Page 126 of Immune

Fletcher moves ahead with the pilot’s weight dragging on him more than it should. Xeon stays close enough to help with directions, his gaze taking in every door and hallway that branches off from ours. Kaito guards the front corner with one hand near his blade and the other pressed to his side, the action happening more often than not.

I notice, but I’m not concerned. Concern is too soft. It’s a little indoor emotion that wears slippers and believes in soup. No, what I have is tactical awareness, not cutesy concern.

Behind me, Ewan walks with one side of his headphones over his ear and the other pushed back. He looks less like the same idiot who would make jokes about mold having a social life and more like someone who is tuned into a frequency the rest of us can’t hear. And, honestly, I hate that it suits him.

The tunnel carries every sound wrong. Fletcher’s boots become three sets of footsteps, the pilot’s breathing crawls along the walls, and rainwater drips somewhere ahead, sounding like nails tapping eerily onto a windowpane.

I keep my knife low but my guard high.

“Well, this is very cheery,” Ewan murmurs from behind me.

Rolling my eyes, I mutter back, “Stop flirting with the tunnel that looks like it would murder us quicker than the Zeds.”

“I was only complimenting the ambiance,” he argues.

“What? The same ambience a serial killer’s basement would also contain?” I ask shortly.

“Oof, bit harsh,” Ewan counters. “Could be a serial killer’s wine cellar. What do we really know? Maybe he’s building Lego down there.”

I glance back at him, eyebrow raised. “Is this you all the time? Like, are you always like this?”

“What? Beautiful, charming, and the life of the party? Yeah, it’s a curse,” he answers, voice dragged out like he’s truly burdened by it.

It should piss me off. It should definitely annoy me more than it actually does. Unfortunately, the part of me that has spent the past hour trying not to think about Kaito, heat symptoms, my father’s research, Vector, or the blatant fact that my body is treating four Alphas like an unwanted survival strategy has decided Ewan’s voice is easier to process than the silence.

Which is completely unacceptable.

I look forward again, noting how the tunnel splits ahead. One route continues straight toward a set of double service doors. The other bends left, slightly narrower and darker, with old yellow arrows painted across the wall.

STAFF PARKING. DELIVERIES. MAINTENANCE.

Fletcher pauses and asks, “Which way?”

Xeon checks the old station map half-peeled from the wall. “Straight should lead west.”

“Should,” I mutter. “That small word sure is doing a whole lot of heavy lifting.”

Then Ewan stops walking. Not slows. Simply stops dead, and my spine tightens.

“What?” Fletcher asks.

Ewan responds by lifting his hand, and everyone grows quiet. The tunnel changes the moment we stop moving. Without our own footsteps, the silence underneath becomes visible in a way I can’t stand. Water drips. Pipes rumble lowly. And somewhere far behind us, dead things groan from the station we just left.

But then I hear it. A low, wet scrape that’s a little too close for comfort. Not behind, either. Ahead.

Ewan’s eyes shift to the double doors.

“One?” Fletcher asks quietly.

Ewan’s jaw tightens, and he shakes his head. “More.”

The double doors rattle.

One.

Twice.

Then a dead hand slaps against the small wired glass window set into the left door.