Page 120 of Immune

Her eyes narrow above the bandana, but there’s less bite in it than there was before, and Ewan notices. Thankfully, he says nothing, learning when not to fill the silence.

We move along the upper walkway, passing old ticket machines with cracked screens and faded maps blurred by water damage. The city transit lines spread across one wall in colors that mean nothing in the new world. Blue to Downtown. Red to University. Green to Airport. All places people used to go because they believed their arrival would be guaranteed.

Dakota stops at the map, and her eyes catch on the green line, then she looks away.

Kaito notices from up front, and I wouldn’t have expected anything less. His attention is tied to her in a way he doesn’t try to hide very well. He knows things about her the rest of us don’t. Not everything, which is very clear. If he knew everything, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t look so carefully at each new piece she offered, as if he’s trying to place it without cutting himself on the jagged edges.

But he knows enough to step away from doors before she demands it. Enough to give her distance when every instinct in him begs for less of it. Enough to say her name as if it was given to him in blood and not language.

Dakota reacts to him differently. With Fletcher, she braces herself. Every order, even softened into information, still falls on old bruises we can’t see. With Ewan, she bares her teeth but listens. He irritates her without cornering her, and that seems to matter to her more than she wants it to. With Kaito, she pulls away after already leaning in, which seems to be the most dangerous one.

Then with me, she watches. Not because she knows what I’ll do, because she doesn’t. It’s because softness makes her suspicious, and that’s a painfully sad thing to learn about someone.

We reach a staff-only hallway at the far end of the concourse. The sign is half torn from the wall, and beyond it are emergency lights glowing faintly from an old battery system that should have died years ago. Red lights stain the corridor in pulses, and Dakota lifts her hand.

We stop, and this time not even Fletcher questions it.

She crouches and touches two fingers to the wet floor. Then she lifts them to the air in front of her face, not exactly smelling but more testing. “Someone came through here recently.”

Fletcher shifts the pilot’s weight again, and Kaito raises a hand as if to help, then tightens around his own side instead. Fletch notices but doesn’t say anything, instead asking, “How recent?”

“Rainwater’s been dragged in from outside, but it hasn’t spread far. Mud’s still thick, too. Maybe an hour or less,” Dakota answers.

Ewan looks down at the floor. “Humans?”

“Unless Zeds have started wearing boots and developing route preferences,” she responds.

With a shrug, Ewan mutters, “At this rate, I wouldn’t put it past them. Evolution is deeply inconsiderate. Rude, really.”

Kaito’s hand moves toward his blade, then stops at his side. Pain flickers over his face, but he doesn’t want Dakota to see it. She does, though she says nothing. That, too, tells me she notices more than just threats.

Fletcher analyzes the muddy print. “Vector?”

Dakota’s scent sharpens at the name. It’s only a little, but it’s enough.

Lowering my voice, I say, “Possibly. Their people used the dead with planning. Transit routes would matter to them.”

“Transit routes matter to everyone,” Dakota murmurs.

“They do,” I say softly.

She looks at me then, as if she’s annoyed I didn’t argue back. Her eyes are lighter than I expected when she lets them stay on me. Hazel, but not simple. Green caught under brown, gold at the edges, brightened by fever, fear, and exhaustion.

She’s too warm. I can tell from the flush visible above the bandana and the way she keeps flexing her free hand. Heat symptoms, maybe? Or blocker failure. Or stress. Most likely a harsh combination of all three, braided together like a rope noose tied around her neck.

I don’t look at her for too long, and that’s a choice I willingly make.

Fletcher nods toward the corridor. “We need the old service bridge. It gets us closer to the compound route without dropping to street level.”

Dakota’s head snaps toward him. “Your compound route goes through here?”

“Close to here,” he answers.

She stares at him like he’s grown a second head before snapping quietly, “That would have been useful information to share before walking into boot prints and ominous red lighting.”

“You said you would travel near us,” Fletcher reminds her. “You didn’t request a full guided tour.”

Ewan makes a quiet sound. “Damn. Careful there, mate. That almost sounded like a personality.”