Page 121 of The Atom Between Us

We don’t speak. We don’t need to.

We just hold on, and let the rest of the world go.

The Sanctuary’s main hall feels different when you sober up and the music has dropped away. It’s like coming down off a month-long stimulant bender—every pulse of light is too bright, every laugh too sharp, every face suddenly in focus where the hour before it all bled together. The benches are packed, some with old hands in threadbare jumpsuits, others with fresh-bloods who haven’t learned the etiquette of staring with your mouth shut. The lanterns overhead burn hotter than before, turning every sweat-damp forehead and scar into a glowing brand. The air is dense with vapor and cigarette smoke, a haze that tastes of vinegar, onions, and yeast.

Kang slipped away ten minutes ago to fetch drinks from the back bar, leaving me perched on a crate with my bad arm pressed tight to my ribs. I watch him weave through the crowd, his shoulders set like a man carrying something precious in his ribcage. The line at the bar is a dozen deep, and everyone’s shouting over each other, but Kang’s voice—calm, steady, Authority even now—cuts through. I watch him pay with two cigs and a stick of gum, then wait while the bartender fills a pair of grimy glasses with a syrupy red.

It’s not until I look back to the floor that I notice the guy staring at me.

He’s slouched on the next bench over, clutching a bottle with both hands like it’s the only thing keeping his bones from leaking out. He has the kind of face that never learned the geometry of beauty—nose broken too many times, lips flat and bloodless, ears that stick out just a little too far. His hair is a stripe of Authority white down the middle, grown out into a greasy mop. He’s wearing what might have been a nice shirt, once, but it’s sweat-stained and open at the chest, the Authority brand burned off with acid.

He notices me noticing him, and bares his teeth in something that aims for a grin but lands closer to a threat.

“Hey,” he says, voice a gravel drag. “Didn’t know they let lab rats out this late.”

I ignore him, but he keeps going.

“Nice dress,” he sneers, eyes flicking over the lace at my thighs. “Someone die for it?”

My first instinct is to pull the hem lower, but I don’t. I meet his stare, cold and flat, and say, “Get lost.”

He cocks his head, takes a long pull from the bottle, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Not a people person, huh? Thought all the doc types were desperate for company.”

“I said, get lost,” I repeat, voice harder.

He laughs, sloshing the drink onto his shirt. “You hear that? She thinks she’s still Authority.” The table around him joins in, not quite with enthusiasm—more like hyenas sensing blood but too lazy to commit. He stands, swaying, and takes two steps toward me. “C’mon, sweetheart. No one’s gonna hurt you.”

He’s close enough now that I can smell the rot on his breath. I keep my hands in my lap, every muscle tight. I glance around, but the nearest group is too deep in their own argument to care. My heart hammers, not with fear, but with rage.

“Fuck off,” I say. “Last warning.”

He leans in, elbow on the crate beside me, voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. “What’s the matter? You need a minder? Or are you just lonely? I could⁠—”

Before he can finish, Kang’s shadow falls across both of us.

The drunk’s eyes flick up, and he actually flinches. Kang is holding the two glasses in one hand, the other curled into a fist so tight the knuckles are white. He doesn’t say a word. He just stares, and for a moment, the only sound is the band at the far end of the hall, tuning their instruments.

The drunk recovers quick. He straightens, chin high, and says, “Easy, Authority. Just making conversation.”

Kang’s voice is a blade: “You’re done.”

The man doesn’t move. I watch his throat work, the Adam’s apple bobbing. “You can’t talk to me like that,” he says, but it comes out weak.

Kang sets the glasses on the crate beside me, slow and deliberate. “You’re done,” he repeats, louder this time.

The man’s face goes red, then purple. For a second, I think he’s going to swing. His hand twitches at his side. But then he looks at me, really looks, and sees the way my shoulder is pressed tight, the faint line of dried blood peeking from the bandage. He does the math. He spits on the floor, then backs away, muttering curses that are swallowed by the crowd.

Kang stands over me a moment longer, his hand hovering in the air between us. I think he wants to touch my shoulder, but he doesn’t. Instead, he sits beside me, the wood creaking under his weight. He slides one of the glasses my way. “You okay?”

I nod, but the word sticks in my throat.

Maven appears out of nowhere, like they always do. They perch on the edge of the crate, knees splayed, grinning at both of us. “Saw that,” they say, voice pitched low. “Could’ve gone worse.”

I glare at Maven. “You recruit from the bottom of the barrel these days?”

Maven shrugs. “He’s got his uses. Tunnel maps. Old Authority layouts.” They glance at Kang, eyebrow arched. “Sorry about the drama. He’s not usually so… forward.”

“He’s drunk,” Kang says.