Page 105 of Immune

He was strict before that. But after? After, he became something harder. Quieter. A man who checked locks twice and stopped speaking when I walked into a room. A man who taught me restraint like it was survival, not manners.

O’R means something to compound Alphas. Because it’s the name of a man tied to NOVAC. Old research, maybe. Science buried deep under military silence and lab doors.

And Dakota reacted like the sound had reached across six years and put its hand around her throat.

So maybe I’m wrong, and maybe I’m only building a name out of a dying man’s fever and the look on his face, three soldiers’ silence, and my father’s ghosts. But something tells me I’m not.

Either way, she’s Dakota.

Kota.

She’s the girl with black painted nails and a knife hand quicker than most trained soldiers. She’s a girl who has survived six years alone and still apologizes to no one for being difficult to kill.

She kissed me, and then she told me it was just biology. I let her, because arguing would have made it about me, and that’s not what I’m about.

I follow a few steps behind her now, forcing space between us even though every single nerve in my body hates it. The market around us is a maze of collapsed stalls, tarps sagging under rainwater, rusted shutters, and cracked tile smudged with mud. Water pours through the broken skylights overhead in streams of silver, drumming against old metal counters and plastic crates, loud enough to hide smaller sounds.

Bad place to move through, though. Too many corners, too much cover, and too much scent washed loose by the rain.

Fletcher and Xeon carry the pilot between them both now. The man hangs limp, boots dragging occasionally when his body loses what little strength it has left. His breathing is wet and wrong, but he’s hanging in there. Ewan takes the rear, headphones still hooked around his neck, head tilted as he listens to everything behind us.

I should be watching the market.

I’m not. I’m watching Dakota.

She limps when she thinks no one is watching. Not badly, or enough to slow us in a way she’ll admit. But her right knee keeps catching every few steps, and each time it does, her shoulders tighten. Her injured arm is held too still against her side. And she keeps flexing the fingers of that hand like the pain is scratching sharply at her nerves and she’s trying to make it stop.

She would literally rather bleed through her sleeve than ask for help. Hell, she’d probably rather bleed through someone else’s sleeve, too, if that someone had pissed her off enough.

A half-broken sign swings overhead, squeaking softly in the wind that cuts through the market.

It only steals my attention for the briefest moment before Dakota stops and lifts a fist. Everyone freezes, even Fletcher. She tilts her head, listening.

For a second, all I hear is rain. Then a scrape. It’s small, and it comes from the left.

Dakota points with two fingers toward a row of stalls covered in faded blue tarps. Fletcher lowers the pilot carefully against the side of a perfume stand and raises his rifle. Xeon moves silently to the other angle, and Ewan’s expression empties of humor.

Dakota doesn’t wait for anyone’s permission. She never does.

She steps forward, knife low, weight shifting around her bad knee like she’s been doing it for hours. Days. Weeks. Fuck me, maybe even years. The thought shoves something dark and helpless into my chest.

A Biter suddenly drops from behind the tarp, smaller than I expected. A woman once, maybe. Her hair is stuck to her skull, jaw split open, with rainwater and old blood glossed over her gray skin.

Dakota moves before I can. Knife under the chin. Up. Twist. Step aside before the body collapses. Clean, fast, and way too practiced.

The Biter hits the tile with a wet thud, and Dakota wipes her blade on the tarp before glancing at Fletcher. “Market’s not clear.”

Fletcher looks down at the body, then at her. “Noted.”

She pauses, as if she expected more argument, but he gives her none. It only makes her eyes narrow at him as if his cooperation offends her and her ancestors.

Ewan whispers from behind me, “She gets very upset when people are reasonable, huh?”

“Yup,” I answer.

Dakota turns only slightly. “I heard that.”

“I know,” Ewan assures, sounding a little too chipper. “That's why I said it with optimism.”