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Clean.

Final.

The mall fades around the edges. I don’t hear the crowd anymore. I don’t hear Jacob curse or Trish shout my name. I don’t hear Clair’s sharp intake of breath. All I hear is Poppy asking me what my intentions are. Clair whispering my name in the dark. Russ saying that kid like Poppy is nothing. Like Clair is a burden. Like love is weakness.

My face stays blank.

Russ smiles wider, thinking he’s found a weak spot.

He has.

He just doesn’t know what lives there now.

I cross the space between us and punch him. His head snaps sideways. I hit him again. And again. My knuckles split against his cheekbone. Blood slicks my fingers. His mouth opens around curses that turn into choked sounds as I drive him back across the tile. Each punch lands with a dull, wet thud. Skin splits under my fist. One eye swells fast, purple blooming beneath the socket. Blood drips from his broken nose, runs into his mouth, spatters across his shirt.

The crowd screams for more.

Above us, Lyla shouts something I don’t catch. Joanie fires a warning shot into the ceiling when a cluster of cannibals surges too close to the barricade. Glass rains from a dead skylight, glittering as it falls.

I keep hitting him.

Russ grabs at my shirt, smearing blood across my chest. I break his grip and slam my elbow into his jaw. His teeth click together, and something white hits the floor.

A tooth.

He swings again, weaker this time, and I catch his arm. Twist. Step in. Use my shoulder. The way Lyla taught Clair. The way survival teaches everyone eventually.

Russ hits the floor hard on his back.

I drop a knee onto his chest.

His breath leaves in a wet grunt.

The crowd screams for blood.

I wrap one hand around his throat, not enough to crush, just enough to make him understand how little air belongs to him now.

His pulse hammers under my palm.

Fast.

Scared.

Finally.

Around us, the mall starts to fray. Bryant’s people crowd too close, restless, whispering to each other with guns pointed at their heads from above. Lyla barks an order from the second level. Jacob shifts nearer to Clair and Poppy, gun sweeping across anyone who looks at them too long. Trish keeps one hand pressed to her med bag and the other on her pistol. Carlos pins the upper corridor, eyes never still. Joanie stands on the railing like a gremlin with a firearm and absolutely no survival instinct.

The whole place feels one bad breath away from exploding.

Fine.

Let it.

Russ wheezes beneath me, eyes glittering with pain and spite. Blood bubbles at one nostril.

“You know, I wondered if you’d ever figure it out.”

I freeze, fist raised.