They stood still for a beat after the door closed, the apartment readjusting to belonging to itself. Owen exhaled in a rush. “Well,” he declared. “That was only mildly terrifying.”

Mel collected the spoons, their metal chime oddly cheerful. “He’s right,” she said to Ellie, as if the man himself were a weather report you could choose to ignore. “Light duty or not, you’ll sleep better with sawdust in your hair.”

“Sexy,” Ellie said, deadpan. Bear snored like an answer.

Manny leaned his shoulder against the door, arms folded. He was looking at Ellie and not looking at her, the way friends did when they were checking for cracks and giving you cover to have them. “You okay?”

The question was plain enough that she couldn’t dodge it without betraying the rules. She adjusted the ice and felt the skin ache. “Yeah,” she said. “I mean. He’s… Isaac.”

“Mm,” Manny said, and somehow fit a sermon into one syllable. His mouth slanted, not quite a smile. “He does this thing. Picks people. Like stray dogs, you know? Smart ones. Mean ones, sometimes. He gives them a job and a story about themselves and then he acts like it was their idea all along.”

“You a stray dog?” Owen asked, because he did not have a self-preservation instinct when it came to Manny’s pride.

“I was a wolf pup,” Manny said, offended and dignified at once. He tipped his chin toward Ellie. “You, though—he likes you. Not in the recruiting way. In the… daughter way.” He said it lightly and then winced, like he’d stepped on a shard of something he hadn’t seen. “No offense.”

Ellie’s throat did that thing again, tight with the word. She looked down at her shoe, at the way Bear’s breath fogged the rubber, and saw—ridiculously, inevitably—another hand setting a coffee mug near her, another voice telling her she was alright, kiddo, you’re alright.

“It’s fine,” she said, and her voice came out low and even enough to pass. “If he wants to pretend to be a dad, I’ll pretend to be someone worth the trouble.”

Mel’s hand found her shoulder and didn’t press. “You don’t have to pretend.”

“Yeah, well.” Ellie nudged Bear gently with her toe. “I’m out of practice.”

They were quiet for a while, the kind of quiet that didn’t have to be apologized for. Rain braided itself against the window and came undone. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughed like they were holding their breath between jokes.

“Eight, then,” Mel said finally, and it wasn’t a question.

“Eight,” Ellie echoed. She looked at the door, at the space Isaac had left behind like a warmer patch of air. Father and daughter. The words sat in her chest like a nail she couldn’t decide whether to pull or hang something on.

She blew out a breath through her nose, and it shivered into something like a laugh. “Guess I better sleep if I’m gonna impress my new hammer.”

“Now there’s the romance arc I can get behind,” Owen said.

“Go to hell,” Ellie said, and the heat behind the words wasn’t anger. Manny grinned, all teeth.

Mel stood and offered Ellie her hand. “Come on,” she said. “We’ll tape that hip and I’ll show you how to ice like someone who enjoys being alive.”

Ellie took the hand. The couch sighed when she stood, the ice pack sloshed, Bear protested and resettled. She felt the hurt and the help and the small, sharp brightness of having a thing to do in the morning. When she glanced back once at the door, it was only to make sure it was closed.

“Eight,” she said again

Chapter Text

They had her in shoes again, which felt like a dare. The laces bit right where her ankle still hated being a joint, and every step up the stadium corridor sent a little white spark up the bones they’d reintroduced to weight. Ellie took the stairs anyway instead of the ramp the ramp made you feel like cargo and came up into the bowl where the WLF did its best impression of a government at war. The field was half gardens and half muster squares; the megaphone voice ricocheted under the concrete like a swallow that’d forgotten the way out.

“—they string our people from trees and call it cleannessing,” the man with the bullhorn was saying, standing on a folding table like a prophet cheap enough to pack. He had a beard that made him look older than his eyes. Somebody had painted REMEMBER WOODLAND PARK on a bedsheet behind him and strung it on rebar, and somebody else had added an arrow-heavy sketch of the island that looked like a lung with knives. “They whistle like birds while they cut your friends open. You think peace is an option with that? You think you can talk to a plague and teach it manners?”

People on the square cheered because being a body in a crowd is easier than being one alone. Somebody next to Ellie muttered that the guy had mixed his metaphors; someone else shushed him with the kind of shush that had teeth. A woman with a wrapped hand held up a child so he could see and the kid clapped because the sound was contagious.

“God has given us divine purpose!” the priest thundered from a makeshift pulpit, rain beading on his cassock. “We are the sword of God, and by His wrath we shall free Seattle from the heathens!”

The crowd surged like one body, men and women packed shoulder to shoulder, knuckles white around banners and batons, faces lit by barrel fires and the stuttering red-blue of distant sirens. “WOLFS! WOLFS!” they chanted, the words striking the night in hard, hammering beats. Someone rang a cracked handbell; its thin clang stitched the chant together, a thread of metal through raw throats.

“Stand firm,” the priest cried, lifting both hands to the bruised sky. “Do not tremble. The Lord goes before us. He makes straight the crooked streets and casts down idols. We march not for vengeance but for deliverance!”

A wave of amens rolled forward. Boots stamped. Palms slapped wood. The old church steps shuddered under the weight of it. One banner caught her eyes the words painted in red “Burn The Wicked”

Mike stood at the edge of the crowd with his cap in his hand and a look like a man trying to listen for a valve in a wall he couldn’t open. He was taller than Ellie remembered and thinner, the kind of thing that didn’t come from skipping seconds. When he saw her limping toward him, his face felt the relief, irritation, and sympathy of someone watching a person return to the job that had almost killed them because there weren’t better jobs.

“Jesus, look who's the walking dead.” he said, meeting her halfway so she didn’t have to thread the rest of the bodies. “You walk like a movie monster.”

“The doorframes started it,” Ellie said. “I won.”

“Barely,” he said, and then, lower, because the bullhorn was still doing its thing and you had to make your own undertones, “You hear this?”

“Hard to miss,” she said.

They watched the square rally. Mike rolled his eyes toward the pack of wolves who all had banners with golden grosses painted with WLF logos.

“Religion,” he said. “I find it useless and I went to Catholic school before all this.” He jerked his chin at the pulpit. “Isaac’s smart, though. Letting ‘em borrow crusade talk rallies numbers. Which we need.”

“What the hell did I miss? I was only out for like—”

“Over a month,” Mike said, eyebrows up. “And talk of a ceasefire with these fucking Scars—if you believe it.”

“What—after what they did?”

“You don’t have to tell me.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Jordan filed a report: Scar patrol spotted near the Eastbrook Elementary post. Radio said a small party slipping past the gas station.”

“What!?” Ellie straightened, sling creaking. “Did you send a crew?”

“No shit.” He snorted. “By the time they got there? Ghosts. Tricky bastards keep threading holes in our lines. And Isaac’s making us wait.”

“I need to go back out. Send me to the school,” Ellie snapped, heat rising before she could leash it.

Mike actually chuckled. “Impossible. You’re still on active medical relief. Doc’s orders. You try to play one-armed hero and your friend Nora will skin me first.”

Ellie set her jaw. “I can shoot. I can walk.”

“You can heal,” he countered, gentler. “You were down five weeks, kid. You want back in? Prove it smart. Walk a post, pass your checks, keep that shoulder from exploding. End of week we reassess. Maybe Eastbrook. But today? You breathe, you listen, and you don’t make me write another name on the board.”

Ellie blew a breath through her teeth, let the fight drain out of her shoulders. “Fine,” she said, flat. “Enjoy your ceasefire.”

She turned, started down the tunnel toward the gear cages, boots loud in the concrete throat. The stadium swallowed her in three strides.

Mike was tucking the clipboard back into his jacket when his shoulder mic crackled. “Lead Six, this is Mike—come back.”

He thumbed it, already braced for bad. “Go for Six.”

“Copy, Six. Per Isaac: greenlight granted on Eastbrook follow-up. Medical exception approved for Williams, Ellie attached to your element for recon only. Repeat, recon only. Wheels up in ten. Acknowledge.”

Mike blinked at the tunnel like it had just made a joke. “Command, say again? You’re putting the kid back on my stack?”

“Affirm. ISAAC zerosigned. Williams is your hammer again use it like a scalpel. Out.”

Static. Then nothing.

Mike swore under his breath, turned, and cupped his hands. “Goddamn it…ELLIE!”

Her head popped back around the elbow of the tunnel, suspicious already. “What.”

He waved her in. “Get back here.”

She retraced, wary. “If this is about filing a form—”

“Change of plans.” He jerked his chin at her shoulder mic. “Isaac just blessed your stubborn. You’re back on my unit for Eastbrook.”

Her mouth opened, closed. “You’re screwing with me.”

“I wish,” he said. “Recon only. My word to Command. You so much as sneeze in hand-to-hand I’m gonna send you back.

The spark lit under her skin—equal parts relief and gasoline. “When?”

“Now. Ten minutes ago. Let’s go, kid.” He flagged the runner without looking. “Get me Manny, Lark, Danny, and Hanratty if he’s vertical. Two K9s.” 

Mike tossed Ellie a vest from the rack—soft, scarred, the elastic still trusting its own stretch—and a spare radio. “Suit up. Keep the sling. You’re gun two. You shoot from behind people with helmets.”

Ellie slid the vest on, winced when it dragged the wrap, and adjusted until the weight found a place that didn’t yell. She checked her sidearm—mag seated, chamber clear—then her revolver, now standard since the school hallway and the crawling runner. The cylinder spun, locked, solid.

Manny barreled in half a minute later, hair damp, laces flapping, half a protein bar in his cheek. “Somebody say field trip?”

“Eastbrook,” Mike said. “Recon. Williams is back in the world.”

Manny’s eyes flicked to Ellie’s shoulder and then brightened anyway. “¡Eso!” He jabbed a finger at her. “You stay behind me, behind a pillar, behind a small child—”

“Behind your big mouth,” Ellie said, but the corner of her mouth was already lifting.

Lark and Danny skidded in as a set, like they’d rehearsed it. Lark looked like he’d tried to shave in a hurry and lost. Danny looked like he’d been born with a grin and sharpened it on cards. “You rang,” Danny said. “I brought my serious face.” He failed to produce it.

Hanratty arrived last, the human version of a locked door, Bear at his heel in an attitude of union-delegated dignity. The dog’s ears perked when he saw Ellie; he angled in, pushed his forehead under her good hand, and huffed like a blessing.

“No kisses in front of the lieutenant,” Ellie told him, scratching the velvet between his ears. Bear yawned and sneezed on her boot in reply.

Nora had speed walk up to Ellie with her annoying smug face and the I-will-end-you stare. “Hold up.” She gentle grabbed Ellie and moved her towards the wall abd with two fingers and rewrapped the shoulder tight, neat, no room for argument. “You lift that arm past ninety and I’ll staple it to your ribs.”

“Romantic,” Ellie said, teeth gritted as Nora cinched. “If you push me harder maybe we can settle this over dinner?”

“Ha cute…Here Helia is looking for you again. Saw her leave your room after hours. Also,” Nora added, dead calm, “You better come back in one piece this time. I can’t handle Mel or Leah crying.”

“Nope I’m fine it’s Manny's turn to get hurt.” She pointed her thumb at him.

“Hey,” Manny protested. “Why am I the hole tax?”

“Because you’ll make a joke about it,” Nora said, already moving. “Mike, you bring them back breathing.”

“That’s the plan,” Mike said, which was all plans ever were around here.

They kitted up fast and ugly the way you do when the window is already closing. Helmets got handed to the people who hated them least. Mike pointed, placed: “Manny, door two. Lark, you’re my comms shadow. Danny, high eyes. Hanratty, pace. Bear, be a saint. Williams—”

“Behind helmets,” Ellie echoed.

“God learns,” Mike muttered, and hooked a thumb toward the gate. “We’re wheels in six. Move.”

They jogged the bowels of the stadium the map in their feet now, not in their heads and popped out into afternoon that had decided to be bright about it. The motor pool coughed up a battered pickup and a Humvee that rattled like a bag of wrenches; Mike took the truck, because subtlety was a gift you gave yourself when superstition had eaten planning for breakfast.

Ellie swung up into the bed rather than the cab—less jostle, more eyes. Manny hopped in beside her, Bear wedged in with the entitlement of royalty, and Danny took the tailgate perch like a lifeguard pretending to be useful.

Mike leaned out the driver’s window. “Rules again,” he called. “ROE is return only, hard IDs. We’re eyes first. If Scars run, they run. We don’t chase, we mark and call. We go to the school, not beyond. No heroics. If you see a wire, you don’t step over it because you think you are special.”

“I am special,” Manny said. “But I will not step over wires.”

“Save the miracles for beans,” Mike said, and put the truck in gear.

They rolled. The gate spat them onto the street with a scream of iron on iron, and the city opened like a book someone had read too many times—the same pages, new stains. Ellie watched the storefronts flick by—papered windows, doors braced from the inside, a chalk X here, a prayer knot there—and let the map overlay settle: Eastbrook, the gas station, the cut-through that pinged every alarm bell. The wind in the bed smelled like hot metal and old pollen. Her shoulder throbbed and then quieted 

The Humvee took the corner like it had opinions about the curb and rattled into the Eastbrook lot, shocks complaining, antennae whipping at nothing. The old elementary school rose out of the cracked asphalt with all the stubbornness of brick—the blue-painted doors scuffed to primer, a mascot wildcat peeling off the gym wall, the kind of windows that had watched a thousand spelling tests and were now sandbagged to the sill. Someone had put plywood across the big glass sections and then painted portholes on the plywood, circles of fake sky where there wasn’t any.

Jordan was already striding out from the shadow of the overhang, radio in one hand, cap shoved backward. He had the look of a man who had slept in a chair and called it a bed because there had been a flat surface under him at some point. He grinned when he clocked the truck, then did a double take when he saw who was propped in the bed, wrapped shoulder and all.

“No way,” he said, hands spreading. “The corpse walks.”

Ellie tilted a hand off her knee and gave him the finger, deadpan. “Missed you too.”

“Back on your feet, huh?” Jordan planted a boot on the bumper and leaned, eyes flicking to the wrap, to the way she kept her chin level. “Nora let you out or you chewed through the bandage?”

“She blinked,” Ellie said. “I ran.”

Manny popped up next to her like a bad idea with good timing. “Soul of discretion, this one.” He hopped down, Bear thumping after him to go give Jordan a snout-to-knee inspection. “We brought presents,” he added. “Us. We are the presents.”

“You look like the kind people regift,” Jordan said, bending to scratch Bear between the eyes. The dog accepted it with professional detachment and then bumped his head under Ellie’s palm as well, distributing his benedictions evenly. “Mike,” Jordan said, straightening and looking past them, “good to see you and your cheerful mob.”

Mike swung out of the cab and nodded once, eyes already doing the count—their people, his people, the exits that used to be recess doors. “Talk to me.”

Jordan’s face tucked the jokes away. “Quiet,” he said. “Too quiet, if you want it dramatic. We had whistles last night around twenty-three hundred, northwest corner, roofline. No arrows, no feet on the ground we could prove. This morning some shadows two blocks out, west of the gas station. Lark’s buddy on gate duty back at Chinatown said Command had a civ ping out that way, too.”

Mike grimaced like a man tasting old oil. “So either our scavvers are bold, or we’ve got Scars testing with bait. You send anyone to look?”

“Sent a three,” Jordan said. “They did the loop, found nothing but a cat that hates the concept of wind. I pulled them back. No sense playing tag with a ghost.”

“Good,” Mike said. “Keep the ghost bored.” He tipped his head at the door stamped CAFETERIA in letters so cheerful they felt like a lie now. “Where’s your radio hole?”

“Follow the smell of burnt coffee and old crayons.” Jordan jerked a thumb. “We set it up in the kitchen. Better walls.”

“I’ll check in,” Mike said. “Lark, shadow me. Everyone else—find chairs, find beans, don’t find trouble.”

He disappeared into the building with Lark and two locals on his heels. The rest of them fell into the magnet pull of the cafeteria without thinking. Places like this always held a strange gravity—half church, half storm cellar.

Inside, the air had that layered scent schools never lose—dust in the vents, old glue, the ghost of spilled milk—overridden now by bleach and coffee and the iron tang of nearby metal. They’d turned the room into a half-time fort: tables tipped on their sides and sandbagged for cover; a line of cots along the far wall; maps pinned to a corkboard with cafeteria forks when the thumbtacks ran out. A whiteboard still declared in red marker WELCOME BACK WILDCATS! in teacher cursive; someone had drawn a cartoon wolf in the corner putting a fake claw over its heart.

Manny whistled as he walked in, low. “Mira, mira, qué fancy.”

“Don’t touch my thermos,” a woman at the coffee station warned without turning. Her hair was buzzed and she wore two watches—one set to Seattle, one to when she’d last slept, by the look of it. “It’s the only thing in here with morale in it.”

“We brought our own morale,” Manny said, thumping his chest. “But I’ll borrow a cup.”

Ellie let her eyes rove. The same long floor where once kids had lined up with trays now held a tangle of extension cords and a charging strip like an altar—radios kneeling for a scrap of battery. The kitchen doors swung on hinges that barked a despairing squeak and then quieted when someone breathed on them, the way old things do when they remember how to cooperate. A roster was taped to the wall—names, shifts, a column for NOTES where someone had written BEWARE THE STAPLER in block letters.

