Page 119 of Immune

The list keeps growing, and that’s how I know it’s becoming the biggest lie I’ve told myself.

And still, I step through the broken station doors anyway.

TWENTY-ONE

XEON

Dakota watches everyone.

Most people look around because they’re afraid. Dakota looks around because she’s learned that fear is only useful if it gives her information. That’s a very important distinction.

I notice it as we move through the transit station, staying above the platforms where the rain hasn’t reached as heavily. The roof leaks in some places, steady streams of water falling through the cracked panels and splashing onto the old tiled floor below. The air smells of rust, wet concrete, and too many bodies that have passed through over the years without leaving anything good behind.

The pilot is getting heavier, too. Not because his body weighs more, but because everything he knows does. His breathing has worsened in the last hour. Every sound drags out of him as if his lungs are catching on broken glass. Fletcher carries most of him now, one of the pilot’s arms slung over his shoulders, his rifle hanging against his chest where he can still reach it quickly. Kaito walks close enough to catch the pilot if Fletcher stumbles, but not close enough to take the weight unless asked.

And that’s not because he’s careless, but because he’s injured. Blood has darkened the side of Kaito’s shirt again, not badly but enough that he’s stopped pretending as if moving doesn't hurt. His jaw tightens every time he lifts too quickly, and his breathing changes every time he twists.

He hides pain well, but Dakota hides it much better.

That’s not to say it’s healthier.

She walks just to my left, close enough that I can see the limp she keeps trying to outrun, but far enough that no one could ever mistake it for comfort. She has a knife in hand, her treasured cap pulled low, bandana up, and wet braid now tucked badly under her collar. Her limp has become more noticeable since the skybridge and she hates it. I know, because every time her knee catches, she moves faster straight after, as if speed can scrub away the mistake.

It can’t, but I understand the instinct.

There are three kinds of people in the world now.

People who show weakness and die.

People who hide weakness and survive.

And people who learn to read what others hide.

I’ve always been the third.

My mom would tell me I was born watching. Back in Seoul, before my family crossed an ocean and the world started falling apart in slower, quieter ways, she’d catch me sitting at the edge of rooms, analyzing people as if their silence could tell me more than their words.

She was right, because it usually did.

“Upper concourse is clear,” Fletcher says quietly from up front. “Lower platforms are crawling.”

Ewan leans over the cracked railing behind us and looks down at the station floor below. “Crawling was a generous word to use. That’s more of a damp shuffle convention.”

“Numbers?” Fletcher asks, voice even despite the extra weight he’s carrying.

“Twenty. Maybe thirty that are visible. More in the tunnels if the echoes are anything to go by,” Ewan answers, straight to business.

Dakota doesn't bother to look back when she says, “There’ll be more in the west tunnel.”

Fletcher shifts the pilot’s weight and asks, “Why?”

“Because the banging came from the east,” she explains. “Zeds drifted that way. Anything that didn’t move either can’t hear it or simply can’t leave.”

Ewan tilts his head. “That’s a bleak little compass you’ve got in your head, huh?”

She glances over her shoulder. “Thanks. I named it Survival.”

“Oh. That’s catchy,” Ewan quips. “A little intense for branding, but it’s catchy. I like it. I’d buy a T-shirt. Or maybe a mug.”