Page 158 of Immune

“Better?” he asks.

“No,” I practically bite out, looking away before he sees the lie. Not before I miss the way his mouth softens with something that isn’t quite a smile but is something close enough that I know he’s battling amusement.

It’s then that I’m glad I turn away before my body starts taking notes. Stupid body. Traitorous bitch of a body. Really fucking awful committee of flesh.

Fletcher and Xeon talk quietly next to the pilot. Ewan stands by the cracked window with one headphone pressed to his ear, listening to the world outside like it owes him child support. The gray morning past the covered window makes everything look bruised and gloomy, and that’s just the cherry on top of our shit sundae at this point.

“We need water,” Xeon says. “And anything clean for the wounds before we reach the gates. They probably won’t let us straight through if we look half-dead.”

“They’d be right, too, because some of us,” Ewan starts, right before he pointedly looks at me. “Are giving haunted charity shop mannequin.”

“Some of us?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

The fucker looks me up and down before he says, “Look, I’m not one to name any names or anything.”

I roll my eyes just as Fletcher points toward the door at the back of the office. “Storage closet.”

I wait, and he looks at me. I look back at him and his jaw ticks. Then he says, “Could be useful. Could be empty. Could be a death box.”

A horrible thing happens then.

I actually approve.

My face doesn’t show it, though, because I’ve practically mastered the art of discipline after six years. But still, some terrible inner judge wearing my skin decides to stamp the words as acceptable.

“Death box,” I repeat. “Poetic.”

“Informative,” he corrects.

I raise an eyebrow. “Don’t get cocky.”

“Wouldn’t dare,” he volleys.

Ewan coughs into his fist while muttering at the same time, “He absolutely would.”

To absolutely no one’s surprise, Fletcher ignores him.

I cross to the storage closet, knife clutched in hand, and listen at the door. There’s nothing. No drag of feet, no weirdly wet throat noises, and no breathing. I ease it open with the tip of my blade and wait for something to throw itself at me.

Nothing does, and I find that somewhat disappointing and more suspicious than Fletcher’s new personality.

Inside, I find two sealed bottles of water, a packet of dust-covered cleaning cloths, a box of disposable gloves, and three granola bars so old they could be considered ancient. Hell,if an archaeologist found those, I’m pretty sure they’d be handed in to the nearest museum.

I take all of it, obviously.

When I turn back, Kaito is watching me. Not intensely. Well, actually, no. It’s Kaito. Everything he does is intense. The man probably reads labels like they’ve personally wronged him somehow.

Still, there’s something quieter painted over his face now. There’s pain around the edges, and exhaustion stains the skin under his eyes. And there’s a kind of control there that looks completely effortless until you realize it’s being held together with both hands and duct tape.

I toss one bottle of water to Ewan and the other to Xeon. Then I shove a cleaning cloth at Kaito. He catches it and I mutter, “Press harder.”

His gaze drops to the cloth. “A please wouldn’t go amiss. Could be nice to hear.”

“I could also leave you there to leak,” I tell him bluntly.

He pauses for a moment before he says, “True.”

“Glad we understand one another,” I mutter, watching him press the cloth to his side.