Page 136 of Immune

Wait.

The sound comes again. A slow, wet, dragging noise. A Rot, maybe. Possibly two, passing the outer hallway. Dakota’s knife tightens, and I shake my head before pointing to the floor.

Stay.

Her eyes narrow. Honestly, if looks could kill, I’d be dead, resurrected, and dead again just for good measure.

“Background case,” I whisper, rolling my eyes dramatically. “Let them have their moment. Their names aren’t written in the programme, and this is their only time to shine. They’ve worked hard for this.”

I’m pretty sure the next stare I get off her means she’s imagining countless ways she could use my spine. Lush.

The dragging eventually fades and, after a minute, Fletcher raises two fingers from beside the window.

Two Rots. Gone.

Dakota looks back at me like this was somehow all my fault, and I raise my brows at her. She remains in the corner, and I consider it a small victory. Not for me. Oh, god, no. For her. I know better than to claim that shit.

I lean against the desk and glance around the office. “You know, this isn’t the worst place I’ve ever had to spend the night.”

Dakota’s eyes slide to me.

I carry on, because I’m nothing if not committed to making poor choices. “There was this recruitment office in Cardiff before everything went sideways. Beige walls, motivational posters, coffee machine that tasted like boiled assand regret. The dude at the front desk kept calling everyone champ.”

She blinks slowly at me.

“This place has a way better atmosphere, don’t you think?” I add.

Her eyes move over to the dead monitors before roaming over the moldy walls, bleeding pilot, injured Kaito, and tunnel window. Then she looks back at me and says, “Your standards are actually diabolical.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment,” she informs.

I shrug. “I’ve decided it was.”

She looks away, but I notice her shoulders loosen a fraction more than they were before. There we go. Fractions absolutely count.

People often think jokes are just for getting a laugh out of someone. They’re not. Well, not always. Sometimes jokes are tiny doors. You crack one open, let in a little bit of air, and hope no one notices that breathing just got that little bit easier. I learned that pretty early on. People like funny. Funny can be useful. Funny means you’re not the problem. Funny means no one has to ask why your hands shook after the last run, or why you hate sitting in silence, or why you keep your headphones on even when there’s no music playing.

If you’re the laugh, no one will look close enough to the lad making it.

Simple.

Sometimes stupid, but definitely simple.

Dakota shifts in the corner, and her eyes flick to Kaito again. His breathing catches when he tries to adjust himself against the wall, because he’s an idiot. Pain turns his mouth white for half a second, and Dakota’s hand wrapped around her knife tightens. Not because she’s angry. Wait, actually, not onlybecause she’s angry. Dakota seems to keep her anger close at all times. Kind of like lip balm. Or an umbrella.

She wants to check on him, but she won’t, because that would mean caring in public. Apparently, she’d rather fight a fast Rot in a cupboard than check on the man currently bleeding out of his side like that’s just a little side quest he’s on.

I whisper to her, “The option to tell him he looks like shit is always there.”

Her gaze snaps to me.

“You know,” I add, “for morale or something. Sportsmanship. Go team!”

“I’m pretty sure he already knows he looks like shit,” she points out.

I nod slowly. “Yeah, but feedback is vital for progression, right?”