Jordan walked them toward the tables nearest the kitchen, where the light from a high window cut in at an angle and let the dust do ballet. “Sit, sit,” he said, sweeping a hand like a maître d’ at the end of the world. “We made stew that tastes like two days ago, but it’s hot.”

Danny snagged a bench backward and straddled it, already palming a deck of cards out of some interior pocket like he couldn’t help himself. “Deal you in?”

“Deal yourself a face,” Leah said, sliding out from behind a stack of crates with a coil of paracord around her elbow. Ellie hadn’t seen her at first; the room had swallowed her the way competent people disappear into function. Leah gave Ellie a quick glance—fast assessments, shoulder-wrap, breath rate—and then a nod that felt like a hand pressed briefly to a shoulder. “You look less dead than the rumors.”

“Rumors are lazy,” Ellie said. Leah’s smile was a tilt of mouth that almost admitted camaraderie, then thought better of it.

“Leah,” Manny sang, hand to his chest. “You haven’t yelled at me in at least five hours. I am concerned.”

“Drink water,” Leah said crisply. “Then fix the squeak on the north door because I’m going to throw a wrench through it.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Manny saluted and went to pour coffee instead, because he was a coward in the face of actual maintenance.

Jordan scooped a ladle out of a pot perched on a Sterno and poured stew into an old FEDRA cup for Ellie before she could argue. “Doctor’s orders,” he said, handing it over. “Refuse and you’re assigned to listen to Hanratty tell you about his knee for an hour.”

“I like my ears,” Ellie said, but wrapped her hands around the cup because the heat felt good even if the contents tasted like beige. Bear slid under the bench and put his chin on her boot as if to weigh it down. His presence worked better than any sling.

“You get that radio sorted?” Leah asked Jordan, already moving to retie a knot that didn’t meet her standards.

“Mike’s in there making his voice sound like leadership,” Jordan said. “Lark’s nodding like a bobblehead. Comms are crap past three blocks. We laid out the relay, but the building eats signal unless you stand on a chair and point west.”

“Don’t stand on my chairs,” the coffee woman said.

“Your chairs are a menace,” Jordan called back. “One tried to bite me.”

“They bite idiots,” she said. “Self-regulating.”

Danny had his cards on the table now, not dealing, just fanning, flipping, letting the motion put a rhythm under the room. “So,” he said, looking at Ellie with bright, ridiculous innocence. “You tell us a ghost story from your staycation in the tent?”

“Once upon a time,” Ellie said, “a man named Danny got assigned to gate scrubbing for asking stupid questions.”

“Ouch,” he said, delighted. “She lives.”

“Barely,” Manny muttered, arriving with two dented mugs and handing one to Ellie like a peace offering. “Drink the mud. It will make your bones less angry.”

She sipped. It was as advertised—scorched, bitter, a miracle. She let the caffeine find the little empty rooms in her body and turn the lights on.

Jordan dropped onto the bench across, elbows wide, looked at her like he was trying to map the new edges. “Seriously, though,” he said more quietly, humor recessed a notch. “Good to see you upright. Leah said if you died she’d burn my hat.”

“I would,” Leah said, without looking up from the knot. “That hat offends me.”

“It’s from my dad,” Jordan protested.

“Your dad has bad taste,” Leah said.

Ellie looked at the hat—frayed bill, logo peeled to a ghost—and back at Jordan’s face, at the quick flicker there. “It suits you,” she said, because that was true and kind in the same sentence.

He blinked, then shrugged like he hadn’t needed that to land. “See? The kid has style.”

“She also has orders,” Hanratty’s voice said from the doorway, his body arriving a half-second later. He looked the same as he always did: like a door no one had carved. He jabbed his chin toward the kitchen, where the steel pass-through had been turned into a radio station with a map taped to the counter and a headset someone had repaired with tape and desire. “Boss wants you after you swallow that.”

“Which boss?” Manny asked, offended on principle.

“The one with the clipboard.” Hanratty’s mouth didn’t move much, but when it did it made an expression that could have been humor in a younger man. “The other boss has a wrench.”

“Go,” Leah said, pointing at Manny and the north doors. “Before I enact violence.”

Manny put his hands up and crab-walked out of reach. “I am going. My heart is broken. It squeaks in sympathy.”

He vanished into the hall, whistling a tune that had no business being in a school. Jordan watched him go, shook his head, and turned back to Ellie. “Scars have been quiet since last night,” he said, voice pitched for her. “Couple whistles to keep us honest. One kid with a ribbon tied around her wrist on the rooftop two buildings over—maybe a lookout, maybe bait. We didn’t take it. If they’re testing, they get bored quick if you don’t play.”

Ellie stared at the steam coming off her stew, then reached out and drew a shape in it with her finger—habit, not art. “You think they want us to shoot first.”

Jordan lifted a shoulder. “They always do. Their god does good PR when we’re the ones that pull the trigger.”

“Fuck their god,” Leah said, knot tight enough to use as a hammer. Then, softer, because the room needed it: “Eat, Ellie.”

Ellie ate. The stew was better than it looked if you forgave it for having been three different meals. Her shoulder hummed—not the hot spike of wrong, but the dull, mean throb of tissue remembering how to be tissue. The room around her moved like a machine that had learned its noises—boots, cups, the squeak of the hated door in the north hall Manny was going to lose a fight with. Bear made a noise in his throat like a small engine, content to lie under this particular table for this particular hour.

A clatter echoed from the kitchen—a tray turned wrong—and Lark burst through the pass-through a second later, radio cord around his neck, expression trying to be calm and landing on very awake. “Mike wants an extra set of eyes on the west lot feed,” he said. “Camera’s garbage, but he thinks he saw movement. Could be wind. Could be not wind.”

Leah was already moving. “I’ll take it.”

“I can go,” Ellie said at the same time, the words out before she yanked on their leash.

Leah’s head tilted in the ways it did when she was measuring risk and worth. Ellie didn’t look away. After a brief war with herself, Leah nodded once. “With me. You don’t run. You don’t pull the arm.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Ellie said.

“You’re an idiot with rules,” Leah corrected. “That’s progress.”

They cut through the kitchen where Mike had colonized a counter with a radio, a compass, and the kind of quiet you use like a scalpel. He gave Ellie a glance as she passed—an up, a down, a permission—then spun the dial with two fingers and murmured, “Yep, I see it. Two frames. Probably plastic bag, possibly a person, definitely annoying.”

The west lot monitor was a salvaged tablet duct-taped into a housing that used to be a baking sheet. The image jittered in gray and darker gray, tracking the corner of asphalt where it met chain link and grass. Something moved there in a stutter—wind-tossed trash, or the flash of a shoulder sliding wrong. Leah leaned in until her braid brushed the housing.

“Bag,” she pronounced. “But the bag grew a tail.” Her finger tapped the screen. “There. Under the ripple.”

Ellie saw it a beat later—a flicker that knew it was being watched, the twitch of a living creature trying to be the wind. “Coyote?” she guessed.

“Big rat,” Jordan said from behind them, pointing with a cup. “They love the dumpster. More faith than sense.”

“Story of this place,” Leah said. She straightened and rolled her shoulder like she was trying to ease a weight she hadn’t put down since the beach. “Still—Danny, you’re with me. Let’s put boots outside and remind the neighborhood the light’s on.”

“Copy.” Danny slotted the cards back wherever he hid them and grabbed his rifle from a chair that did, in fact, look like it wanted to bite him. He shot Ellie a grin. “Try not to redecorate while I’m gone.”

“I’ll paint the walls with your ego,” Ellie said.

He blew her a kiss and was gone, Leah at his elbow. The kitchen swallowed them, then the hallway. The room slackened back into its breathing.

Manny returned a minute later with oil on his fingers and self-satisfaction on his face. “Silenced,” he declared, spreading his arms.

“The door,” Leah’s voice drifted from the hall. “Not you.”

Manny put a hand to his chest. “Attacked. In my place of work.”

“Sit,” Mike said without looking, and the effect was immediate; Manny sat. Ellie let herself be impressed and annoyed in equal measure.

Time passed in stutters. The west lot stayed a bag and a tail. The radio coughed and burbled and once said the word CLEAR in a tone that made it sound like a threat. A couple of local guards traded off and went to the gym to sleep under a banner that still read FIELD DAY CHAMPIONS 2012. Someone in the corner started a quiet game of dominoes on a lunch tray and then stopped because the clack sounded like a gunshot in the wrong ears.

Hanratty drifted over and set his thermos down without ceremony. “You ever notice the sound of a school when it’s night?” he asked, apropos of nothing in a way that still fit. “Different than a house. Different than a church. Buildings remember what they were built for.”

“What was this built for?” Ellie asked, because if he had the thought he’d have the answer.

“Noise,” Hanratty said. “And making small people bigger. It misses the noise. We use radios to feed it so it doesn’t go looking for its own.”

“You’re a poet,” Manny said, eyeing him.

“I’m a man with ears,” Hanratty said. “Finish your coffee.”

Leah and Jordan came back dusted with parking lot and nothing to report, which was the kind of news you didn’t cheer because you didn’t want to teach the universe how to disappoint you. Mike made a mark on his map like he’d moved a stone a quarter inch along a river. Bear stretched and cracked his jaws like a door gently telling you it’s still attached.

Ellie kept waiting for the thing to tilt—the whistle, the arrow, the tripwire surprise. It didn’t. The hours did what hours do when you have a job that is mostly about not letting the bad thing be easy. Day slid toward evening. The light through the high window went from white to the color of old paper to the sort of yellow that made the room look like it had remembered summer.

Ellie had let her eyes slip shut for a minute just a minute because the cafeteria’s hum had fallen into that lulling rhythm of cups, quiet radios, Bear’s soft engine of a snore under the bench. Rain started somewhere out on the roof, the first fat drops drumming in lazy patterns, then becoming a steady hiss that made the old building sound like it was breathing through its teeth.

A hand clamped over her mouth.

Her body moved before her brain did. The switchblade kissed daylight, snapped from pocket to palm to air with the sleight-of-hand she didn’t remember learning, only being. She had the edge at a throat in the same breath she had the hand in her left grip, pivoting to throw—

“Shh—shh—shh,” Danny hissed, eyes huge, already rocking back, palms up, throat out of the line by an inch that felt like a mile. “Sorry. Sorry. It’s me.”

Bear’s head shot up, a low warning rolling in his chest. Ellie’s blade hung there, a heartbeat away from making them both very sorry. Then she strangled the impulse, wrenched the knife back, and closed it with a snap that sounded too loud in her own ears.

“You fucking touch my face again,” she whispered, “you’re picking your fingers up with your teeth.”

“Copy.” He managed a grin that was half apology, half adrenaline leak. He flicked his eyes toward the kitchen. “You gotta see something. Quiet.”

“Where’s Mike?” Ellie asked, already rising, already angry at herself for rising.

“Busy making friends with the radio for Command,” Danny said. “Two minutes.”

Ellie glanced down the table. Manny was at the far end, trying to win a losing argument with the coffee sergeant about how many scoops made a cup. Leah was a shape in the hall with a wrench, berating the north door into silence. Jordan was talking with Hanratty over a roster, both men doing math in the air. Nobody was looking at her.

Bear pushed his nose into Ellie’s knee: you move, I move. She rubbed the fur between his eyes once—later—and followed Danny.

The rain got louder in the corridor, rushing in the gutters; the school sang with it, a network of little tin tongues. They took a left past the gym, a right by the art room where paper fish still swam in faded tempera, a quick slip through a storage closet that smelled like bleach and crayons. Danny shouldered open a heavy door with a badge reader that had no badge to read anymore, and the sound of the cafeteria snapped off behind it like someone had closed a lid.

They were in what had once been the teachers’ lounge. The kinds of jokes that look like art on a bulletin board had gone sun-ghosted on the cork. The couches sagged like they were tired of listening. Someone had jammed a table across the room to make a barrier, and twenty-odd people filled the rest of the space—parkas damp with rain, rifles slung, knives on belts, the hard, brittle look of intention on faces. Ellie recognized some: three gate guards fromB base, a pair of corridor sweepers who always smelled like dust, two of the younger K9 handlers without their dogs, the logistics kid who ran wire and had hands that bled from staples. Others she didn’t.

She didn’t see Mike. She didn’t see Leah. She didn’t see Hanratty. She didn’t see Manny. But Jordan was standing by the board.

Every head swung to the door when it closed. For a second the room did that thing groups do where they decide if a new person is a threat or a tool. Then Danny lifted his hands.

“She’s good,” he said. “She’s with me.”

That felt bad in Ellie’s mouth even as it got her past the table. “What is this,” she said, not bothering to soften it.

“Exactly what you think,” Danny said, and there it was: the grin, sharper now, a salesman closing a deal he hadn’t offered yet. He hopped up onto the arm of a couch and clapped his hands once, quiet. The room huddled in. Rain gave them cover, a steady drumming that made every word feel like a secret.

“We found a settlement,” he said, and the word came out like something between discovery and diagnosis. “Scars. Small. Two blocks off the reservoir, tucked under the park. Smoke at dawn, ribbons on the line. We watched them bed down last night. No full robes on the watch. Families, maybe; fighters, definitely. They’re sending patrols to test our west. We keep swatting the flies and letting the nest sit.”

A murmur went around the room—anger, agreement, the low human noise people make when they’re offered a simple shape for a complicated feeling. Ellie felt it at her back like heat from a kitchen door.

Danny lifted a palm. “Command says we sit. We’ve been sitting. We sat on the beach until arrows turned us into hedgehogs. We sat while Torres bled out with a bullhorn two hundred yards from his head. We sat last night while they whistled to each other from our rooftop. Mike’s a good man, but he’s going to do what Mike does, call it in, wait for a bless from Isaac, draft a plan, send a memo to the memo. Meanwhile they’re building little nests inside our lines. They’re getting bold because we taught them we’d wait.”

Ellie’s eyes tracked the faces. Some she knew would nod no matter what. Some were looking for permission to do what their anger had already decided. One woman—short hair, scar on the jaw, sleeves rolled—had that haunted light of a person who had names on the board and wanted to erase them with somebody else’s blood.

“Isaac’ll come down on you like a building,” Ellie said. “You know that, right?”

Danny shrugged one shoulder. “He came down on the beach with six boats and a prayer. How’d that go?” He let it bite and then spread his hands, palms open, the picture of a reasonable man. “We keep our footprint small. Two fireteams. We move in the rain. We hit fast, burn what needs burning, and bounce before sunrise. Message sent: your nests don’t get to grow in our land.”

A kid near the back—Lark’s age, and not Lark—nodded hard enough his cap slid. “Finally.”

“And when they send one back?” Ellie asked. “When they whistle bigger and string up someone with my patch and Mike has to explain to Isaac why the ceasefire number just died screaming?”

The word ceasefire drew a few scoffs, a few tired smiles. Nick rubbed his wrist where a spray of old burn scars climbed and didn’t look up. Jordan’s mouth pulled sideways, not quite a wince.

Danny’s eyes cut to Ellie and hardened. “You get to talk to me about ropes?” he said, softer than the heat deserved. “They had you hanging like a fucking warning sign, Ellie. We cut you down and you want to wait?”

The room caught that line like it had been tossed to them. Heads nodded. Somebody hummed agreement with their teeth together. Someone else said, “Preach,” like a joke that wasn’t funny anymore.

Ellie’s jaw clicked once. The picture of bark in her mouth, the burn of the rope, the black at the edge of the frame—she didn’t ask for it. It showed up anyway. She breathed around it like it was a fist.

Across the stack of boxes, she found Jordan. “You good with this?” she asked, because if she said are we burning it all down? she wasn’t sure she’d like his answer.

Jordan didn’t move his hands from his pockets. He didn’t straighten off the shelf. He did a slow, miserable nod, the kind men do when they’ve already argued and lost to themselves. “I don’t want Leah in it,” he said. “But—” He flicked his eyes toward the roof in a way that took in the whole school, the hum of the hallway, the invisible board full of names at the stadium. “We’ve been folding and folding. Paper only takes so many creases.”

“She won’t like this,” Ellie said, and the understatement tasted like metal.

“She doesn’t have to,” Jordan said. “She has to not be here.”

Danny clapped once, quiet. “Look,” he said, softer, selling normal. “This isn’t a mutiny. It’s a correction. A little pressure valve so we stop hissing at each other and point it where it belongs.”

“This is off-book,” Ellie said. “It’s not a message. It’s a mutiny with better PR.”

“Call it what you want,” came another voice from the side Priya, one of the K9 handlers, her curls pinned back with a bit of copper wire. “I’m done letting whistles write the script.”

“Report it,” someone muttered. “They’ll just tell us to stand down.”

‘Fuck that and fuck them! I want them dead we can take them.” A WLF man answered out.

“They’ll tell us to wait for a bigger plan,” the jaw-scarred woman said. “And then we’ll have to write four hundred more names when it doesn’t know our streets.”

Ellie dragged a hand down her face. Rain pounded over their heads. The building creaked. She thought of the bullhorn back in the stadium, the cheap rhetoric slick as oil, and felt the same unease under her sternum. The difference here was quieter and more dangerous. These weren’t crowd words; these were private ones you used to convince yourself. We, us, now.

“How many?” she said. “At the settlement.”

Danny spread his fingers. “Hard count? Ten moving after dark. Two adults on watch. Numbers in the shelter… unknown.”

“‘Unknown’ means kids,” Ellie said. She kept her voice flat so it would travel in a straight line to the people who needed it. “You want to call it a nest? Fine. What kind of nest is it?”

