Page 82 of Immune

There’s also the case of Kaito’s continuous bleeding. Which, I tell myself, is not my problem. Only, it is, because I stitched him, so that kind of means his wound is technically under warranty. Something like that. Goddamn it.

“We need to keep moving,” Fletcher says, voice kept low and steady.

“Sherlock strikes again,” I snap before I can think better of it.

His eyes cut to me, and Ewan makes a delighted little sound. Fletcher doesn’t look away from me as he warns him, “Don’t.”

“Wouldn’t dare,” Ewan says, lying through his teeth.

“You were,” Fletcher contradicts, calling him on his bullshit.

“Fine,” Ewan relents. “I was going to do it quietly.”

I look between the two of them, a spreading horror washing through me as I mutter, “Do you two always communicate like divorced dads at a barbecue?”

Ewan’s mouth opens.

Fletcher bluntly replies, “No.”

At the same time, Ewan says, “A little, yeah.”

Then they both turn to look at each other.

Fucking hell.

I stare at the ceiling like it might just grant me a small mercy, open up, and drop a piano on my head like they used to in cartoons. Maybe if I pray hard enough, it’ll grant me my wish. Sadly, nothing happens, proving once more that deities don’t exist. Typical.

Xeon presses two fingers to the pilot’s throat. “Pulse is weak and his fever is rising. He needs treatment. Proper treatment and soon.”

“Then take him to your compound,” I mutter instantly. Everyone turns to look at me and I roll my eyes, pointing my knife down the passage. “I assume that’s where you’re heading. Big military vibe. Supplies. Medics. Rules. People who think calling Zeds Rots makes them fancier.”

Ewan lifts a finger. “I want it on record that Rots is very efficient.”

“Zeds has more character,” I argue, just out of pure spite.

“Rots sounds meaner.”

“That’s not the selling point you think it is,” I tell him blandly.

His eyes brighten then, as if he’s discovered a new hobby and it’s called annoying the shit out of me until one of us dies.Thankfully, before he can speak another word, Fletcher cuts in. “You know the district.”

A laugh splits from me. It sounds all wrong, and it lasts for only a second. “Yeah, and?”

“And the streets are riddled right now,” he continues, voice measured and controlled.

“Okay? Get to the point,” I demand blandly.

“Looters are sweeping the area. Rots are migrating toward the noise. Fast Rots are running loose,” he says. “You go out there now and you’ll only end up drawing attention.”

“I draw attention simply by standing still these days,” I grumble under my breath.

Kaito hears it, though, because why the fuck wouldn’t he? His eyes move to me, and something in them softens in a way I want to douse in gasoline and set on fire. Because it’s not pity. It’s worse. It’s a heap load of understanding. Damn it all.

I jerk my gaze away from his and focus on the passage ahead instead. It bends left about twenty feet down, where the ceiling lowers and the floor dips. Air wafts from that direction, cold, damp, and carrying hints of old metal and mold. Not fresh enough to be outside, but it’s blowing enough to tell me there’s an opening somewhere. Maybe an old delivery tunnel or basement access. Or maybe it’s a small murder cupboard filled with death and disappointment.

At this point, who can really say?

“I’m leaving,” I announce shortly.