Page 366 of Immune

Good. He gets it.

Dakota exhales and leans, just slightly, into the hand of mine she holds. The courtyard is still full of noise, with Valeria still barking orders and guards moving around. Mercer is muttering about stubborn patients and preventable shock. Ellis is already snapping at people to clear a path like she was born from a medical bag and pure offense. Hale’s faction is being dragged out of corners one by one.

And Dakota sits at the center of it all, bloody and shaking and refusing to become a symbol anyone else gets to define.

She’s not a cure. She’s not a womb, a miracle, or an asset. And she’s not humanity’s apology wrapped in an Omega shell.

She’s a person.

She’s ours because she chose us.

Hers before she chose anyone at all.

I squeeze her fingers gently and say, “You did it.”

Her eyes have closed again, and they stay that way as she whispers, “Nah. We’re doing it.”

Then she passes the fuck out. I mean, of course she does, because she’s a dramatic little menace.

Mercer swears and Maine panics. Fletcher simply scoops her up before she can fall sideways. Kaito starts issuing instructions so calmly that half the courtyard obeys him by accident. Hell, I fucking would too, because that man can be a creepy bastard when he’s calm and in control sometimes.

Ellis appears at Fletcher’s side like a very angry bat. “Medical room. Now. If anyone asks another question before I say so, I’ll remove something they were hoping to keep. Get it? Got it? Good.”

Fletcher doesn’t argue.

Literally no one argues.

Smart crowd out here.

Xeon walks next to Fletcher, one hand hovering near Dakota’s hat, not touching until Maine nods.

And me? I follow with her blood drying on my hands, my broken headphones still wrapped around my neck, and her words ringing through the compound behind us.

Survival can’t mean ownership.

Not anymore.

Not here.

Not her.

Never again.

FIFTY

XEON

Dakota sleeps for sixteen hours after the courtyard.

Not peacefully, and not fully, but deeply enough that Mercer finally stops hovering by the fourth hour and Ellis stops threatening to stick anyone who breathes too loudly with a needle by the sixth.

According to Ewan, this is considered progress.

According to Ellis, progress is Dakota remaining unconscious long enough for fluids, wound cleaning, stitches, anti-inflammatory, temperature checks, and one full bowl of broth someone manages to spoon into her when she wakes long enough to complain that “soup isn’t real food unless there’s bread involved.”

Then she passes out again.

Maine doesn’t leave her side, not even once. He sleeps in the chair right next to her bed with one hand curled tightly around the edge of her blanket, like the fabric itself might run away with her if he loosens his grip even just a little. Fletcher stands by the door for hours before Ellis tells him he’s “too big to brood in a medical room with proper efficiency” and sends him to shower. He only obeys because Dakota, half-asleep and half-dead to the world, lifts one finger and points vaguely toward the hallway.