“It’s Scars,” someone said, like that settled a moral equation.

“They bring their kids to the island,” someone else said. “They bring them to the beach.”

“They bring knives to porches,” jaw-scar snapped.

Danny held up both hands again, corralling the pulse. “We aren’t the ones who draw their lines,” he said. “We draw ours. We clear fighters. We leave a warning. We back out clean. You’ve all seen what ‘wait’ buys us. I’m asking for six hours of ‘go.’” He looked at Ellie, held her in it. “You in?”

The room tilted. Ellie became aware of her shoulder the way you notice a bruise when somebody taps it—not pain, just the announced presence of vulnerability. She thought about Abby on the steps, saying the wanting would not go away. She thought about how ready this room was to let wanting masquerade as a plan.

“You said you watched them bed down,” Ellie said. “You have eyes now?”

Priya tapped her temple. “Rotations. Two on the hour.”

“Entrances?”

“Two. One under the viaduct. One through a service corridor between storefronts. Both narrow,” Danny said, too quick, like he’d rehearsed his answer in his head four times on the walk here. “We can stack. In and out.”

Danny slid a box onto the top of a crate and flipped the lid with the flat of his knife. Inside were black masks folded in a jumble—half-balaclavas, bandannas dyed the same, a couple of cut-up T-shirts with eyeholes burned by a lighter. He plucked one out with two fingers and held it up like a priest with a wafer. “No WLF patches,” he said. “No armbands. Nobody sees what they think they see. We’re shadows. We go quick, we go quiet. We come home before anyone knows we left.”

“That’s not how this works,” Ellie said. “It’s not a game if you don’t wear the jersey. It’s still us.”

Danny’s smile didn’t change. “Then it’ll feel good when you hit.”

There was a rustle that sounded like agreement pretending to be movement. People reached. Black cloth moved hand to hand. Nick hesitated, then took one, not looking at it. The gate kids traded a look that had too much eagerness in it and hid it by being brisk. The K9 handler took two and pocketed the second without comment.

Jordan didn’t move. He watched Ellie. In the heatless lantern wash his eyes looked older. “You in?” he said, and it was not a challenge so much as a request he hated himself for making.

She thought of Abby on the steps, both of them trying to unlearn the same hard wanting. She thought of Isaac’s pencil snapping, of Manny’s father’s stew, of Bear putting his head under her hand when the rope came back in dreams so loud she woke up with the taste of bark. She thought of the board with the names and the space they had left on it because you had to believe there was still room for someone who hadn’t died yet.

“You’re picking this fight because waiting hurts,” she said. “Not because it’s smart.”

Danny lifted his chin, just enough bravado to cover the thin places. “Sometimes hurting back is the only smart you get.”

It wasn’t an answer. It was something else that people wrap around hurt and call courage.

Ellie put her hand into the box and came up with a mask, cotton gone soft, someone else’s sweat in it baked into a ghost. The room wanted that motion; it sighed like a machine finding gear. She turned the cloth in her hands. The black sucked the light down and held it.

Rain chewed the park down to shapes and breath. The attack line moved tree to tree, black masks pulled up, boots careful on roots slick with moss. Ellie tasted wet bark and metal; the mask held her breath too close and made it sound like someone else’s.

From the last line of firs, the Scar settlement showed itself—a wooden palisade stitched from scavenged fence panels and stripped logs, a barn crouched inside like a sleeping animal, two low longhouses with smoke dragging out under the rain. Prayer knots hung off the perimeter like bedraggled birds. Lanterns threw a thin ochre at the mud; everything else was rain and the dark pulse of people trying to be quiet.

Danny crouched, thumb pressed to his radio. “Red Two, eyes?” he whispered.

A hiss, then a voice: “North lane clear. One sentry. Head under his hood, whistle in his teeth. We can take him silent.”

“Red Three?”

“West ridge—two shadows, no bows up. Fire’s low. They’re not expecting choir practice.”

Danny grinned at Ellie through the wet. The mask made it look like all teeth. “Payback time,” he said, and lifted his hand.

“Recon,” Ellie snapped, because she needed the word in the air. It was an umbrella she knew would rip.

“Recon until it isn’t,” Danny said, and chopped his hand down.

They broke the tree line at a run.

Mud took them to their ankles in three strides. The palisade loomed, and then the first section of slats flared: someone had already pried a gate’s worth of planks loose and left the gap stuffed with a trash can and a prayer. Danny shouldered it aside, planted, heaved—the can flipped, rattled out a rain of nails—and they were through, masks and breath and wet rope and boots.

A whistle, one pure bird note, cut the night and shattered. Someone shouted something that was either a name or a prayer. Lanterns jerked vertical. Doors blew open. The world went bright and loud and too small.

Ellie took the opening on the right because the left held fire: two of their own already had a torch each in hand, fire hissing under rain as they pressed the heads into the seam of the nearest longhouse. The pitch took slow, then fast. Smoke shouldered out. A woman inside screamed a single word over and over, voice breaking on the same syllable until it wasn’t speech anymore.

“Don’t—!” Ellie started, but gunfire spattered the palisade from the outside and the world reduced itself to the tunnel in front of her. A man by the barn door jerked up from a crouch, hand closing on a bow. She saw his eyes, saw that he saw hers, saw the way his fingers reached the string because muscles remember what they’re for when brains can’t. She fired once, center chest. He folded like a bad hinge and slammed the jamb on the way down.

“Williams!” someone barked and Ellie pivoted, instinct dragging her toward the sound. War collapsed into fragments—mud, a chicken exploding out from under a pallet, rain hammering a metal roof like it wanted to get at the people beneath. Ellie caught movement hard left: three of theirs had a Scar on the ground, boots rising and falling, the dull bag-thump of meat taking kick after kick. The man’s hands were up, palms empty; his face was a smear of mud and blood; one of his teeth lay white and obscene on the ground like a button. A woman in WLF gray swung the stock of her rifle into the face of an old man trying to lift himself to his knees; he toppled like a chair. 

“HELP SOMEONE PLEASE! HELP!” A female voice rang out in desperate cry no a plea for help.  Ellie head snapped to see it.

A younger Wolf jerked a teenage girl by her hair; the girl’s braid had come loose and stuck to her cheek; she clawed at his wrist and didn’t get purchase. She was saying please not like a word but like a rhythm, the way you say breathe when you’re drowning.

Ellie didn’t remember moving. One moment she was firing past a stack of firewood and the next she was in the mud with her shoulder screaming and her hand on the Wolf’s jacket, shoving him off the girl hard enough that he staggered, caught himself, and spun with his fist up.

“What the—?” he barked, grabbing for her vest. “We’re cleaning house!”

“Not like this,” Ellie snapped, knocking his hand down with her forearm because her right shoulder couldn’t sell the punch. The girl crumpled to her knees, arms around her head. “She’s a kid.”

“They’ll be whistling over our bodies tomorrow,” the Wolf shot back, eyes wide with the kind of fury that keeps you warm when nothing else will. “You think they make them wait until they’re grown to cut our boys? Get out of my—”

“I don’t give a fuck! You are not raping her! SHE A GODDAMN KID!” Ellie put herself between him and the girl because her body knew how to do that even when it didn’t know how to metabolize rain. She held his stare until he saw the steadiness and then—finally—saw the sling. Something in him twitched and ratcheted down half an inch. “Go find someone who’s aiming at you,” Ellie said, and then softer, because she needed him to feel it as instruction not shame: “Go.”

He swore, shoved past, and she let him. He went for the fire because the fire was a direction. Ellie turned her face to the girl. “Go,” she said, mud in her teeth. “Out, out—” She pointed at the gap where the trash can had been. “Run.”

The girl ran. She did not look back.

A woman burst from the barn then—hair loose, baby tight under her jacket, another little girl clamped to her free hand. The girl had ribbons plaited in her hair, soaked and stuck. The woman’s eyes cut to Ellie’s mask and slid off—wolf, not wolf, the rain made everyone black. She bolted for the far gate where the fence had a little door; a Wolf shouted “Runners!” and a knot peeled off to chase.

“Don’t let them escape!” Danny yelled, breathless and thrilled and ugly with it. “Get them!”

“Leave them!” Ellie shouted, too late, throat raw. She ran after because of course she did; her shoulder felt like it had a small fire living in it, but her legs still remembered the ground when it was trying to throw you.

They burst past the barn into the settlement’s back path—two gardens trampled to hell, a line where laundry had become a snare. The woman threw her shoulder into the little door; it stuck; she kicked; it opened; she squeezed through and dragged the girl with her, the baby caught against her ribs like a heart trying to climb out. Three Wolves scrambled after. Ellie ate the first with a shove and a swear. “Not them,” she hissed. 

“Danny!” she shouted, seeing his shoulders and the smooth coil of motion that meant a man was going to move like he’d decided it ended here. “Danny, don’t—”

He glanced back with that same grin—a flash of dog in a fight it thinks it picked. Rain made his mask a slick, dark mouth. “They ran first.”

Ellie wanted to mouth we did. She took a fence post corner too hard, skidded, recovered, swore. The woman cut down an alley that was more prayer than street, the boards on one side blistered by old heat, the other side a pile of tarps strapped into a wall. At the end, the alley collapsed into a drain trench choked with blackberry, wire and thorn crosshatched into a noose. The woman checked left, right, found nothing but wood and dark, and spun, back to the bramble, baby cooing in a panic that had no words.

“She guides us, she protects us.” The mother pleaded.

Danny and three others fanned to a stop, guns up, rain line marching off their barrels. Ellie shouldered into the space before her mouth could decide not to, planted herself between the wolves and the woman. The world narrowed to breath and the slam of rain so loud it felt like a chorus.

“Move,” Danny said, not smiling now.

“No,” Ellie said.

“Out of the way, Williams.” One of the others gate kid, mask askew, eyes too shiny—snapped his rifle to the ready point. He was breathing like he’d run too far when he hadn’t, and it made his muzzle shiver. “Orders.”

“We don’t shoot mothers with babies,” Ellie said. “We don’t shoot kids. That’s not orders; that’s the only thing that keeps us a human thing at all.”

“They are fucked up people,” the kid said. “They cut rope with toddlers watching.”

Ellie’s hand went up, palm broad, nothing in it. She kept the gun angled down. “You point that at them and I point mine at you.”

“You fucking wouldn’t,” Danny warned, voice low.

“Don’t test me motherfucker. Call it off,” Ellie said. Rain ran off the brim of her cap under the mask, into her eyes; she blinked it back and didn’t move. “Call it what it was supposed to be. Recon. Scouts. We kill the ones trying to kill us. We’re better than them!”

“How long have you been in this war?” the other man hissed. “Two months? Five? They tied you up, Ellie. They left you for air. You want to leave them for mercy?”

Ellie’s stomach tightened hard enough to trip the old pain. She breathed until it passed. “I want to leave them alive,” she said. “They didn’t do it!”

Behind her, the woman said something in a rough, toneless voice—maybe a prayer, maybe a bargain.  Ellie didn’t look back because her eyes lived forward now. She had the gun in both hands without thinking of it, one-handed hurt forgotten until it returned later to collect interest.

Jordan slid into the alley’s mouth like shadow finding itself. He took the scene in with one flick, heels digging for grip. “What the hell are we doing,” he said, not an expletive so much as a diagnosis. He began to walk to Ellie's side when one of them stood in front of him.

“Closing a ledger,” Danny said.

“No no no what the fuck is this,” Jordan said. His chest heaved; rain had flattened his hair under the cap. He didn’t raise his gun. “Let them go.”

“They’ll whistle for twenty more,” the gate kid said, voice going high.

“Then we leave before the choir warms up,” Jordan snapped. He looked at Ellie once like he was pinning something against the wall. “You good to stand?”

“No,” Ellie said. “Standing anyway.”

Ellie shifted a half-step, opening the lane she’d been blocking, and the woman took it baby tight to her chest, the little girl a shadow at her hip slipping through rain and thorn until the dark swallowed them whole

Danny held Ellie’s stare one beat longer than the smart play, then jerked his chin and peeled away with the others. As they slid toward the trees, he leaned in close enough for her to feel the heat under his soaked mask. “You pull that stunt again,” he said, voice flat, “I won’t hesitate.”

Ellie didn’t blink. “If it comes to that,” she said, “you’ll already be on the ground.”

They broke the treeline and the park fell away to a rise that faced the city. For a breath the rain thinned, and Seattle showed its night wounds—low clouds bruised orange, smoke smearing the skyline, a scatter of fires painting the undersides of the storm like bad stars. Ellie stood in it, mud to her ankles, shoulder burning, and watched the distance burn back. Then she turned with the rest and walked, the masks coming off one by one as the dark closed in behind them.

Chapter Text

They came back in dripping and loud, and the school swallowed the noise like a guilty secret. Rain came off helmets and vests in steady taps, pooling under the “WASH YOUR HANDS!” poster. Someone killed the overheads and the generator lights took over flat, buzzing, merciless. On a cafeteria table Mike had cleared for maps, a pile of black cloth sat like a bad idea made visible. Masks. The room smelled like wet wool and burnt sugar from a lantern someone had shattered and the metallic breath of guns that had spoken and were done.

Ellie didn’t take her vest off. The weight pinned her anger to her ribs. Mud flaked off her knees when she moved. Her shoulder had found that thin, bright note of pain it used when it wanted to be the whole story. She wasn’t giving it the paragraph.

“Who authorized this?” Mike didn’t pitch it as a question. It came out flat, like a nail laid on the table. His jaw was clenched so high she could see the muscle at the hinge vibrate.

Danny’s grin was gone; his face had settled into something worse, something that looked like righteousness with the edges filed. “We had eyes,” he said. “Command told us to wait. We moved before anything could be done.”

“Undercover?” Mike tapped the masks with two fingers and then wiped those fingers like the cloth could stain his skin. “In my AO. On my watch. While my back was turned.”

“We were shadows,” Danny shot back. “No one saw us…Well Ellie let one go.”

“I don’t care what she did, what you did could cause another war! We wear the name so we answer for what we do in it.” Mike stabbed a thumb toward the pile. “Take them off my table.”

Ellie felt the words in her molars before her mouth used them. “I’m not working with him again.”

“Williams—” Mike warned without looking at her.

“No,” she said, and the word came up raw from someplace that had splinters. “He chased a mother with a baby into a dead end. He smiled about it.”

Danny took a half-step, shoulders up. “She was running to whistle more to our doorstep.”

“She was running,” Ellie snapped. “A mother with a baby! Your a fucking monster!”

“You fucking shit!-”

“Enough!” Mike said, voice up now. It rapped off the tile and came back smaller. “You do not bring vigilante theater into my outpost and then argue case law in my cafeteria.”

“Then own the part where waiting gets our people strung up,” Danny shot back. “Ask her about that.” He flicked his chin at Ellie. It wasn't an accusation. It was a weaponized truth.

Ellie’s breath went thin. The rope was a taste again bark and black. “I know what it feels like,” she said. “That’s why I won’t watch us make new versions of it under different fucking name!”

“You think you’re better than the war?” Danny said, a small, humorless laugh under it. “You’re not.”

“I’m better than you.” The tremor rode her words and refused to be hidden. “I won’t stand in your stack again.”

“Ha coming from you. You ain’t shit.” Danny answered.

“How about I end that smirk off your face dumb bitch.” Ellie threaten her hand reached for her pocket.

Across the room, Leah flinched like a punch she’d been bracing for finally landed. She had the north door in one hand, the other wrapped tight in paracord, knuckles white. “Outside,” she said to Ellie, voice like a blade held flat. “Now.”

Ellie held Mike’s gaze one second longer enough to get the warning out without words and then let Leah hook two fingers in the strap at her shoulder and pull. Mike didn’t stop them. He turned to Danny, jaw a hinge. “You, next truck. Back to the stadium. I’ll write the report so you don’t have to lie to your own face. Turn those masks in, or I’ll have you turn pockets out in front of Isaac.”

Danny’s mouth opened, closed. He looked past Mike to Jordan, who was a shadow near the kitchen pass-through, cap in his hand, eyes blown wide with the kind of silence that hurt to hold. Danny didn’t find anything in that look he could use. He scooped the masks handfuls of damp black and shouldered past the table instead of answering.

The hallway was colder. Rain did its steady drum on the roof, and the motion light at the corner flickered like it wanted to quit this job and go to bed. Leah kept walking until the kitchen smell burnt coffee, steel, gave way to old crayons and mop water. She let go of Ellie’s strap like she’d realized her own fingers could break.

“I can’t have you killing each other,” Leah said—soft voice, steel under it.

“He’s a dick who lit this whole fuse! And if I get burned for his stunt, I swear to God I’m gonna—”

“That won’t happen.” Leah lifted a hand, palm down. “Breathe. Please. I can’t have you spinning out.”

“‘Pissed’ is cute,” Ellie barked a laugh that had no humor in it. “I’m past pissed—I’m furious.”

“I know.”

“Danny thinks slaughter fixes everything. I can’t believe I followed that jackass.”

“I know.”

“And aiming a gun at a mom with a baby…Yeah, they’re a messed-up cult, but we still need lines, right? We have to be better than them.”

“I know.”

“Why are you so—” Ellie stopped. Leah had crossed to a desk and sat, smoothing her hair back with a hand that trembled once and then held. Her eyes shone, not from tears she’d let fall, but from the effort of not letting them. The calm was a lid.

