Page 110 of The Atom Between Us

They led us down a side passage, the lights shifting from red to a muted amber. The walls here were lined with scrap metal, welded in crazy angles. Every twenty meters, a makeshift lamp cast more shadow than light.

We walked past a few of the crowded sleeping quarters, each packed with multiple bunks and cots, the low hum of voices and the faint smell of bodies thick in the air. At the end of the hall, they stopped before a small, private room. A single cot filled most of the space—just big enough for two people.

“Down the hall are the shared washrooms,” Maven said, nodding toward the dim corridor. “Water’s rationed, but it runs. There’s a trunk of clean clothes outside—wear what fits. This room will be best for you,” they added, a sharp glance at Kang. “You’re new, and… people already have opinions about him. Better to keep to yourselves for now.”

I eased myself onto the cot, the thin blanket scratching against my skin. Kang slid in beside me, close enough that the heat radiating off him pressed against me. My heart gave an involuntary jump, the small space amplifying every brush of his arm.

Maven hovered in the doorway, watching us. “There’s a gathering tonight. Food, music, whatever passes for joy. You’re both expected to show. And Diana—” they looked at me, voice lowering— “Doc will check your arm, but if you feel the memories coming back, let me know. We’ve seen it before.”

I nodded. My shoulder burned. My head felt full of broken glass.

Kang watched Maven with the same intensity he’d used on the council. “Thank you,” he said.

Maven gave him a hard smile. “Don’t thank me yet.” Their gaze sharpened. “I’ll have eyes on you at all times. You betray her—” Maven’s smile widened, all teeth— “you won’t get a chance to regret it.”

Kang dipped his head, the old Authority nod, then softened. “I understand.”

Maven lingered a second, then closed the door behind them.

We were alone.

I pressed my palm to my forehead, trying to keep the world from spinning away. Kang reached over, his hand gentle, fingers cool on my skin.

“You okay?” he asked.

I opened my eyes, tried to focus on his face. “Not even close,” I whispered.

He let out a short, tired laugh. “Me neither.”

I leaned into him, letting his arm wrap around my shoulders. It felt awkward, but real. The way people sometimes hold each other just to remember where they end and the world begins.

For the first time in days, I let myself close my eyes.

I listened to the thrum of the tunnels, the far-off sounds of laughter and argument and maybe even music. I let the warmth from Kang’s body seep into mine, burn away some of the chill.

In a few hours, we’d have to stand in front of everyone again. We’d have to find a way to break the maze. Maybe even burn it down.

But for now, there was nothing but the cot, the dark, and the weight of his arm holding me to the world.

Kang takes the floor. He sits with his back to the wall, knees up, arms folded in the posture of a man waiting for someone to break the silence. I watch him from the narrow mattress, too tired to care if it looks like I’m taking advantage, too wrung out to hide the tremor in my fingers. The room is little more than a concrete box, a single bulb strung from a scavenged wire, but the air is a couple degrees warmer than the tunnels and there’s a blanket at the foot of the cot that smells faintly of detergent and someone else’s sweat.

I let myself drift, counting the breaths between Kang’s glances in my direction. It’s a rhythm: every third inhalation, he checks me, as if I might disappear if not monitored. I should find it suffocating, but instead it’s almost comforting, like the silent companionship of two animals curled in the same den, each pretending the other isn’t there. The last three days have been a blur of running, bleeding, not dying. The absence of noise feels unreal. It leaves room for the ache in my shoulder to expand, crawling from collarbone to fingertips.

I wonder if this is what normal people mean by safe.

Kang breaks the silence first. “You should rest,” he says. Not an order, not exactly, but a suggestion armored in habit. His voice is low, softer than I remember from the cell blocks, almost tentative.

I swallow, then force my tongue to move. “You too.”

He almost smiles. “Maybe later.”

A pause. He picks at a loose thread on his uniform, eyes down. In the thin yellow light, the bruises along his jaw are starting to bloom, green and purple. There’s a scab on his temple where the fence caught him, and a shallow cut along his cheekbone. He looks more human now than he ever did in Authority blue. I can’t decide if that’s good or bad.

I close my eyes, try to let the pain slide into the background. It doesn’t work.

After a minute, I hear movement in the hall. Not footsteps—too light for that—but the whisper of fabric against stone, a hush that grows until it’s at the door. There’s a knock. Three quick raps, not Authority cadence.

Kang is on his feet in an instant, standing between me and the door before I can even prop myself up. He’s not armed, but he holds his hands loose at his sides, ready to go for a gun if one materializes. Old habits, I guess.