Page 53 of Immune

“I know,” Ewan sighs. “I was giving optimism a go. Hated it. Don’t recommend it.”

Blocking him out, I raise my gun and watch the balconies. My father used to tell me that fear makes people look at the wrong thing. He said we stare at what is obvious and loud, not what’s actually important. He taught me to look where sound sends people running from, to watch an empty window beside the broken one, to notice the deathly silence after a shot.

Back then, I was only a child. I thought he was teaching me games. It was only later, when the city fell apart and we learned how fast people become victims or targets, that I understood my father had been giving me tips for when disaster struck.

The crash is loud.

The bodies are loud.

The bags are loud.

Even the quiet roofline is loud. It’s important.

Fletcher signals for Ewan to cover left, me right. We move as a single unit into the road, not fast enough to be considered reckless or slow enough to become easy pickings. I keep my gun raised and eyes constantly moving.

That’s when I see him. A small figure crouched near the mouth of the alley opposite the wreck, partially hidden behind the corner of the building. A scavenger, maybe? Young Beta male from the look of him, slight and narrow under the oversized clothing. Old cap pulled low, bandana covering half of his face, and jacket several sizes too big. He carries a backpack strapped tightly against him, carries a knife in one hand, and every line of him is pulled so tight that it looks like one gust of wind could snap him in half.

And he’s not alone.

An Alpha stands behind him. Dark hair. Injured, if the sight of his posture is anything to go by. His position is one of protection, but he’s not claiming space around himself. He stands close enough to help and far enough not to trap. That’s what I notice before anything else.

I watch the small scavenger lean just enough to see the wreck, their movements careful and clever, if not a little too still. I don’t lower my gun, but I don’t aim it at him either.

Ewan notices my attention and shifts his gaze, spotting the same thing before he whispers, “Company.”

“I see ’em,” Fletch assures, his voice changing to something flatter instead of louder.

The scavenger reacts before we move, his body locking tightly, but not at the sight of our weapons. Not exactly. But the fear comes a hiccup later, sharp enough that even before the wind changes, I can see it. I see it in the way his shoulders pull in, the way his fingers tighten around his knife, and the way his body prepares to run before his feet move an inch.

Fear has a shape. I’ve seen it in children pulled from raider houses. In women hiding medicine under floorboards. In Betas who flinch from every command because someone once claimed orders as protection but actually meant ownership.

This fear has a history.

Then, suddenly, the wind shifts and everything in me comes to a startling halt.

That scent isn’t clean. Not at all. It’s almost buried under smoke, rain, rot, and grime. Almost hidden beneath old fabric, the bitter tang of blockers, and the coppery spike of blood. It should be next to impossible to catch among all this filth, especially with the crash burning beside us and Rots already dragging themselves closer to the burning heap of metal.

Still, it slips through.

Faint, sweet, terrified.

Omega.

My Alpha wakes so fast it feels like a hand closing around my throat. Beside me, Fletcher turns utterly motionless. Ewan stops breathing entirely.

And then the world sharpens into a single point. Not because the scent is strong, because it isn’t. It’s hidden, strangled under chemicals and mud and fear. It’s hidden well enough that I would have missed it had the wind not turned, if the fear hadn't knocked through the blockers, and if everyinstinct in my body hadn’t been waiting for one impossible note in the air.

Omega.

Here. Alive. Afraid.

The small scavenger backs up a little too quickly, and the injured Alpha lifts his hand as if to steady him, only to stop before making contact. Something in me releases by a mere fraction at the sight. The Alpha knows better than to grab, knows better than to make fear smaller by force.

It’s only then I notice the body beneath the disguise doesn’t quite fit the shape it’s trying to sell. They’re too slight. Hands too small wrapped around the knife. Movements too controlled in a way that feels different from a boy trying to appear strong and more like someone trying to scrub away every soft line they own.

Not a boy, then.

At least, I don’t think so.