Ellie’s anger hit a curb. She moved in slowly, pulled the chair beside Leah, and sat. “Hey.” She reached over, a careful pat to Leah’s shoulder that turned into a steady press. “I… I’m sorry. I came in swinging and didn’t ask how you are.”

“What did Jordan do.” Not did he, not tell me. What. Leah’s voice was steady in the way a tightrope is—too tight to shake. “At the settlement.”

Ellie’s mouth went dry. The right answer he pulled us out sat behind the wrong picture. Jordan’s face in the alley, rain in his lashes, the kid’s muzzle shaking, the woman’s eyes like coins in dark water. Ellie looked away and the shame came up through her like heat.

Leah heard the breath more than she saw the flinch. She gasped, small and sharp, like something had just let go inside her chest. Her eyes dropped to the dirty checkerboard floor. “Oh,” she said, and there was so much in the one syllable accusation, prayer, a whole future she didn’t want to have to reroute.

“No,” Ellie said, too fast. She stepped in without thinking, palm lifted, not touching. “He didn’t—Leah, he didn’t do anything horrible.”

Leah’s jaw worked. The tendons in her neck stood out under the collar. “Say it straight.”

“He pulled the line back,” Ellie said. “He dragged a kid who wanted to be a hero by his vest and told him to leave breathing people breathing. He heard the whistle before we did and counted it right. He… he got us out when we were already too deep.”

Leah’s eyes closed. It was almost worse than tears. “Okay.” The word wobbled, found its footing. “Okay.”

“I’m sorry,” Ellie said, and it was about five different things that wouldn’t fit in one sentence. “I’m sorry I looked away like he was the one. He wasn’t.”

Leah leaned her shoulder into the wall, the concrete taking the weight like that was what walls were for. She nodded, once, a hard, grateful motion that didn’t have room to be pretty. “Thank you.” A beat. Then, quieter: “I asked him not to take you out there tonight. I asked him to keep it dull. He said dull is weak” She made a sound that wasn’t a laugh. “I hate this.”

“Me too.” Ellie let her hand drop. The motion light sputtered again and stayed on this time, throwing their shadows long down the hall. “We burned their houses,” she said, because the pieces didn’t stack right without that. “I shot a man who picked up a bow. I would do that part again. The rest—” She shook her head. “The rest is going to stick.”

Leah stared at the floor tile until her breath evened. “Mike’s going to bury Danny in paperwork and keep him off your squad. Isaac will… draw a new arrow on his map.” She blew out through her nose. “Jordan won’t sleep.”

“Join the club,” Ellie said. She tugged at the edge of the wrap with two fingers until the ache in her shoulder slid from bright to dull. “I told Mike I won’t be in a stack with Danny. That stands. If they put him back on Eastbrook, I’ll take a gate at Chinatown and count rats with Miss Ng.”

Leah huffed, the closest she could get to a smile. “She’d make you work for it.”

“She’d make me earn my rice by being yelled at.”

“Good.” Leah pushed off the wall. “Come on. You need Nora to look at that shoulder before you pretend it’s fine and climb a fence.”

“I’m not climbing anything,” Ellie lied.

Leah’s hand hovered at the small of her back for a breath and then retreated—permission, not shepherding. “Ellie.”

“Yeah?”

Leah’s eyes were clear again, hard in the way tempered glass is—flexible until it isn’t. “Don’t let him make you smaller.”

“Danny?”

“The war,” Leah said. “The boys like him. The idea that this only works if you hollow out the parts you could live with later.” She tilted her head, braid sliding forward over her shoulder. “Hold your line. Even when it sucks. Especially when it sucks.”

Ellie swallowed; her throat clicked. “I tried.”

“I saw,” Leah said.

They started back. The day’s noises filtered through the doors—boots, a kettle, somebody who hadn’t learned how sound carries in a school laughing too big on purpose. In the cafeteria doorway Mike was a dark shape with a hand to his headset, listening hard, saying little. Danny’s boots thudded past down the far hall, fast, stubborn. A truck woke in the lot with that diesel cough that makes you think of winter even in rain.

“Leah,” Ellie said, stopping just short of the light. “If Jordan asks—”

“I’ll tell him what you told me,” Leah said. “And then I’ll tell him to go to sleep.” She added, after a beat, softer and more dangerous: “And I’ll tell him not to let you do this alone.”

Ellie nodded. Words felt clumsy; the room felt too sharp. She looked at her hands. Even scrubbed, they smelled like rain and smoke and something sweet gone wrong.

In the cafeteria, Bear lifted his head from under a bench as if he had heard his name from three rooms away in a language only dogs and grief speak. He thumped his tail once and then twice, and the second time was enough to make the day’s last hard thing ease a fraction. Ellie crouched, the way pain teaches you to crouch, and let him press his skull into her palm. He was warm and present and unbothered by the moral algebra of any of it.

“I’ll be at the gate at eight,” Leah said, already angling toward the radio. “If Mike keeps you in-house, you come find me anyway. We do laps, we count beans, we do anything except sit.”

“Copy,” Ellie said. “Oh…Um thanks for the save earlier. I would have killed that dick.”

“Hey,” Leah added, already halfway gone. “You're welcome.”

The sun came up mean and stayed that way, a white coin pinned to a washed-out sky. Heat pooled in the concrete bowl of the stadium until every breath tasted like rebar and dust. By noon the yard between the loading dock and the field shimmered; pallets baked; the tarps over the supply trucks snapped once in a breeze that died on arrival. The WLF had a dozen words for rain, Ellie decided, and none for this.

She shouldered a box to the lip of the truck and handed it down to Manny. He took it with an exaggerated groan, wobbling his knees like he was playing to a balcony.

“Ay, niña, my back,” he said, grinning through sweat, “this is elder abuse.”

“You’re nineteen," Nora said, without looking up from the manifest. She’d tied her hair up with a strip of gauze; a wet bandanna darkened the back of her neck. “And if you drop that crate, I’m billing you for broken glass and my time.”

“Doctor, I would never,” Manny said, already turning to stack the box on the pallet she’d marked with green chalk. “I treat medical supplies with the respect I do fine tequila.”

“So you’re going to open them when no one’s looking and cry?” Ellie huffed, scooting the next box with her boot until her good shoulder could commit. Her T-shirt stuck to her between the vest and the sling wrap; the cloth was a damp second skin. “Hard labor in the blazing sun. This what you promised when you said community.”

“I promised beans,” Manny said. He tapped the next pallet. “And look—antibiotics, sutures, IV bags—bean-adjacent.”

“Can’t believe I’m saying this,” Nora muttered, initialing a line and squinting at the next, “but I miss the rain. People behave better when everything’s wet.”

“We haven’t had rain in a week,” Ellie said, easing another box to Manny and feeling the ache track up her arm like some small, persistent animal. She’d downgraded the wrap to a brace two days ago; Nora had made a face, then nodded once and taped it so tight Ellie could feel her pulse in her palm. “Seattle’s broken.”

“Don’t say it out loud,” Manny said. “The sky is petty.”

Nick popped out of the truck’s shadow like a man who lived in clipboards and the shade they cast. He had the clipboard in question tucked against his ribs and a pencil behind one ear that he kept forgetting was there. Sweat had dampened his curls to his scalp, and his forearms were streaked with dust like war paint.

“Okay,” he announced, voice a little too loud to make up for the generator’s hum. “We got eight cases of saline, six boxes of gauze, four—no, five—spine boards, a crate of syringes, two boxes of suture kits, and someone mislabeled this one, which—” he rapped the lid with his knuckles— “is not ‘seasonal decorations’ unless Halloween at your house is scalpels.”

“Don’t kink-shame,” Nora said, dry. She took the board so he could scratch down figures that would later become an argument about allocation. “Anything on the second truck?”

“Second truck’s pretending to be a sauna,” Nick said. “We’ll crack it when I stop seeing double.”

“Hydrate,” Nora ordered, pointing him toward a five-gallon jug sweating onto a milk crate. “If you pass out, I’m writing ‘stupid’ in your chart.”

Nick saluted, then drank like he was trying to impress someone. Water ran down his chin and left a dark comet on his shirt.

Ellie went back to the rhythm—box, handoff, step. The work was stupid in the way she likes: no right answers, just the right angle, the right distribution of weight. Manny, as advertised, made everything louder—complaints with a wink, a running commentary on who was bad at stacking. When she muttered, “Left, left,” at one point, he made a big show of rotating the entire pallet the wrong way and then looking scandalized when she laughed against her will.

They were almost done—last crate squared on the green-chalk stack, Nora signing with a flourish and smacking the board against the side of the truck to knock dust off—when a voice tore across the yard with no shape to it but urgency.

“Mike! Mike!” A guard in a faded WLF tee vaulted the low rail by the cafeteria doors and landed hard enough to jar his knees. His eyes were too wide for the sun; his mouth barely found the words. “Command! From the school—news—big news!”

Manny’s head snapped up. Nick set the cup down without looking, missed the crate, and let it fall. Nora’s pencil went still in the margin of the form—halfway through a capital N.

“What is it?” Manny called. “Somebody finally fixed the squeaky door?”

The guard didn’t answer him. He was already running toward the inner steps that led up to the field, where a dozen off-duty bodies were sprawled under the bleachers, chasing shade. The word “news” worked like a summons. People stood without knowing why. The sound of boots on concrete braided with the generator’s drone and the insect-saw of summer.

Ellie glanced at Nora. Nora lifted one shoulder—go—and tucked the board under her arm like a shield as they fell in behind the guard. Manny jogged at Ellie’s side, not bothering to hide that he was scanning the faces already turned toward the field—looking for Mike, for Leah, for Jordan, for trouble.

They crested the tunnel and came up into the bowl of the stadium proper. Heat hit harder here, unfettered by walls. The garden rows shimmered; the scare tape hissed. On the fifty, a cluster had formed around a battered wooden crate someone had repurposed as a plinth. Mike stood on it like he despised the extra height but would use it to be heard. The crowd made a ring—a loose, bright line of faces squinting into sun.

“Make room,” Mike called, not shouting so much as pushing the sound across the space with his chest. He looked older today, or maybe just more like the person the job kept sanding him into. His cap’s brim was white with salt. “Listen up.”

The guard who’d run up panting pointed at Mike like he was handing off a relay baton. Mike nodded once, jaw set, headset cord tucked under his collar so it wouldn’t catch on a self-fulfilling prophecy.

“God everyone shut up!...Per Command,” he said, and heads leaned without meaning to. Any sentence that started that way mattered. “Message relayed directly from Isaac, timestamped last night—zero-one-thirty-two.” He paused not milking it, but measuring the room. “The operation was successful.”

A beat. The words shivered through the ring of bodies like heat off asphalt.

“The Seraphite leader—their Herald,” Mike continued, picking the name that wouldn’t light the fuse fastest, “is in custody. Secure. Alive.” He didn’t look triumphant. He looked like a man reading weather. “Secured by a joint corridor team in the south parish. En route to a controlled site.”

For half a second no one moved. Then sound hit like a wave on concrete: cheers, whoops, the hollow sound of palms on helmet brims. Someone tossed a cap up and missed catching it; it smacked the grass and lay there grinning. A kid who’d been on hose duty near the tomatoes whooped without knowing what he was whooping for. “War’s over before it started!” a man near the front yelled, and three others echoed him, louder each time: “Over!” “Over!” “Over!”

Manny clapped once, twice, then let his hands fall when he saw Ellie’s face.

Nora’s mouth had flattened. “Alive,” she repeated under her breath, not to anyone, testing the shape of the word against the heat. “Huh.”

“What’s that mean, ‘controlled site’?” Nick said, already penless, already wanting a line on a map. “FOB? Stadium? You can’t keep a ‘Herald’ in a closet under the bleachers.”

“It means not here,” Mike said before anyone could start volunteering ideas. He raised a palm and the crowd stuttered toward quiet. “Orders from Command are as follows: continue routine patrols, double coverage at known crossings Federal Way, Capitol Hill, Hillcrest and Fremont cut no extracurriculars.” That last word had an edge to it. “We button the places that leak, we let this play out over the next twenty-four. No victory laps. No vigilante shit. If you don’t know what that means, ask me after and I’ll define it in small words.”

There were a few snorts some embarrassed; some aggressive. “War’s over,” the man near the front said again, softer now, like he was trying to convince the heat it had ceased to be hot.

“War is never over because a person sat down,” Mike said. “But this matters. We’ve been breaking our knuckles on a wall. Maybe we found a door. Now we wait to see if it opens or if it falls on us. Either way, I want all ten fingers when I try the handle.”

It wasn’t a cheer line, but it held. The noise ebbed to chatter—clusters reforming, faces flushing, a thousand new rumors birthing in the heat. Somewhere under the bleachers a ragged chorus began what wanted to be a song and couldn’t decide which one. Someone said “Isaac got him” in three proud variants; someone else said “alive” like a promise they hadn’t decided whether to keep.

Manny hooked a thumb in Ellie’s sling and steered her out of the crush before someone jostled the shoulder Nora had sworn revenge on. “You good?”

She found a patch of shade cast by a scoreboard that no longer knew what it was supposed to count and leaned into it. The crowd’s buzz pressed and receded like a sea she didn’t trust. “I don’t know.”

“It’s good, mija,” Manny said. He had to believe that; it was how he kept moving. “They stop whistling. We stop bleeding. We plant more beans.”

“It could be,” she said. The word could did a lot of work and didn’t sweat doing it. “Depends what ‘secured’ looks like.”

Manny made a face that wanted to be a shrug and didn’t quite land. “Isaac likes his knots tight.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Ellie watched a boy on the field kick a soccer ball that had split over winter and been stitched back into service, his footsteps raising little ghosts off the grass. “You cut one head off a story like theirs, you write a better one by accident.”

“You telling me stories have heads now?” Manny said, mock horror. “Ay, I need more coffee.”

Nora appeared at Ellie’s elbow like a shade summoned by the word “knots.” “Medical is about to become a circus,” she said, not bothering with preamble. “Hydration tent, heat exhaustion, and in an hour we’ll have people fainting just to be near the gossip. If anyone asks me for a peek at the prisoner, I’m issuing them salt tabs and a slap.”

“Is he here?” Manny asked.

Nora cut him a look. “If he were, do you think Mike would be making announcements on a crate in a tomato patch?”

“Maybe Isaac loves drama,” Manny said. “Maybe he’s going to parade him around the fifty like a trophy.”

“Then he can carry him himself,” Nora said, already half-turned to go bark at someone who hadn’t drunk water since dawn. She hesitated. “Ellie. You look like you’re about to run. Don’t.”

Ellie tightened her hand on the sling strap until her fingers went white. “Where would I go?”

Nora’s eyes cut toward the west tunnel, then to the dark shadow of the hallway Ellie had walked too many times thinking she was going one way and ended up going another. “Anywhere you can’t undo. Drink this instead.” She handed over a canteen like a sentence.

Ellie drank. The water was warm and metallic and perfect. The crowd eddied; the announcement had unfurled into a thousand versions of itself, some already editing the facts, some polishing hope. A handful of voices started up a chant that used Isaac’s name as punctuation; it didn’t catch.

Across the field, Bear loped from the garden rows and pushed his nose into Ellie’s knee like he’d known where to find her all along. She scratched the velvet between his ears until his eyes went to half-mast. “You think wars end, or do they just…change shape?” she asked him. Bear breathed out with the gravitas of a saint and then licked a smear of dust off her shin.

Nick drifted back with a breathless summary of three different takes he’d heard in thirty seconds. “One guy says the Herald tried to swallow a cyanide pill and Isaac slapped it out of his mouth. One says he turned himself in. One says this is my favorite, he’s not the Herald at all, he’s a decoy made of wax.”

“God,” Nora said. “Get me the wax surgeon.”

Leah and Jordan came up from the opposite direction together, which was unusual enough to make Ellie’s ribs tighten. Leah’s braid had fuzzed out in the heat; she’d shoved it under a cap and looked like she regretted every strand. Jordan’s cap was low; he’d shaved the stubble on his jaw to sandpaper and nicked himself twice. They stopped a polite distance away and didn’t say anything for a breath that was all information.

“You hear?” Manny asked, because he had to be the one to break the surface.

“We heard,” Leah said. She had school voice on, the one she used to make rooms behave. “We also heard three fights on the bleachers and one idiot trying to climb the announcer’s booth to ‘get a better view of the future.’”

“Tell me you pushed him off,” Manny said, hopeful.

“I made him climb down,” Leah said. “Then made him climb up again with a bucket of water and pour it on his head.”

“You’re a saint,” Manny said. “Bear, tell her she’s a saint.”

Bear sneezed in Leah’s general direction and then leaned all his weight against Ellie’s shin again, pressing her into the present.

Jordan’s eyes found Ellie’s and asked a question he didn’t want to articulate: Are we about to bleed for this?

“I don’t know,” she said, and he understood anyway.

Mike stepped off the crate, humility in the way he rejoined the ground—as if gravity were a favor he hadn’t earned today. He made a slow circle with his hand in the air and the crowd began the messy work of dispersing. 

Mike found her in the shade of the scoreboard, one hand absently in Bear’s fur, the other on the strap of her sling. He didn’t climb onto a crate this time. He stood close enough that his voice didn’t have to leave the two of them.

“Walk with me,” he said.

They took the service tunnel along the stands, concrete cool on one side, warm on the other where the sun had baked through. Pipes knocked somewhere in the wall like a heartbeat you couldn’t sync to.

