Page 86 of Immune

Fletcher reclaims the reins on the whole situation when he gestures once. “Lead the way.”

I bristle. I can’t help it, even if I hate myself for the reaction. I know he’s not saying it like an order. Not really. It’s more that he’s acknowledging that I know the route. But it doesn’t make me prickle any less. Fuck me, every damned thing makes me prickle these days.

I move, only because staying still is worse. The passage dips low enough that Fletcher is forced to duck, and there’s a sense of satisfaction and comfort that runs through me. A petty sense of satisfaction and comfort, no doubt, but beggars can’t be choosers when surviving the end of the world.

Keeping my knife ready, I move through the passage, my shoulder brushing damp concrete as the hallway eventually narrows. Kaito follows behind me, close enough for his worn flannel and burning wood scent to cling to my shoulders but far enough that I can breathe through it.

Behind him, Fletcher and Ewan carry the pilot between them with Xeon covering the rear. Or, maybe Fletcher covers everything by simply existing. Hard to tell with a man who is built like a reinforced apology.

The tunnel opens into a utility room under the next block. It’s not big, but it’s certainly better than the passage.Four walls, one door, a cracked vent close to the ceiling, and old boilers lined across one side like rusted relics. Shelving lines the back wall, mostly empty save for a few tins of paint, crumpled boxes, and a plastic bucket that has seen horrors I don’t think I’ll ever be emotionally prepared enough to identify.

Thankfully, there aren’t any Zeds, Runners, or looters. Just a room that stinks of rust, stale water, oil, and too many Alphas. So... you know. Just your average nightmare with plumbing. Casual. Totally chill.

“It’ll do,” Fletcher confirms with a single nod.

“The enthusiasm is practically bleeding from your pores, mate. Calm down,” Ewan mutters.

I walk toward the far corner immediately. It has the best sightline. Back to the wall, door ahead, vent above, shelves to my left, boiler tanks to my right. No one can sneak up behind me unless they crawl out of the concrete itself, and if that happens, I’m fully done. I’ll surrender to the floor demons. They can have me.

Kaito starts to move toward me and I lift my knife. He stops, reading the warning for what it is, and a flash of something crosses his face. Not hurt, exactly. More like acceptance covered in bruises. I look away before I can start feeling weird about it.

Fletcher and Ewan lower the pilot to the floor close to the boilers, where the pipes release the faintest ghost of old heat. Xeon kneels next to him once more, and the lantern goes on the floor, turned toward the wall so the light stays low and dull.

“We hold here until sunrise,” Fletcher declares.

“No,” I blurt immediately.

Kaito doesn’t move from where he stands near the door, but his eyes are resting on me. I hate that I know exactly where he is without even needing to look properly, but I try to blockthat thought out as I continue. “I’m not sleeping in a room with four Alphas.”

Ewan lifts a single finger and interjects, “To be fair, one of us is barely standing upright.”

Kaito gives him a look.

“What?” Ewan asks. “Mate, you’re literally being held together by nothing more than spite and thread at this point. Don’t give me that look.”

“I’m fine,” Kaito tries to argue, even with his hand pressed against his side.

“You’re absolutely not,” Ewan argues.

“He’s not,” I agree, because the sad fact is, the truth is the truth even when it’s attached to people I find incredibly inconvenient. Kaito turns his gaze on me, and I point my knife at him a split second later. “Don’t make it a thing.”

His mouth snaps shut.

Huh. Look at that. He is capable of learning. Nice.

Fletcher crouches near the door, checking the hinges, and then the old lock before he bluntly retorts, “Nobody’s asking you to sleep.”

“Oh, good. I’ll see myself out, then,” I volley, making to move.

“No,” he says, and my knife comes up once more, and Fletcher exhales through his nose slowly. “Listen to the rest of the sentence before you get a little too stab-happy.”

“How about you try again with a better word,” I request dryly.

His jaw ticks as Ewan whispers loudly, “This might actually be my favorite worst room I’ve ever been in.”

Fletcher ignores him, focusing on me as he says, “No one leaves until we know the street’s clear enough. You can sit by your exit, keep your knife, keep whatever distance you want. But if that door opens tonight, it risks everyone in here.”

“Ah. There it is,” I sigh with an unimpressed smile. “The guilt casserole.”