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We hold there, for a moment. Then the noise outside surges—a bang, a crash, Rosie’s voice again, rallying the troops.

I step back, force myself into motion.

We finish getting ready in silence, efficient and practiced. I lace my boots, then grab the battered satchel from the hook on the door. Kang straps on his belt, checks the pulse on the holster, then nods at me. Ready.

I pause, hand on the latch. The light from the corridor spills in through the crack, harsh and white, full of dust. The world outside is waiting—hungry, unforgiving.

I look at Kang, and he looks at me.

“After you,” he says.

I open the door, and we walk out together.

The corridor is a slap of noise and motion. People move fast, carrying crates, arguing over inventory, shouting greetings or insults. Rosie is at the far end, perched on a stack of pipes, grinning at us with all her teeth.

“About time!” she yells. “You missed breakfast, but there’s still coffee. If you can call it that.”

I glare, but she just laughs.

We thread through the chaos, side by side. Kang’s hand brushes my hip, light as a promise. My shoulder aches, but it’s a good ache.

The Sanctuary humming with purpose.

We move into it, not quite sure what the day will bring.

If the world burns tomorrow, so fucking be it.

Sanctuary is alive by the time we hit the main corridor. The day shift is already at it—hauling trash, breaking up crates for firewood, untangling bundles of scavenged cable with a kind of patient resignation. The air is heavy with detergent and last night’s beer, but there’s a new, sharper note: the mineral scent of fresh-cut concrete drifting in from the hall where they’re expanding the quarantine wing.

Rosie is there, face slick with sweat, barking orders at a pair of teenagers who look like they’d rather eat their own shoes than stack another minute of bricks. She catches my eye and winks but doesn’t break cadence.

Kang and I move in sync, shovelling our way through the drift of bodies. There’s an ease to it, as if our legs still remember the pattern from the last escape: move, scan, move. The Authority may be gone, but the habits are hardwired.

I glance around at the workers bent over their tasks, some chatting amongst themselves. “This…” I murmur, surprised to hear my own voice, “this is the closest thing to peace I’ve seen.”

“Peace, huh?” Kang hefts a broken crate onto a pile, the muscles in his forearms flexing. “You’re easy to impress.”

“Stitch would’ve hated it at first,” I say, brushing plaster dust from my fingers. “Too many rules, not enough freedom. But she would’ve made a home out of it. She always did.” A twinge of grief ripples through me. She’ll never see this place.

Kang bumps my shoulder, dry humour in his eyes. “She’d have painted the walls neon and started charging rent.”

I huff out a laugh. “Yeah. And Jackson…” My throat catches. “Jackson would’ve given you a run for your money.”

“Jackson?” Kang asks.

“A friend,” I say. “More like a grumpy, sarcastic uncle. He’d have argued with you over every little thing.”

Kang’s expression softens. “Sounds like my kind of guy.”

Before I can answer, Maven steps from behind a collapsed beam, gloved hand gripping the strap of a battered leather satchel. One shoulder cocked, chin tilted—broadcasting intent.

“Morning, lovers,” Maven calls, tone pitched for maximum penetration. The words snap the air like a wet towel.

I flinch, more out of habit than offense. Kang just rolls his eyes.

Maven closes the gap in four strides, stopping a hair too close. A stinging blend of moss and solvent clings to them like a second skin.

“There’s a meet tonight,” Maven says, eyes flitting between us. “Big one. Council wants all hands, and you’re on the agenda.”