“Per Isaac,” Mike said at last, the words clipped. “Special detail. Select small unit. High-priority guard rotation.”

Ellie gave him the side-eye. “You want my poker face or my honest one?”

“I want your yes,” he said. “And your quiet.”

They stopped where the tunnel hooked left to the motor pool. No one else was within earshot; the generator hum filled the rest. He kept his eyes on the scuffed floor, as if he were reading orders off the concrete.

“Prisoner’s being staged at Chinatown,” Mike said. “Not long-term, but long enough to make the next decision. Isaac wants the site cleared of gossip and staffed by people who can follow a line without asking it to please explain itself.”

“Chinatown,” Ellie repeated, feeling the word settle next to other words—gate, lanterns, Miss Ng—and shift their weight. “That’s a checkpoint, not a prison?”

“It’s both today.” Mike’s mouth made something like a frown but tighter. “We use what has locks and corners. You report to the motor pool in ten. Humvee will drop you at the back lane.”

“What about Manny?” Ellie asked, because that was where the headaches were or weren’t.

“Falsified,” Mike said dryly. “He thinks you’re doing swing at the north hydro pumps and then you’re on kitchen fire watch because Manny’s father asked for a body with opposable thumbs.”

Ellie snorted. “He’ll bring me soup to the pumps anyway.”

“He will,” Mike said. “And he won’t find you. And you won’t tell him why.” He turned, finally, met her eyes. “Rules of engagement: no contact with the asset unless ordered. No smoking under the vent stack, apparently that is a thing we must write down. No freelancing. If this goes smooth, you’ll be bored. If this goes wrong, you call me before you form a second thought.”

“Copy,” Ellie said. The word tried to be bigger than a syllable. “Who else?”

“You’ll meet them on the ride,” Mike said, which was an answer and a warning. “New faces. Clean ears.” He hesitated. “You sure? I know Iassac sees a lot in you but…You're still a teenager.”

“No,” she said, honest. “But I’ll do it.”

“Good.” He squeezed her shoulder above the brace quick, careful and peeled off toward the clipboards.

The motor pool was a metal echo chamber of shouted jokes and wrenches knocking time. Two Humvees idled in a row, heat shimmering off their hoods. Manny intercepted her three strides in, like a dog who’d learned a person’s path.

“Ah-ha, look who is not filling water jugs,” he sang, falling into step. “You, me, Nick—we go to the north pumps, we heroically fight algae, we return soaked and sexy.”

“Hard pass,” Ellie said.

“Mike said you’re kitchen fire watch after,” Manny continued, undeterred. “Which is code for ‘eat beans and tell my father his salsa is perfect.’ I will trade you pump duty for beans. I am not proud.”

“Ellie’s busy,” Mike said, appearing behind Manny like a patron saint of inconvenient truths. His tone was mild; his eyes were not. “Manny, take Nick to the pumps and keep him from dropping his pencil in the reservoir.”

“My pencil!” Nick yelped from a tool chest, indignant. “I have three.”

“Take all three,” Mike said. “Lose none.”

Manny grimaced at Mike’s retreating back, then pivoted back to Ellie with a grin that was half-hope, half-meddling. He offered his fist; she bumped it, the old ritual still working.

“I’ll watch the lovebirds,” he said under his breath, tipping his chin toward where Leah and Jordan were arguing with a hose reel like it had slighted their family. “Make sure they don’t peck each other to death.”

Jordan’s head snapped around like he’d heard an insult in a language he didn’t speak. “I can hear you,” he called.

“You were meant to,” Manny said, delighted.

Ellie couldn’t help the laugh. It slipped out sharp and unexpectedly, cut the tension at the edges. Jordan rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth admitted to finding something funny in this hell.

“Stay,” Manny told Ellie, mock stern. “Be safe. If you get posted under the hot dog stand again, I’ll smuggle you a torta.”

“Go save the pumps,” she said. “Tell Miss Ng the rats are unionized.”

“Ay,” Manny breathed, thrilled. “Finally, a worthy adversary.”

He trotted off, shoulder-checking Jordan on purpose. Jordan swatted him with the hose tail and said something Leah didn’t let Ellie hear. For a heartbeat, the stadium was a place where jokes held.

Then the door of the old SWAT truck banged open and a new voice barked names that weren’t hers yet. Ellie adjusted the sling, squared her jaw, and climbed in.

The interior of the truck had been designed by someone who thought discomfort was a security feature. Steel benches ran along both sides, webbing straps above for hands, mesh at the back of the cab so you could see the driver’s silhouette and know he wasn’t going to tell you any secrets. It smelled like oil and old adrenaline.

Four other bodies already occupied the benches none of them familiar in the way Manny or Leah or Hanratty were. A tall woman in a clean, unpatched vest nodded once without smiling; her nametape had been scrubbed and re-inked enough times it just read RO—something. A compact man with a buzzcut and a scar that pulled the corner of his mouth down clicked a magazine into a sidearm with the sort of care that suggested he liked things exactly the way they were. A medic sat with a canvas bag between his boots, tapping three fingers on his knee in a rhythm that said he didn’t trust the world to keep a beat if he didn’t make one. Last was a kid with close-cropped hair and eyes that couldn’t decide whether to be brave or sick.

“Williams,” the tall woman said, clocking the sling with her glance. Her voice had leadership in it, the kind that didn’t need to raise itself. “Lieutenant Roe. You’re on inner corridor, pair two. You watch the door; Sergeant Pike watches you.”

Buzzcut gave a stiff half-salute that managed to be both courteous and territorial. “Pike,” he confirmed. “Don’t lean on the wall.”

“Ellie,” she returned. “Don’t tell me how to lean.”

“Copy,” he said, and the corner of his mouth twitched down in what, for him, might be humor.

The medic stuck out two fingers in an abbreviated handshake. “Kline,” he said. “If you drop, drop toward me.”

“Helpful,” Ellie said. The kid swallowed visibly.

The truck jolted into motion before any of them could decide whether to make small talk. The mesh rattled like rain that didn’t know where to land. Ellie took the strap above and let the movement knock her shoulder until it found a groove. Chinatown was a way the route doubled back twice and took an alley she hadn’t known you could take without losing a muffler. The driver was careful without being slow. No one spoke.

She let the city run past in slices through the back slots, murals flayed by weather, a stop sign with the P bent into a B, a string of prayer knots at a light that didn’t work anymore.  They came in the back way, up a service lane Ellie had only ever noticed as a joke of weeds pushing through cracked asphalt and a dumpster that had fused with its own shadow. The iron gate of the checkpoint stood just visible two buildings over, sandbags dark in the sun. The back door they wanted was a dull green rectangle with a handle that had been replaced by a length of chain. Roe hopped down first, took the chain, and knocked twice, pause, once. The door opened a hand’s width, then wider, then they went from light into brick.

Chinatown post: a quick left where a half-collapsed billboard made its own weather, then a slow right past an herbalist whose windows still wore faded boxes drawn on butcher paper for imaginary sales. The arch rose ahead red scabbed to primer, gold dulled to brass—and the lanterns on their dead cords. The iron gate had been rebuilt twice; the new track had a squeal you learned to treat like a voice. 

Inside the checkpoint the world narrowed the way it always did to angles you could hold and the space between two breaths 

Ellie’s corner had taught her the room’s sounds by heart in under an hour: the lamplight’s faint buzz, the soft scrape of Tablet’s pen against whatever passed for a logbook, the sigh of the vents that didn’t move enough air to matter. Every three minutes a truck rattled past up on the street and the iron gate answered with its single disapproving squeal. In the cell, the man sat and breathed and didn’t look at anyone long enough to be seen.

On the second hour’s downslope, boots came quick and tidy down the stair. Two sets. No chatter. The inner door thunked, bolts drawn, and swung.

They brought a woman between them.

Her hands were bound in front, not behind cloth over cord, the knot set high so her wrists wouldn’t bleed. She didn’t fight the momentum of their grip or try to take the doorframe with a shoulder the way some bodies do just to feel like the world has edges. She ducked under the lintel and straightened in the room like someone familiar with low ceilings. Dark hair streaked with gray was pulled back in a knot that knew it had been prettier once. Her face was plain, and then not: two thin scars rode the apple of each cheekbone, old and clean and deliberate, as if someone had once traced lines there to explain a map only she could read. Brown eyes. Brown skin gone sallow under days of other people’s sleep. Simple clothes brown leather pants, a white shirt that had once fit and now hung off a week of not eating like it had been handed down through three lives.

Nothing about her looked like the word “leader” the yard had cheered. Nothing about her looked like “herald” or “terror” or “final boss.” She looked like a person who would carry water and talk you into believing that meant something important.

The man in the first cell leaned his head minutely against the wall to see her. He didn’t call out. His hand flexed once and stilled.

“Asset two,” Tablet said, voice neutral, the pen’s point hovering to be precise. “Arrival two-one-forty-six. Transport via Bravo corridor. No incident.”

The guard on Ellie’s right—broad, bristled—kept his voice low. “Door?”

“Door,” Tablet said, without looking up. “Slot one. Remove bindings inside. Step clear.”

They put her in the second cage—the twin of the first welded box, opposite the man, a mirror inside a mirror. The key scraped. The hinge made that quick, embarrassed squeal Ellie had learned meant do not oil me, I’m a noise that tells you you’re not alone. The woman’s wrist rope came off through the slot with the efficiency of a practice you hate. Her hands came away raw and careful, fingers curling like they weren’t sure they had permission to be hands again.

She touched the inside of each wrist with the other hand’s thumb. Not rubbing the marks away. Naming them. Then she looked up, not at the guards never quite at the guards but at the room in its parts: the light, the bucket, the little ledge with the cup.

Her gaze found Ellie last. It landed and didn’t press. A pause, a blink, a small acknowledgment. Something like I see a person and a uniform and the fight between them, or maybe that was just Ellie wanting the glance to have content.

“Water,” the woman said. Her voice was quiet and dry, the kind of voice that had done a lot of talking to people who weren’t sure they wanted to listen. Not pleading. Not commanding. Naming a need in the way you’re taught to in triage.

“Log it,” Tablet said.

“Asset requested water,” the bearded guard muttered as he stepped to the slot. He slid the cup through on a small tray and let go fast, the way you do with dogs you don’t know yet. The woman waited for his hands to clear, then took it in both palms and drank like someone who knew how to make a mouthful last. Two swallows. A breath. One more. She set the cup back on the ledge with the sort of care people reserve for things they intend to need later.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Noted,” Tablet said, pen twitching.

The woman’s eyes did another slow circuit. That was when Ellie saw the rest the small things your brain files too fast and your body has to play back to catch. The way the woman’s right shoulder sat a fraction lower than her left, as if it had once been asked to keep a weight no body should. The way the seams at the knees of her pants had been mended with linen thread, not plastic, the stitches neat and uneven the way handwork always is. The way her bare feet found the concrete and placed themselves without flinching from the cold.

Leader, Ellie thought, and then the word dissolved on her tongue. Leader made you imagine swords and slogans, a figure on a hill with wind behind her. This was a woman who would hand you a knife and call it a tool and then make you feel like you’d invented courage when you used it.

“Asset two is secure,” Tablet said to the room at large and to whatever ears lived behind the glass. “Ring rotation in twenty.”

That should have been the end of it. But the woman had decided to spend a sentence and the room had to catch it.

She looked at Ellie again and tilted her head a fraction, not the way a cultist sizes up a threat, but the way a teacher looks at a child who’s arguing with a problem and wants her to keep arguing. “Your shoulder hurts,” she said, almost conversational. “You keep your weight off it.”

“Do not engage,” Tablet said, pen stopping.

Ellie didn’t answer. Rules were good because they kept you from falling through openings you hadn’t seen yet. She let her face stay flat and her hands be where they were supposed to be: one on the vest seam, one near the radio, the fingers of her right hand feeling the tacky edge of tape under the sleeve where Nora had taught her how to make the joint behave.

The woman lowered her voice, more for herself than anyone. “It is good to keep what is injured close.”

“Asset two is speaking,” the bearded guard murmured, already bored of being precise.

The man in the other cell shifted, just enough to prove he’d learned how to be a witness when nothing else was left to do. He looked at the woman and then at the floor, as if embarrassed by the fact of coincidence.

“What do we call her,” the guard opposite Ellie muttered under his breath, careful enough it might not count as engaging. “Herald? Prophet? Isaac’ll have a name he likes.”

“We don’t call her anything,” Tablet said softly, and something in the word we made Ellie glance at him. He was younger than his rough cheeks made him seem; the pen had left a groove in the callus on his middle finger. “We note what is true: she is here.”

The woman stepped back from the bars as if giving the room room. She rested her fingertips against the wall at shoulder height, palm flat, the way you touch old trees without meaning to be superstitious. Her left hand drifted up to her cheeks and traced the scars once, fingertip to line, as if reminding herself that her face belonged to her. Then she sat. Not with theatrical serenity. With the tiny, ordinary dignity of a person saving her knees.

She didn’t pray. Or if she did, it was a kind that didn’t need sound. She wore the silence like a shirt.

Ellie kept her eyes where the bars were. She didn’t offer her name. She didn’t take one. She stood the hinge and tried not to feel the old rope at her throat when the air went thin.

A courier ghosted in to drop off a tray with four dull tin bowls of something that had tried to be stew and salt and a second cup. Tablet handed them out through the slot with the same efficient distance he’d shown the bindings. The woman murmured thanks again; the man didn’t speak; Ellie didn’t shift her feet.

When the tray cleared, the guard at the door looked across to Ellie and raised his eyebrows a hair. Not what you pictured? the face said, because words would have been an offense. Ellie almost shrugged. Almost shook her head. Let both urges die under the weight of the vest.

Rain finally found its nerve by late afternoon, tapping out a steady shrug on the iron bones of the checkpoint. The lamplight hummed. The air in the holding room cooled enough that Ellie could feel the sweat dry under her collar and leave a salt itch she didn’t have a free hand to scratch.

Ellie stood her mark until her knees felt too aware of concrete, then slid down the wall into a sit the way Mike had taught: one shoulder guarding the vest buckles, boots planted, sling positioned so the brace didn’t bite a nerve. She pulled a beat-up copy of Savage Starlight: Accretion from the pouch inside her vest—pages swell-soft from being read in weather they weren’t made for—and flipped it open to where Dr. Daniela Star had a laser cutter and a fistful of bad ideas.

“You always read the same one,” the woman in the opposite cage said, mild as lukewarm tea.

Ellie let the paper rasp between her fingers. “It’s got a good ending.”

“Does she get home?”

“She makes somewhere else count.” Ellie kept her eyes on the panels. Daniela was halfway through talking a door into being. “And blows a hole out the back when ‘count’ stops being enough.”

“You like doors,” the woman said.

“I like exits.” Ellie turned a page. “You thirsty? Or you already asked the room for water on cue.”

A ghost of a smile passed over the woman’s mouth—surprised at being found out and pleased by it, too. “I’m all right.”

Silence took up its job again. Ellie read two pages and then re-read them because her brain had gone walking without telling her where. In the other cell, the man had turned on his side and arranged his body around the bucket the way you arrange yourself around indignity when you have to. The woman sat with her hands resting palm-up on her knees, which would have looked like prayer if her eyes hadn’t been doing the work of memorizing screws and seams.

“My name is Ester,” she said finally, as if it were a courtesy as much as an introduction. “E-s-t-e-r.”

“No one asked,” Ellie said.

“Names are a way to make rooms less cruel.”

Ellie didn’t look up from the speech balloon where Daniela said something about tensile strength and consequences. “Rooms are rooms. People make them cruel.”

Ester let that sit. “What do your people call me?” she asked after a moment. “When you don’t use ‘asset.’”

Ester let that sit. “What do your people call me?” she asked after a moment. “When you don’t use ‘asset.’”

“Leader,” Ellie said. “Herald, if somebody’s trying to sound like they read a book once.”

“Mm,” Ester said. “We don’t use that word. It makes people look up instead of around.”

“You have a word for blowing up a supply run? Or does that one get filed under ‘the sky asked nice’?” Ellie heard her own voice and didn’t try to sand it down. She closed the comic on her finger, holding her page like a promise to herself. “Four dead on a convoy between Capitol Hill and the ridge. We pulled two bodies out of a ditch with their hands still on the cases. You ‘made rooms less cruel’ there, too?”

Ester didn’t flinch. It annoyed Ellie, and something softer under the irritation that she didn’t want to name. “We lit a road to keep your wheels from rolling over it,” Ester said. “We meant to stop metal, not hearts. Fire doesn’t listen well in wind.” She folded her hands together—thumb to thumb, like a hinge finding itself. “It was sloppy. I said so. After.”

“After,” Ellie repeated, turning the word over like something she might throw. “That helps them a lot.”

“No,” Ester said. “It helps me not lie and call it leadership.”

Ellie snorted. “And this is the part where you say a pretty sentence and I forget the smell.”

“No,” Ester said again, and smiled that same small smile that made Ellie feel seen and bristled against it. “This is the part where I answer your question.”

“You didn’t,” Ellie said. “I asked if your holy book has a chapter called ‘Oops, we killed four.’”

“We don’t have a book,” Ester said. “We have a list.”

“Of sins?”

“Of cautions.” She sat back until her shoulderblades found the wall and stayed there. “Things that nest inside other things. Pride inside building. Anger inside justice. Fear inside care. We try to find the smaller animal and not feed it.”

