Page 15 of Immune

My breathing changes before I can stop it, completely out of control, and the stranger notices straightaway. They press the gun harder under my chin, digging into my skin, and whisper, “Don’t.”

One single word and I feel as though they’ve flayed me open without a single blade.

Dragging my gaze away from their eyes still hidden in the shade of their ball cap, I train it on the faded alphabet poster over their shoulder and hold it there before muttering, “I won’t.”

“You don’t even know what I’m talking about,” they counter, the gun nudging my chin again.

I pause before answering quietly, “Yeah. I do.”

The air around us seems to thicken, the groaning of Biters moaning in the distance. But in here, the only sounds are my breathing, Stranger’s breathing, and the slow drip of blood that falls from my side onto the ruined carpet. That’s all it takes to charge the air, unspoken words forming a strange electricity between us.

Swallowing hard, Stranger takes a calculated step back, gesturing the gun to the floor, before they order, “Sit.”

I sit. Not because of the gun, but because they asked like someone who expects me to fight every request. I’m not thatperson, especially to those who help me out of tight situations like the one I was trapped in.

So, I lower myself to the floor right next to a tiny table painted with sad, faded handprints, keeping my back against the wall and my hands where they can see them. The gun remains trained on me the entire time while they move to the window to peer outside. Their shoulders remain tight, drawing my attention to the torn sleeve that exposes a flash of skin along their upper arm. Olive complexion under the blood, marked with pale patches that look like spilled moonlight.

Vitiligo.

It disappears the moment they tug the fabric higher. Another thing hidden, and another answer I don’t have. It’s maddening.

“They’ll pass,” Stranger comments after a beat. “That is, if you don’t keep bleeding all over the place. You’re practically a neon sign that signals dinnertime,” they note, unimpressed, as if my bleeding profusely is ruining their plans for the day.

Ducking my head, I mutter, “I’ll do my best to bleed quietly.”

“You do that,” they quip, turning back to me before their eyes drop to my wound despite their painfully obvious attempts not to give a shit. For a split second, I think they might actually help. It was a momentary lapse in judgment, because the next second, their expression shuts down entirely and they nod to my side. “Patch yourself up while you’re at it.”

I reach for my own bag that miraculously survived the whole Biter encounter, only for Stranger to lift their gun toward me once more.

“Slowly,” they instruct, and I nod my understanding before moving cautiously.

The first-aid kit I pull free is pretty damned pathetic compared to what I’ve seen in some military packs, but it doesthe trick for now. It has to do the trick. I clean the wound through gritted teeth, doing my very best to ignore the way my unlikely companion watches every single move I make. They’re not watching with concern, but more like they’re studying whether I’m about to become more trouble than I’m worth.

I’ve been sized up by enemies, soldiers, raiders, and desperate survivors with nothing else to lose. Those moments are nothing compared to this one, being watched by someone like this stranger, who intermittently checks every exit while watching me. Their gaze jumps from my hands to the window, to the classroom door to the gun, to my boots to the blood on the floor. Not only are they afraid of me, but they’re prepared for every single version of me that could potentially become a threat.

There isn’t a soul left in this world that becomes that careful without a reason.

“You have a name?” I ask carefully, keeping my voice neutral in hopes it doesn’t raise the hackles on this stranger’s back.

“Nope,” they answer without hesitation.

“Huh,” I mumble. “Interesting name. First person I’ve met with such a unique name.”

“It’s served me well,” they retort, and my lips twitch again with amusement I never expect.

Swallowing it back, I glance up at Stranger from beneath my eyelashes before going back to the job at hand, fixing myself up as I say, “I can’t keep calling you Stranger. Or the person who saved my life.”

They shrug. “You don’t have to call me anything. We’re not friends. We’re not even acquaintances.”

“We could be,” I try, immediately regretting the words the moment they slip free, because the look I receive in return would have surely turned me to nothing but ash with one lookalone. Biting my lip, I nod in understanding, muttering, “Okay, then. Maybe not.”

“Good idea,” they conclude, and I eye them warily.

“Are you always this warm and welcoming?” I ask, genuinely curious.

I’m pretty sure they raise an eyebrow. “Are you always this chatty while bleeding?”

I snort. “Only when I’m doing my very best not to pass out.”