Ellie flipped the comic open again and let the paper give her an excuse to look down. “You got a line about tech,” she said. “How my ‘old world’ is all sin shaped like switches.”

“I didn’t say sin.” Ester’s tone didn’t change. “I said nests. When we make a tool that lets us forget we’re touching the world with our hands, we forget too much.”

“You’re talking about guns. Engines. Lights. Radios.” Ellie flicked her eyes to the lamp and back to the page. “You’re using a lamp.”

“We use many things we wish we didn’t,” Ester said. “We try to hold where the birds hide.”

Ellie laughed, a short bark that pinched her ribs. “Birds. That what the scars are supposed to be, then? Bird scratches?”

Ester’s fingers went to her cheeks without thinking, tracing the short lines once and then resting. “Marks,” she said. “A promise to be pointed in the same direction.”

“And to whistle creepy in the dark,” Ellie muttered.

Ester’s smile tilted. “Everyone needs a way to talk over far places.”

“You could try words.” Ellie tapped the comic with a forefinger. “Here’s one: hang. Your people hung men from a schoolyard goal post and called it teaching. They almost did it to me. You got a list entry for that?”

Ester didn’t look away. Her gaze wasn’t hard, but it didn’t do the soft lie of pretending it didn’t hurt to look either. “Rope is a bad teacher,” she said softly. “I told them that before the war made everyone’s hands fast and their thoughts slow.”

“‘Them.’” Ellie heard herself mimic the word. “You mean ‘us.’ And don’t tell me you’re not that kind of Scar. Every group has a word for ‘not it’ when something ugly happens in their colors.”

“We call ourselves Seraphites,” Ester said. “Not because we are angels God forbid but because we wanted to remind ourselves to look toward light without pretending we were light.”

“You are a Christian cult, then,” Ellie said, pouncing, because argument sometimes felt like traction. “You’ve got angels and sermons. You say ‘God forbid’ like it’s a taste you like to hold in your mouth.”

“We grew from people who knew church,” Ester allowed. “From their kitchens, not their pulpits. From the way women kept lists on the refrigerator and asked the world to be kinder while the water boiled. We unlearned pews. We kept prayer. We forgot doctrine and remembered hands.” Her shoulders lifted and fell. “We forgot too much. We remembered too hard.”

“That’s your slogan?” Ellie asked. “Be kind, boil water, blow up trucks?”

“I told you we don’t have slogans.” Ester tilted her head. “Do you?”

“‘Survive and fuck you,’” Ellie said. “Not official. Just the one that works.”

Ester laughed then—an actual giggle, quick and embarrassed at itself, her hand lifting to cover her mouth like the sound needed a place to be put away. It was ridiculous and human and it knocked a sliver off the hard thing in Ellie’s chest she’d been guarding all day. She hated noticing that it did.

“You’re not a prophet,” Ellie said, almost sulky at herself. “You don’t look like a warlord. They make you Jesus because it’s easier to aim.”

“People will make anyone into a story if it means they don’t have to change,” Ester said. “My face is only a face. I have a good voice for a room. I remember names. I am old enough to be patient in a crisis. That is all.”

“You’re not that old,” Ellie said before she could stop herself.

The smile came again, warmer at the edges this time. “Thank you.”

Ellie went back to the comic because it was either that or stare at the way the woman’s hands had gone steady once they had something to wrap around that wasn’t rope. Daniela had cut a door and then cut another behind it because the universe had the bad taste to be recursive. In the cell across, the man snored once and startled himself awake like he’d been falling in a dream where there was no floor.

“You hate me,” Ester said after a while, tone observational.

“I don’t know you,” Ellie said. “I hate what you lead.”

“Fair,” Ester said. “Do you like what you guard?”

The panel blurred for a second. Ellie blinked until it stopped. “Today? No.”

“And tomorrow?”

“Depends whether the gate squeals at the right time.”

“Gates are honest,” Ester murmured. “They tell you when they’re working. They tell you when they’ve been asked to work too much.”

“People do, too,” Ellie said. “If you listen before they start whistling.”

Ester’s eyes creased at the corners, not just with age but with the way certain lines cut themselves into a face from the inside out. “You are very young to talk like that.”

Ellie bristled. “You hung me.”

Ester flinched then small, private, real. “I told you: rope is a bad teacher.”

“You bunch of psychos,” Ellie said.

“War and violence bring out worse in humanity" Ester folded her hands again. 

Ester’s gaze drifted to the lamplight, then to the corner where water had made a little tongue of darkness on the wall where concrete always sweats first. “When I was a girl,” she said, and Ellie had the uncomfortable thought that she might have also been a girl once, “my grandmother kept a drawer full of cloth for mending. Anything tore, she made it hold. ‘We are poor,’ she’d say, ‘which means we don’t have to be wasteful.’” A beat. “When the world ended, we called that wisdom. Later we called it cowardice because we wanted new things instead of making the old less broken.”

“You’re really going to do this,” Ellie said. “Tell me long stories and hope I hand you a knife when you’re done.”

“I don’t want a knife,” Ester said. “I want to understand what you call mercy when you’re proud, and what you call it when you’re ashamed.”

Ellie folded Savage Starlight shut and slid it back into her vest, suddenly itching under the skin. “Mercy’s letting a mom with a baby run while your friend points a rifle at her back,” she said, before she could shut up. “Mercy is the most I could pick up that minute without dropping myself.”

Ester’s face softened around the eyes. “Thank you for telling me that.”

“I wasn’t,” Ellie said. “Telling you. I was reminding myself.”

“Then I am glad to be the wall you pin it to,” Ester said.

Ellie made a face that wasn’t quite a scowl. “You’re very… nice for a person who runs a group that tries to shave the skin off everyone who uses a toaster.”

Ester laughed again, the giggle breaking into something rounder and earthier. “We don’t have toasters,” she said. “We do have bread.”

“And cut throats,” Ellie said.

“And lists,” Ester answered. “So many lists.”

“Put ‘don’t shoot kids’ on top,” Ellie said, dry. “Use big letters.”

“It was always there,” Ester said. “Some people read with their mouths and not their hands.”

“That supposed to mean something?”

“It means I would like to see your comic someday,” Ester said. “If we are ever in a room where handing something through bars doesn’t make it smaller.”

Footsteps relieved the solitude rotation clicking over; the woman in the corner straightened like she’d been plugged in again. Another guard took her place with a nod; Tablet’s replacement arrived with a paper roll and a shrug that said the pen ran out. The gate upstairs sang low to itself and the lanterns under the arch moved on their cords like they agreed with the weather’s change of heart.

Ellie stood, letting pain choose its timing so she could choose the way she moved around it. She didn’t offer Ester water; she didn’t offer her name. She looked once at the scars on the woman’s cheeks and thought marks and then, stubbornly, rope is a bad teacher and then, wincing, some teachers still teach when you hate the class. She took her corner again and caretook her confronted her breath against the buzz of the lamp and told the coin to stay where it was until she asked for it.

Ester sat, palms open, eyes making maps. When she smiled again it was small and not for effect. Ellie refused to smile back. Her mouth twitched anyway.

Chapter Text

Rain had finally remembered how to be rain, thin sheets slanting off the Chinatown arch, beading on the rusted lanterns, turning the street’s oil-slicks into small galaxies. Ellie sat under a corrugated overhang on a dented folding chair, rifle across her thighs, one ear of a battered Walkman tucked in, the other ear open to the gate. Blondie cooked along inside the foam pad; she hummed the hook under her breath, boot heel tapping time against concrete.

“One way or another, hmp, hmp, I’m gonna find.”

A knuckle tapped the back of her chair.

“The fuck!?” Ellie’s hand went to the safety without thinking; she looked up and found a familiar smirk under a soaked cap. “You dick ruined my music vibe.”

“Really?” Abby said, voice teasing low. “Guard duty soundtrack is… stalker-pop?”

“It’s called taste,” Ellie said, deadpan, and thumbed the volume down. “Also, it’s catchy. You want the chair? I can get you one labeled ‘judgment.’”

“I’ll squat,” Abby said, and did milk crate, easy, rifle slung, sleeves shoved to her elbows. The rain had frizzed curls loose around her temples; damp had darkened her jacket so the seam lines stood out like topography. She tipped her chin toward the Walkman. “Where’d you dig that up?”

“Scored it in a box marked ‘seasonal decorations,’” Ellie said. “Nora said if I played it in the med bay, she’d declare a mass casualty.”

“Sounds right.” Abby unscrewed a thermos, and the steam climbed like a promise. “Brought you contraband.”

“If that’s coffee, I’ll marry you,” Ellie said, then immediately winced at her own mouth. “Or, like, I’ll… be very grateful.”

“Relax,” Abby said, amused, and poured anyway. “It’s not good coffee. But it’s hot.”

Ellie wrapped her hands around the tin cup until her fingers remembered they belonged to something warm. The rain stitched the street. The gate made its half-awake squeal as a truck rolled past up top, then settled.

“So,” Abby said, taking her own sip and hissing when it hit her tongue. “How’s the glamorous life? Counting drops? Staring contests with a gate?”

“Riveting,” Ellie said. “I hold a door. I hum to keep from murdering my coworkers for breathing loudly. Once an hour, the gate insults me.”

“Emotionally abusive gate,” Abby nodded. “We should report it to HR.”

“We have HR?”

“Manny’s dad,” Abby said. “He’ll feed the gate soup until it apologizes.”

Ellie couldn’t help it—she smiled, a quick sideways thing she didn’t let out often in a uniform. “I’d like to see a gate try to be rude to him.”

They watched the rain for a stretch, the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel like a test. Abby dug a foil-wrapped something from her pocket and tore it open; jerky smell mixed with coffee and wet iron.

“You on a run?” Ellie asked. “Or you just came to critique my playlist?”

“Neither. I’m here for you.”

Ellie failed to hide the way that landed. Her grin cracked wide, and she tried to fold it back into something cooler, shruggy. “Oh no,” she deadpanned. “Not you. Anyone but you.”

Abby circled, dragged her own chair out from a stack, and set it beside Ellie’s so their knees could be neighbors. She dropped into it with the slow exhale of someone letting her back remember ‘sitting’ as a concept. For a moment, they just watched the rain comb the street. Far down the block, a paper dog had washed into the gutter and stuck there, its flattened ear pressed against the curb.

“You hear the lanterns when it rains?” Abby asked after a beat. “They click. Like glass teeth.”

“That’s just the gate judging us,” Ellie said. She popped the player’s lid, flipped the cassette, and shut it again. “I think it likes me, though. We have a shared history of squeaking.”

Abby glanced over, amused, then reached across to tug lightly at Ellie’s jacket collar where it had decided to fold inward. “You’re catching water down your neck.”

Ellie went still as a picture while Abby fixed the fold—thumb pressing, two fingers tugging the fabric flat. Warm hands, fast. When Abby let go, both of them seemed to realize at the same time they’d been holding their breath a little.

“What’s this?” Ellie said, cocking her head. “You being a gentleman?”

Abby rolled her eyes, the blush climbing anyway. “Fixing your chaos isn’t chivalry, it’s self-preservation. You complain when you’re cold.”

“I complain when I’m right,” Ellie said, but she was smiling too hard to sell it.

“You’re worse than Manny,” Abby said, jabbing Ellie's bicep with two knuckles as punctuation.

Ellie made a wounded noise, then smirked. “That’s a hate crime.”

“All I’m saying is if I hear one more ‘that’s what she said’ from him, I’m requisitioning earplugs.” Abby leaned back, folding her arms across her chest, eyes traveling the street by habit: left roofline, right window, the dead neon dragon above the herbalist, the wire knotted high where someone had once hung a banner. “He told me to tell you he’ll keep the ‘love birds’ alive while you’re ‘counting beans.’”

Ellie snorted. “He’s gonna run that bit into the ground and plant a garden in it.”

“Leah will salt the earth before he gets a sprout,” Abby said, and they both laughed, the same image arriving.

A murmur from the radio clipped to the post: names, shift markers, the slow static cough of a city trying very hard to be orderly. Ellie dialed the volume down two notches and nudged the mike so it stopped biting her collarbone. The rain smelled like old iron and green things that had climbed concrete and won.

“So,” Abby said, after a bit of quiet. “How’s the glamorous life of standing still and staring at screws?”

Ellie’s mouth twisted. “I’ve seen a lot of screws. Wrote a sonnet about a hinge.”

“Hot,” Abby said. “Print that in the newsletter.”

“You joke, but I did think about drawing it.” Ellie tapped her vest pocket where a stubby pencil lived beside the tape player. “Hinge has a personality. Doesn’t like to be rushed.”

“That one,” Abby pointed to the inner door, “squeals like a piglet when it knows it has an audience. The other one judges in silence. The worst kind.”

“You naming doors now?” Ellie asked. “We should get you out more.”

Abby considered, then shrugged. “I like knowing what’s holding up the world.”

They let that hang a second. Ellie found the seam of the moment and slipped into it. “They brought in another asset,” she said, tone neutral. “Older woman. Not what I pictured.”

Abby’s profile went very still. “You guarding her too?”

“Same room. Different box.” Ellie didn’t look over. “She said her name. Ester.”

Abby held her breath long enough for Ellie to hear it. “Did she try to… preach?”

“She tried to human,” Ellie said, which made Abby huff something like a laugh and then pinch the bridge of her nose.

“Of course she did.” Abby rubbed a thumb across her eyebrow, a habit Ellie recognized from watching her think. “You okay with that?”

“I kept the rules,” Ellie said. “Except for the part where I told her not to shoot kids, which I feel like is baseline.”

“Bold stance,” Abby murmured. “Proud of you.”

“I know,” Ellie said, faux-prim.

A truck groaned past on the street; the gate offered a soft squeal in reply. Somewhere inside, a K9 gave the smallest questioning chuff and then settled. The lanterns clicked their little teeth. Abby’s knee knocked Ellie's once—accident, probably—and neither of them moved away.

“Your shoulder?” Abby asked, eyes on the rain.

“Still here,” Ellie said. “Holding grudges, collecting rent.”

“You let Nora retape it?”

“I let her staple it to my ribs with willpower. Same thing.” Ellie rotated it just enough to prove it moved. Abby watched the motion out of the corner of her eye with the priestly concentration of someone cataloging any flinch.

“You don’t have to be here,” Abby said, softer.

Ellie shrugged, gently. “I do, though.”

Abby didn’t argue. “It’s quieter with you,” she said instead. “Even when you hum.”

Ellie considered pretending she didn’t hear the compliment. Decided not to. “Want a hit?” She lifted the tape player, thumb hovering.

“What is it, more Blondie?”

“Could be.” Ellie wagged her eyebrows. “Could be… Bee Gees.”

Abby groaned like a melodrama. “Please, no. I’ll throw myself under a truck and make paperwork for Mike.”

“Fine, coward.” Ellie pressed play and let the tiny speaker spit out a whisper of drums, a thin guitar line threading the hiss. She kept it low enough that the rain could win.

They drifted into talk that didn’t require teeth: Manny’s father smuggling citrus into the stadium like contraband sunshine, Nick’s clipboard-themed personality, Bear having opinions about puddles. Abby teased Ellie for her hat—backward again, WLF logo stained to ghost—then reached up without thinking and straightened the bill where it had creased funny. The brush of fingers dragged goosebumps up Ellie’s neck like someone had just whispered something intelligent there.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Abby said, smiling, eyes bright in the rain light.

“Like what?” Ellie said and leaned back, letting her chair tip two legs to feel the slight risk.

“Like I did your homework,” Abby said.

“You did.” Ellie pointed. “You fixed my collar. That’s extra credit.”

Abby chuckled. “Says the girl who absolutely uses white-out in her journal.”

“I don’t make mistakes,” Ellie said, scandalized. “I make revisions.”

“We all make revisions,” Abby said, and the sentence landed with a weight both of them pretended not to notice.

Footsteps clinked along the catwalk inside. A head peered over the rail, clocked the two of them, and vanished—one of ring two doing the loop. The radio murmured “rotate” in a voice that sounded like it had been filed down by routine. Ellie checked her watch, then the street, then Abby, in that order.

“You think this truce sticks?” Abby asked, very casually.

“I think the city likes to pretend,” Ellie said. “And pretending is a good first draft.”

Abby nodded. “Revisions,” she said again.

“Look at us,” Ellie said. “Two geniuses at a gate.”

“Between two boxes,” Abby added, wryly.

“And a squeaky door,” Ellie said.

“And a song I refuse to let you sing out loud,” Abby warned, pointing at the tape player.

Ellie sealed her lips, exaggerated, then hummed anyway. Abby groaned theatrically and thumped her shoulder carefully, avoiding the bad one, and Ellie laughed, that bright, careless laugh that always made the night look less like a mouth.

The rain had thinned to a steady stitch, enough to keep the gate from shrieking and the dust from getting ideas. Ellie walked the catwalk toward the next post, boots ticking the grating, damp cool snaking up through the mesh into her soles. The checkpoint had settled into evening posture, voices lower, lights harsher, coffee older. She cut behind the storage cage and nearly walked into a conversation that sounded like a bruise being poked.

“…I’m telling you, Lewis, knock it off.” Sally’s voice was tight, but trying to stay soft. “You don’t have to talk to him like that.”

“Like what?” Lewis shot back, an ugly little laugh riding the word. “Like he’s not a guest? He isn’t. He’s a Scar. ‘Phoret’—” he mangled the name on purpose “—is lucky I’m using words and not my boot.”

“His name is Ester!” Sally said, Sharper.

“I could care a fucking less what her name is. Your kindness is weak,” Lewis said. Ellie could hear the grin, could picture the shrug. “Crazy people don’t need pretty voices; they need cages.”

“Everyone needs a reason not to chew their own tongue off,” Sally snapped. “You don’t get points for being cruel.”

“I don’t give a fuck about points.” A chair leg screeched. “I care about not dying because you want to make bedtime stories with a walking sermon.”

“God, you’re exhausting.”

“And you’re soft,” he said, delighted with the word. “Go knit a scarf for the prophet.”

Ellie didn’t step in. Not her fight, not where it would keep from turning into three new ones. She brushed past the doorway, allowing their silhouettes to catch, and kept moving. Sally’s glare tracked after her; Lewis’s bark of a laugh did, too. The argument dulled behind her like a door she refused to carry.

Down the next flight, the concrete sweats the way it always did, the cool seeping up from whatever old bones a city grows under its skin. Ellie made the last turn and stopped.

Ester was speaking, low and patient, to one of the Wolves from ring two, Darrow, a broad-shouldered guy with a fresh scrape under one eye and a hand that wouldn’t stop flexing around nothing. He stood too close to the bars, not menacing, just pulled by something he hadn’t named yet. Ester had her palms open on her knees, eyes up and steady, the same posture she wore when she was saving her knees and waiting for the room to decide what it was.

“…and when the rope is in your hand,” Ester was saying, “you get to decide if you’re tying a knot or making a noose. The motion feels the same until it doesn’t.”

Darrow looked like he’d swallowed a nail sideways. “I don’t—” He rubbed his jaw, found the scrape, scowled at his own wince. “I came to see if you’d shut up.”

“I can,” Ester said, and smiled like she meant it. “Most of the time I do. People ask questions, and my mouth forgets to be quiet.”

He swallowed. “Yeah. Well.” His eyes skittered to Ellie and away, embarrassed to be seen standing next to a door he didn’t have to be near. “I gotta rotate.”

“Take water,” Ester said, nodding toward the jug on the table outside the cell. “It will make your hands kinder.”

He made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh and might have been a protest and retreated, fast. He brushed past Ellie with a muttered “Williams,” and went up the stairs like the building had decided to spit him somewhere else.

Ester’s gaze followed him until he turned the corner, then slid to Ellie. The smile she wore for her wasn’t bigger—just warmer at the edges, as if someone had turned the lamp down to a kinder yellow. “You made it to the hinge that squeaks,” she said, like hello.

Ellie let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “You giving sermons to my people now?” she asked, not bothering to sand all the edge off it.

“If I am, I am failing,” Ester said, tone light. “He left before I could recite anything.” She tipped her head. “He came to ask me to be quiet. We both got halfway to what we wanted.”

“You don’t get to work the room,” Ellie said, coming to the mark opposite her cell. “Save it for your choir.”

“I don’t have one.” Ester folded her hands. “Also, rooms work themselves. I only answer people who come close enough to hear.”

“That’s a neat trick—you don’t chase; you just catch.” Ellie hooked a boot under her chair, dragged it out, and sat. “Don’t try it with me.”

“I already did,” Ester said, amused. “It didn’t work.”

“See?” Ellie said. “Smarter than you look.”

Ester’s mouth quirked. “I like talking to you.”

“I’m very charming,” Ellie deadpanned. “Ask literally no one.”

Another guard slid into the far corner and made a show of checking his watch; the bearded guy from earlier had rotated out. The man in the first cell lay on his side again, back to them, breathing the slow, fake kind you use when sleep is something you want to practice before you earn it.

Ester glanced toward the shape of him, then back. “You moved your shoulder differently this afternoon than you are now,” she said, observational as ever. “Did someone retape it?”

“Nora threatened to staple it,” Ellie said. “Her words, not mine.”

“Good,” Ester said. “Pain should be recognized and given a job, not asked to be a secret.”

“Great, add that to your list.” Ellie jutted her chin at the bars. “You keep telling my people doors can be nooses and they’re going to start hearing whistles where there aren’t any.”

“Do you hear them?” Ester asked.

Ellie’s jaw clicked once. “Sometimes I hear my blood and think it’s a voice trying to negotiate. Doesn’t mean I need you translating.”

Ester nodded, accepting the boundary without pretending it wasn’t there. “I won’t throw my words toward people who don’t want to catch them. You can trust me that far.”

“I don’t trust anyone that far.” Ellie ran a thumb along the edge of her vest, felt the pencil’s chewed ridge through the fabric. “But I’ll note the effort.”

“You draw,” Ester said.

Ellie lifted a shoulder. “You read minds now?”

“You touch your pocket like your hands are used to having a job there,” Ester said. “And you stare at screws like they’ll be good if you get them on paper.”

Ellie looked away because that one hit clean. “You really are annoying.”

Footsteps padded down the stairs, confident, heavier than Darrow’s, a gait Ellie could pick out of a room full of boots. Abby rounded the corner, and her damp hair escaped from her cap in two curls like she’d lost a fight with the weather and given up caring. She clocked Ester, clocked Ellie, and let a grin creep out at one corner of her mouth.

“Sermon hour over?” she asked brightly as she approached, mocking without heat. “Or do I need to tithe to stand here?”

Ester’s smile didn’t change. “We were comparing hardware,” she said. “She prefers hinges to ropes.”

“Good,” Abby said. “Ropes and Ellie don’t go well together, you bunch of psychos.” She stole Ellie’s line with a wink, and Ellie felt the jolt of private understanding pass between them like a fuse catching.

“You came to rescue me from enlightenment?” Ellie asked, levering herself up.

“From not eating,” Abby said. She hooked two fingers into the strap at Ellie’s shoulder—gentle, a guide, not a drag. “Kitchen’s got something pretending to be stew and actual bread Manny smuggled to Nora and Nora failed to hide.”

“Contraband carbs,” Ellie said. “Bless him.”

Ester watched the exchange the way she watched everything, alert and generous. “Eat,” she said to Ellie, like a benediction that didn’t need a god. “Food makes your anger clever.”

“I don’t need clever,” Ellie muttered, but she didn’t mean it all the way. “I need less of it.”

“Less comes later,” Ester said. “For now, it needs a spoon.”

Abby huffed. “Wow. Riddle me dinner.” She gave Ester a flat, polite look, not unkind, just refusing to stick. “Try being quieter, or I’ll make you quiet.”

Ellie hesitated a fraction of a beat, the way you do when some part of you wants to finish a bad sentence to know where it went. Ester’s gaze stayed easy. The man across the way didn’t move. The guard in the corner pretended he had never learned what an ear was.

“You’re not going to preach at me when I’m back,” Ellie said to Ester, half-warning, half a test she wasn’t sure she wanted passed.

“I’m going to breathe,” Ester said. “You can borrow the noise if yours goes ragged.”

“Great,” Ellie said, and had no idea what to do with that. “Thanks. I think.”

“Doors choose their keepers,” Ester added, as if to herself. “Sometimes the ones with keys aren’t the ones holding them.”

Abby made a face. “See? Riddles. Let’s go before she starts talking about birds in pockets.”

Ellie glanced, involuntarily, at the line of her pants where the coin sat warm against denim. She scowled at herself for being readable and let Abby steer her toward the stairs. On the landing, Abby leaned in, shoulder bumping shoulder in that careful way she had calibrated not to sting. 

“You okay?”

“Define okay,” Ellie said.

“Functional with jokes,” Abby said.

“Then yeah.” Ellie blew out a breath. “She talks like a fortune cookie that learned how to hold eye contact.”

“Uh-huh,” Abby said, amused. “You letting it get under your skin?”

Ellie turned that over and didn’t throw it away. “What about me? Nope, not at all. No one gets under my skin.”

“I highly doubt that. ” Abby said. “Manny does and Mike…Oh and Charlie Humvee tracker.”

“Fuck off, think that charming face card of yours can win me,” Ellie said, and let herself be led by the smell of Nora’s not-stew and the faint citrus Manny had bullied into the kitchen. Behind them, the gate squeaked once and settled, and somewhere in the concrete belly of the checkpoint, a woman who wasn’t a prophet and a man who had run out of names kept breathing in a room that asked to be called by softer words than cage.

Ellie lay awake on her pad long enough to memorize Abby’s breathing—slow, even, the little hitch she did on the exhale when the sleeping bag zipper grazed her chin. Bear had claimed Abby’s feet like a heated pillow. Manny snored two rooms away in concert with the generator, a duet no one asked for. When staying still started to feel like drowning, Ellie slid out of her bag, eased the cap on, and padded into the hall.

Sally sat at the far end of the dining table, a mug cupped in both hands, elbows on the wood, as if trying to warm it through the ceramic. No clipboard. No duty face. Just a tired woman staring at the condensation halo where the mug had been a minute ago. She looked up when Ellie’s boots ticked the threshold and offered a thin smile that said You, okay, without turning it into work.

“Can’t sleep?” Sally asked.

“Working on it,” Ellie said. She took the chair opposite, spun it a quarter turn so her shoulder wouldn’t complain, and hooked a boot on the rung. “You?”

“Coffee was a mistake,” Sally said, taking a cautious sip that admitted nothing. “Also, Lewis.”

Ellie made a noncommittal sound. She’d walked past the earlier argument on purpose. “Is he still doing his ‘tough is loud’ routine?”

“He thinks cruelty is a duty,” Sally said, not unkindly, which somehow made it harsher. “Says it saves lives. Maybe it does, for a minute. Then it takes them back with interest.”

The hum of the lights filled the slight pause. Somewhere in the building, a pipe ticked with the last of the day’s heat.

“You were down there?” Ellie asked.

Sally nodded. “Second ring. I thought I could… I don’t know. Be ballast. Take the edge off.” She huffed a breath that failed at being a laugh. “Phoret told me the prayer he says before he sleeps. I told him I don’t… do that. He said it wasn’t for God. It was to remind his mouth to stop making fists.”

Ellie rolled that around once and filed it. “Ester was talking to Darrow when I walked up,” she said. “He left looking like someone took a screw out of him.”

Sally’s face softened in a way that made her look younger and older at the same time. “She’s not what they say she is,” she murmured. “Not a witch, not a knife. Just—steady. Even when Lewis was trying to get a rise out of her, she… refused to be made of whatever he wanted. I don’t know how to do that.”

“Years of practice,” Ellie said, because it was easier than saying maybe just being wired differently. She picked at a nick in the table with her nail until the splinter lifted and sat down again. “You admire her.”

“I admire anyone who doesn’t let other people decide their shape,” Sally said, then grimaced at herself. “Listen to me. I sound like a recruit pamphlet.”

Ellie smiled despite herself. “Manny would print that on a T-shirt and wear it to breakfast.”

“He’d spill breakfast on it in the first five minutes,” Sally said, automatic, affectionate. The smile that followed died fast. “Word is they’re moving her.”

Ellie lifted her head. “Who said that?”

“Cam heard it on a relay call and said it loud enough for half the room. He likes the sound of his voice when it scares people.” Sally swallowed, pushing the mug away with her thumbs. “He said Isaac wants her out of Chinatown before dawn. ‘Control the rumor by moving the fact,’” she quoted, bitterly. “And—” She stopped, worked the inside of her cheek with her teeth. “There’s talk of… not keeping her long. Once she’s where they want her.”

Ellie felt the sentence land in her chest like something dropped from a balcony. “Execute.”

Sally looked down at her hands, as if the news might be hiding there. “He didn’t use that word,” she said. “But he used every word near it. ‘Resolve.’ ‘Close the loop.’ ‘Stop the mouth.’” She shook her head once. “I thought Isaac would… I don’t know. Do the thing where he makes speeches about leverage. He loves leverage.”

“He loves ends,” Ellie said, and didn’t know if she was defending him or naming a problem. Her stomach gave a quick, hollow step like missing the last stair in the dark. “No one told me.”

“Why would they?” Sally asked, not cruelly. “You’d ask the wrong questions.”

Ellie stared past Sally at the bulletin board where someone had pinned a half-finished crossword and a hand-lettered note about mold in the corner pantry. Her shoulder throbbed in a bright, steady circle, suddenly louder than the room. She tried on the shape of her next question and hated all of them. “Do you want me to… do something?” she asked, genuinely meaning it, but unsure what it could be.

“I want not to be the person I am in rooms like this,” Sally said frankly. “I want not to be the soft one who says ‘maybe we count differently’ and then gets told stories about whistling in the dark.” She exhaled. “I want to be brave without getting anyone killed.”

“Hard ask,” Ellie said, dry. “Brave and harmless have a custody battle every day, and nobody wins.”

Sally smiled at that one, brief. “I hate this war between us…Many of us in WLF hate this fight. Were tried. You don’t know, then,” she said, circling back. “About the move.”

“No.” Ellie’s mouth felt weird. “I thought they’d park her here a week, make a show of process.”

“Process just means the floor is clean when the thing falls,” Sally said, surprising herself by speaking it aloud. “You didn’t hear that from me.”

“I didn’t hear anything,” Ellie said. “I was sleeping. Dreaming about doors and that kinda of shit.” It wasn’t a joke, but it wore the shape of one well enough to pass.

They sat with it. The building breathed. Somewhere down the hall, a radio whispered a name, and the static hushed quickly, like a hand over a mouth. Sally tapped her mug twice and pushed it another inch away, as if distance could cool what was in it.

“What do you think of her?” Sally asked suddenly. “Ester.”

Ellie could feel the coin in her pocket like a warm eye. “I think she’s good at being a person in rooms designed to make you a symbol,” she said slowly. “I think that’s dangerous…I’ve seen what fake smiles can lead too.”

“Yeah,” Sally said, relieved to have someone give her a sentence she could hold. “That.”

“But I’m not… converted,” Ellie added, because she felt the need to declare allegiance to a floor. “I’m not about to pick up a ribbon and whistle at the moon.”

“I didn’t say you were,” Sally said. “I just—” She looked back toward the hall that led to the cells, and the look on her face was the same one Ellie had seen on garden duty when a late frost threatened the tomato seedlings. “I don’t want us to kill what we could have learned from.”

Ellie went quiet. In her head, the line shaped itself as: I don’t want to kill something that will make me smaller than I can live with. Out loud, she said, “You want to learn from her?”

Sally winced. “Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe there’s a version where we figure out what to do with a person like that that doesn’t look like a bullet. Maybe I’m an idiot for wanting it.”

“You might be crazy. They strung me up!” Ellie said. 

“After we invaded their home! They want peace.” Sally was quick to answer back.

“My guts were about to be cut open they killed a friend of mine! They murdered your brother right? I don’t understand why.” Ellie spoke harsher catching Sally off guard.

They listened to the building. Rain had started up again, soft—just enough to talk to the lanterns. Abby’s sleep-breath rhythm found them from two rooms away, weirdly comforting, like a metronome set to be here.

“I’m sorry I-I-I…I know what they did to you…” Sally rubbed both hands over her face and came away with a half-laugh that failed to be a sigh. “I shouldn’t be saying this to you,” she said. “You’re still… New here and I don’t want you to be worse.”

“You’re not,” Ellie said, and realized it was true as she said it. “I am more worse than you think.”

Sally blinked, then nodded once, something un-knotting in her shoulders. “Thanks for sitting,” she said, simple.

“Thanks for not making me talk first,” Ellie said.

“Always,” Sally said. She nudged the mug toward Ellie. “Want the world’s worst coffee?”

“I want to live forever,” Ellie said. “So, no.”

They almost smiled at the same time. It was enough. Ellie stood, the chair leg squeaking in a way that made the room feel less hostile. She hesitated. “If they move her tonight,” she said, neutral as she could make it, “they’ll need warm bodies.”

“They’ll use Lewis,” Sally said, not looking happy about being right even in small things.

“Yeah,” Ellie said.

She left Sally with her coffee and the hum and drifted back through the sleeping building the maze of hallways and doors that had learned how to be a jail after being a checkpoint after being a neighborhood. Abby had rolled onto her side, face smushed into the sleeping bag hood in a way that would leave a crease along her cheek, proof of rest. Ellie slid back into the narrow warmth beside her and lay on her back, eyes open to the dark.

The second door’s hinge gave its quick, embarrassed squeal—don’t oil me, I’m how you know you’re not alone—and she slipped into the room where the two cages sat like punctuation marks no one wanted to use.

Ester was praying, or something close to it. Not muttering text—no rhythm, no recitation—just hands open on her knees, eyes half-lidded, head tipped like she was listening to the wall for tide. The lamp made a small halo of tired yellow on her hair where the gray threaded through. When she looked up, the smile she gave Ellie had no surprise in it, only welcome, as if she’d been saving it.

“You came back,” she said.

Ellie dragged a chair across concrete and flipped it around, sat with the back as a brace so her good shoulder could rest. “It’s my job.”

“It can be both,” Ester said. “The job and the choice.”

Ellie made a noncommittal noise and picked at a chip of paint on the chairback. Words crowded her throat and backed away again. Ester watched the crowd without reaching in.

“You are hurt,” Ester said after a moment, and the words were simple enough that Ellie almost missed how sharp they were. “Not by your hands. By someone else’s.”

“No,” Ellie said, reflex fast, voice a shade too high. “I’m fine.”

“You can be fine and still be carrying what someone put on you,” Ester said, like naming weather. “It is an awkward thing to hold, someone else’s shape on your back.”

“I’m not… carrying anybody.” Ellie found the coin in her pocket with two fingers and pinched it hard enough to feel the imprint. “I left.”

“Who made you go?” Ester asked, not quick, not pushing just laying the rope out where Ellie could see it.

“No one,” Ellie said, and the lie sounded even worse than it had the first hundred times. She huffed, angry at herself for hearing it. “Someone.”

Ester nodded. “Sometimes a person sets a fire behind you and then tells you how brave you are for running.”

Ellie snorted. “That your way of calling me a coward?”

“No,” Ester said gently. “My way of saying I know.”

Silence set a chair between them and sat. Ellie stared through the bars at the far wall until the concrete’s sweating made dark maps that wanted to be continents. She felt the rope grip tightly around her neck. Taking all the breath from her lungs. She could feel the moment’s edge as surely as she’d felt the bite of the rope; she could step back or she could fall forward and either way it was going to hurt.

“Boston,” she said, surprising herself with where the sentence started. “I came from there. Before Jackson. Before this.” She rubbed the coin with her thumb like you rub a bruise to catalog it. “He  was supposed to take me to the…The Fireflies.”

“I have heard of them,” Ester said. “Never saw them but stories from those who have joined my flock..”

“They wanted to fix something,” Ellie said. “Or said they did. They… wanted me.” She swallowed. Her mouth had gone dry just when she needed it not to. “For… reasons.”

Ester didn’t tilt her head or soften her face into the wrong shape. She let the words take their own weight. “You were valuable to them,” she said. 

“They would’ve cut me open,” Ellie said, and there it was, blunt and stupid and true. “For everyone. And I—” Her throat clicked.

“Are you saying…” Ester said, not with pity, with recognition as if someone had just named a tool she’d used badly once. “Wait, are you infected?”

Ellie almost laughed at that bitter and grateful in the same breath. “I-I hehe…I’m not a dead woman walking.” She stopped. The coin was hot now. “Someone stopped them.”

“A child forged from fire…A monster and devil sits before me.” Ester said.

Ellie looked up, met her eyes through the bars, and let the truth drop like a tool she was tired of pretending wasn’t heavy. “He killed them,” she said. “All of them that day, in that place. He walked through a hospital.” She swallowed again and felt the memory’s bad edge go down unsanded. “Joel.”

Ester’s hands stayed open on her knees. Her face didn’t move toward the expected shock or the easy condemnation; she seemed to be weighing the word like a person examining a stone for what kind of river had polished it. “And what was he to you,” she asked, soft.

“Everything,” Ellie said, and the word landed in the room like a body. “My… my person. My—” She shook her head hard, like water out of her ear. “He was everything.”

Ester nodded once, like a teacher whose student has brought the right answer and a bleeding hand. “Then you are not only hurt by what he did,” she said. “You are hurt by what you were made to be in the same breath.”

“I didn’t make him,” Ellie said, defensive coming up hard. “He chose.”

“And chose you, at the same time,” Ester said. “Chose you over a word as big as ‘everyone,’ and in doing so handed you the weight of ‘everyone’ without asking your arms if they were ready.”

Ellie stared at her until her vision fuzzed with heat. “You talk like that to Darrow too?” she managed. “Did you make him cry?”

Ester’s mouth curved. “He made himself cry.”

“Good for him,” Ellie muttered, and swiped at her eyes with the heel of her hand, angry she’d given them the chance. “He lied to me. Twice, three times. I asked. I said, tell me or I’m gone. He lied. I left anyway. And then I—” She laughed once, small and raw. “I ran as far as my stupid legs could go and thought the ocean would be big enough to hold the noise.”

Her eyes softened with a kind of permission-seeking you don’t fake. “May I see it?”

Ellie went still. “See what.”

“The tooth your life turned on.”

“That’s… cute.” Ellie tried for a smirk and got something trembly at the edges. “It’s just a scar.”

“Scars are maps,” Ester said. “Sometimes they are also doors.”

Ellie exhaled through her nose. The air in here was cool enough to make telling the truth hot. “You touch it and I bite,” she said, and rolled the sleeve anyway.

The marks were a constellation she never drew right the ragged crescents, pale against her skin, puckered smooth where teeth had once made a decision. It looked less like a wound these days than a signature the world had tried to sign over her, badly.

Ester leaned forward slowly, the way you approach a skittish dog: hands visible, no sudden enthusiasm. She didn’t reach through the bars until Ellie didn’t flinch. When she did, it was with two fingers, the lightest touch at the outermost crescent. Ellie felt the jolt as if her arm remembered the first time and wanted to argue.

Ester’s eyes widened, not with worship, not with opportunism horror first, then shock, then something like grief that wasn’t for herself. She took one small breath that shook on the way out. When she spoke, it wasn’t to Ellie so much as into the strange space between them.

“And I saw,” she whispered, “and behold, a white horse…”

Ellie snatched her arm back like she’d stuck it on a hot plate. “What does that even mean,” she snapped, louder than the room deserved. Her pulse thundered; breath came shallow and quick as if someone had shortened the ceiling. The coin in her pocket burned a circle into her thigh. “Don’t—don’t say weird prophecy crap at me.”

Ester’s hands went up, empty. “I’m sorry,” 

Silence hung a moment, feeling its own edges. The man in the other cell rolled and mumbled; a boot creaked on the catwalk above; the gate let out its night-throat sound like an old cat clearing something it would never cough up.

Ellie’s breath refused to find a regular shape. The feeling in her chest was too many things at once anger, the sudden jag of being seen, the ugly bloom of hope she didn’t trust and didn’t want and couldn’t swallow. She took a step back, then another, chair leg scraping a little squeal into the concrete. “I need air,” she said, and hated that she sounded like she was asking permission.

“You don’t,” Ester said, with a small smile that didn’t try to keep her. “Take it anyway.”

Ellie turned, sleeve down, coin burning a circle into her thigh through denim. Her hand found the door and the hinge sang. She was halfway through when Ester’s voice came after her, low and steady and somehow not a trap but Ellie didn’t care she needed to leave.

Three days of rotations blurred at the edges until the guard shacks all smelled the same: coffee gone bitter, wet canvas drying in stripes, gun oil that had sunk into wood long before either of them was born. Ellie took the north post where the street narrowed to a throat and a chain of prayer flags from another lifetime clung to a fire escape like stubborn barnacles.

She was tracing a nick in the plywood desk with her thumbnail, trying not to think about hinges or ropes or coins, when Abby’s shadow filled the doorway.

“You hide out here now?” Abby asked, neutral enough to pass for friendly if you wanted it to.

“Post,” Ellie said. “I’m posted.”

Abby stepped in, ducked the low beam, and set her forearms on the counter like she was asking the room to hold her weight for a second. The cap was forward today; her hair was roped back hard. She looked like someone who had been lifting heavy things just to hear them complain.

“You’ve been… off,” Abby said, picking her way into it. “Since Chinatown. Since—” She flicked a glance upward, toward the concrete belly where two cells sat like bad ideas. “Since then.”

“I’m fine,” Ellie said.

“That word doesn’t mean what you think it means.” Abby lifted one eyebrow. “Your head straight?”

Ellie felt the heat hit her face before she could find the better sentence. “My head is not your project.”

“I didn’t say it was,” Abby said, voice flattening. “I said—are you good to be out here? On a fence? Because if you’re not, I’ll take you off it. I’ll go talk to Mike right now.”

“Oh, right,” Ellie snapped. “You going to save me from standing still? That your hero arc this week?”

Abby’s jaw ticked. “I’m trying to talk to you.”

“And I told you I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Abby said, soft enough to be tender and somehow worse for it. “You haven’t been since before the island. Since before—” She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to. The line hung between them like a wire.

Ellie laughed, brittle. “You’re the one stuck in the loop, Abby. You want to ask about my head? Maybe check yours. You’re the one mad after revenge.”

That landed. You could see it travel under Abby’s skin—collarbone to cheek, a small, visible flinch. Cold climbed into her voice like a hand on a ladder. “Don’t turn this,” she said. “Don’t do that thing where you toss a joke at a grenade.”

“You showed up to my post to do a wellness check because I didn’t clap at your promotion to Head of Lifting Heavy Things,” Ellie said, the meanness in her mouth tasting like metal as soon as she said it. “What do you want me to say? Sorry I’m not applauding while you chase a ghost?”

Abby straightened. “I’m doing my job.”

“Yeah? Which one? Guarding doors or hunting the past?” Ellie knew she should stop. The part of her that did not like to stop leaned in instead. “You want to ask if I can hold a line? Can you? Or does every hallway turn into a hospital if you stare at it long enough?”

Abby’s eyes went hard glass for a second. “Watch it.”

“Why?” Ellie said. “Because I said the word? Hospital?” She heard herself, couldn’t get her hand back on the wheel. “Revenge hasn’t fixed anything for you, Abby. It won’t. It didn’t then and it won’t now. Your dad is still—”

“Don’t,” Abby said, low and dangerous.

“—dead,” Ellie finished, and the syllable hit the counter like a dropped wrench.

Silence rolled in, mean and total. Outside, a gull shouted at nothing. The prayer flags winked one color at a time down the line and then went still. Abby’s hands had closed without her noticing; the knuckles went white and then slowly remembered how to have blood.

Ellie’s stomach fell through its own floor. “I-” The apology clawed at her throat. “I’m sorry. That was-shit. That was-”

Abby kept staring at her like she was deciding which part of the map to fold. The cold eased a notch. She blinked once, a slow reset, and set her palms flat on the counter again as if rehearsing a different ending.

“You don’t get to use him as a stick to hit me with,” she said, voice steady because she made it be. “You don’t get to tell me what revenge is doing to me when you’re stitching yourself together with anger you won’t even name.”

“I said I was sorry,” Ellie said, too fast. It sounded thin. “I shouldn’t have—”

“No,” Abby said. She took a breath that scraped and turned it into something smooth by force. “You shouldn’t have. But I walked in here like I own the deed to your head, and I don’t. So. That’s on me.”

They stood in that awkward, adult-looking truce for three heartbeats.

“Abby—” Ellie started.

“Not now,” Abby said, and it wasn’t punishment. It was triage. She pushed off the counter. The room seemed smaller with her no longer leaning into it. “Eat something,” she added, automatic and infuriatingly kind. “You get mean when you’re empty.”

She took two steps, stopped, and looked back. Whatever she was going to say be careful, I’m not your enemy, stop touching the bruise just to prove it hurts she swallowed it. Her chest rose, fell. She nodded once, to a thing neither of them had named, and left.

The shack reeled from her absence for a second and then decided it had always been this size. Ellie stood where she was and listened to her own pulse get bored with being loud. The prayer flags moved, found a new stillness. The radio on the shelf coughed up a call sign and went quiet again, the city attempting courtesy. The apology didn’t fix anything; it didn’t even sit right in her mouth. She kept it anyway.

She picked up her pen and wrote two words in the margin of the duty log because she needed to do something with her hands: Hold line. It looked stupid there next to numbers. She underlined it once, then once more, and let the pen go heavy in her fingers until the impulse to say something else passed.

Lewis shouldered through the guard shack door like he’d been sent by the weather. “Williams,” he barked.

Ellie didn’t look up right away. “What.”

“Out.” He hooked a thumb, already turning.

“Use your words,” she said, standing anyway.

He didn’t. He just walked, confidence the leash he expected her to bite. She followed because that’s what the body does when the uniform underneath it has learned the shape of orders. The corridor smelled like oil and old rain. Her boots found the beat of the building’s heart and tried not to stumble on it.

They came out into the main room—a space that used to be a customs hall or a market; now it held maps and discipline. Four Wolves were already there, a line of shoulders under flat light. Sally stood off to one side with a clipboard she wasn’t writing on. Her jaw worked; her eyes wouldn’t pick a place to land.

At the center, a woman Ellie didn’t know wore authority like a fitted coat gray hair pulled to a clean knot, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a pistol on her hip that looked like it was a habit, not a threat. She set one gloved hand on the table and the room went quiet the way a yard does when someone closes a gate.

“Orders from Isaac,” the woman said. She didn’t raise her voice; the room obliged by leaning in. “Effective immediately, the Prophet is to be removed from Bravo site and executed.”

The word hit like a dropped coil of wire silent and heavy and full of latent tangles.

Ellie’s mouth was open before she decided to use it. “We’re not—” She swallowed, found another path. “Where. Why here?”

“Not here,” the woman said, as if Ellie had commented on a map coordinate. “Interior wall, service bay. Controlled. Fewer eyes.” She let the last two words settle. “We keep this clean.”

Sally’s fingers tightened on the clipboard until the plastic creaked. She said nothing. Lewis grinned with half his mouth and made a tiny, delighted cluck with his tongue kid at a fireworks show, best seat.

Ellie’s stomach did that drop it had learned when elevators still existed. “We’re doing this without… anything? No tribunal. No—”

“This is the tribunal,” the woman said. She didn’t sound cruel. She sounded like a calendar. “If you have a note for Command, you can submit it through your CO after the conclusion of the action.”

“Conclusion,” Ellie repeated, and tasted metal.

“Squad,” the woman said, eyes moving down the line, counting, weighing. They landed on Ellie. “You, you, you, and you. Load and make safe.”

“I—” Ellie started. Rules, lines, Leah’s voice saying hold the door. She shut her mouth before the wrong thing found it.

They moved. When a room decides to be a mechanism, bodies become teeth in a gear. The service bay was a postage stamp of concrete behind the checkpoint a wall pocked from old days when “warning shots” meant stone chips and ears ringing. Rain had scrubbed it clean; the gray looked newly ironed. Two lanterns hung on hooks like lamps in an old barn. A drain glinted at the base of the wall, a fact someone had made sure to include.

They brought Ester out between two guards. Hands bound behind her with cloth over cord, ankles free, so she could walk herself to the last place she’d stand. She moved like she understood ceremony and had decided to be good at it. The scars on her cheeks caught a stripe of lantern-light and turned briefly into commas, as if the sentence wasn’t over yet.

Her eyes found Ellie without hunting. The smile she gave was small and absurdly genuine, like a neighbor catching you at your mailbox. “Hello,” she said, because she was who she was.

Ellie felt Abby before she saw her heat in her peripheral. When she turned her head, Abby was already there, posted on the far end of the firing line. Cap forward, jaw set, forearms bared to the cold like she wanted it to take a bite. She looked across at Ellie and something like a question moved in her eyes, then flattened to a blank the uniform would accept.

The head woman call her Lieutenant, because the room did took a step to the side. “By order of Isaac Dixon,” she recited, “for acts of terror and murder against the Washington Liberation Front and its people-” her gaze flicked to Sally and then away, “-the individual known as the Ester also named “Prophet” will be put to death.”

Ester looked at the wall, then at the lantern, then back at Ellie. Her smile thinned, not with fear. Ellie couldn’t find fear on her face now even if she dug for it but with a kind of tenderness for the room itself. When the guard reached to blindfold her, she lifted her chin so the cloth would lie flat.

“Wait,” Sally said, a quiet break in her voice. “Please—”

“Corporal,” the Lieutenant said, a warning without volume.

Sally shut her mouth and put the clipboard against her chest like a shield. She looked down when the cloth covered Ester’s eyes.

“Form line,” the Lieutenant said. “Five meters. Center mass. On my mark.”

The five of them stepped up. Ellie’s rifle felt heavier than it had in months, as if it knew it had opinions. She worked the safety with her thumb because muscle memory does not ask for consent. The stock found her shoulder and her shoulder complained. The sling tugged where Nora had taped her. The barrel looked longer pointed at a person than at a door.

Ester’s last words came in that kitchen voice she used when she was making a sentence into a tool. She spoke to no one and to everyone, and the words landed in the cold like breath made visible.

“My mercy,” she said, “prevails over my wrath.”

It was small in the concrete, and it filled it.

“Ready,” the Lieutenant called.

Ellie shouldered the rifle all the way, cheek to stock. The world tunneled—lantern, wall, cloth at a stranger’s eyes. The drain waited.

“Aim.”

Ellie’s hands were sweat-slick on the polymer. The muzzle floated, settled, floated again. Her finger found the trigger and barely kissed it. Across the line, Abby’s face had stopped being a face and become a set of features she was holding in place by force. When she looked at Ellie, it wasn’t a plea and it wasn’t an order. It was a hard, level knowing: You will have to live with what you do in the next breath. Ellie’s knees shook. Her mouth went dry. The wall did not move and did not care.

“Fire,” the Lieutenant said.

The world flinched itself apart.

Gunfire hit the bay in a flat, simultaneous clap that made Ellie’s ears ring and the lantern chains jump. Pigeons on the eaves two buildings over took to the air like shaken paper. The smell of burned powder shoved the cold aside, then settled with it, partners at last.

Ellie had squeezed the trigger at the last possible second and thrown her barrel up a degree, a penny’s width at the muzzle that meant a foot at the wall. Her shot hit concrete above and to the right of where a human heart would be stone spat, dust bloomed and died.

Other rounds found what they’d been trained to find. There was no theatrics to it, no cruelty in the physics. Just the violence of intention translated into motion.

Ellie didn’t watch the end. Her eyes had shut without permission. She felt the rifle hiccup and go quiet in her hands, felt her body absorb the echo. She tasted metal coins in her mouth and realized she’d bitten her tongue. When her eyes opened, Ester lay on the wet ground, her cheek to the concrete as a dark pool spread beneath her.

In her head, because the room wouldn’t let sound survive in it, a line rose without permission and refused to leave. My mercy prevails over my wrath.