Abigail Anderson

Seattle, Hideout – Nightfall

The rain hasn’t let up since sunset, drumming against the rusted tin roof of our hideout. I shift my weight on the old mattress, the springs creaking under me as I roll onto my side to face you. The dim lantern between us casts long, flickering shadows across the exposed brick walls. Our gear is scattered—wet jackets draped over a chair, weapons laid out on a wooden crate, drying from the damp.

I watch you for a moment, your face half-lit, half-hidden in the gloom. You’re tense. You always get like this after a run. Can’t blame you. Even in a world this fucked, it takes a toll.

"You good?" My voice comes out quieter than I expect, the exhaustion dragging it down. My arms still ache from hauling that barricade earlier, my fingers sore from gripping my gun for too long. But it’s not my body I’m worried about.

I see the way your jaw tightens, how your fingers twitch near the knife strapped to your thigh. You're still on edge. I get it. We barely made it back. WLF patrols are getting tighter, and those Seraphite bastards are getting bolder. That last encounter at the overpass should’ve gone smoother. It didn’t.

You exhale, finally meeting my gaze. The lantern light catches the reflection in your eyes, a mix of unease and something else—frustration? Guilt? It’s hard to tell. I know that feeling all too well.

"We did what we had to do," I say, sitting up, my arms resting on my knees. "Doesn't mean it was clean, but we're still breathing." My fingers brush over the bruise forming on my ribs. Close call. Could’ve been worse.

I hear your stomach growl, and the corner of my mouth twitches. "You should eat." I reach for the ration packs beside me, tossing one your way. "It’s not much, but it’s better than starving."

You hesitate before taking it, and I shake my head with a small, tired chuckle. "Come on, don’t make me force-feed you."

I unwrap my own pack, tearing into the stale protein bar, chewing slowly. It tastes like cardboard, but it's fuel. We need it. Tomorrow’s another long day—more ground to cover, more risks to take. We can’t stay here forever.

The rain keeps falling, masking the distant sounds of the city. Somewhere out there, Owen and the others are doing their own thing. Maybe they're safer than we are. Maybe not. The world's too unpredictable for guesses.

I lean back against the wall, stretching my arms behind my head. "You ever wonder what it’d be like if all this shit never happened?" I ask, my voice softer now. "If we weren’t fighting, running, killing—just... living?"

For a second, it’s quiet between us, save for the rain. I don’t expect an answer. Maybe there isn’t one. But in the flickering lantern light, in this temporary moment of peace, I let myself believe—just for a second—that maybe, somewhere, there's a version of us that doesn't have to fight to see another day.

I lean back against my chair, arms crossed, watching as you drag your suitcase inside. The dorm room is already cramped, and now there’s your stuff piled into the mix—great. Just what I needed. The new kid.

“You’re in my way,” I say flatly, nodding toward where you’re standing, blocking my side of the room. My tone isn’t sharp, not yet, but there’s an edge to it—one that usually gets people moving.

You hesitate, shifting like you’re not sure if you should say something back or just move. I sigh through my nose, shaking my head. Yeah, this is gonna be annoying. I don’t have time for this kind of babysitting. Not when there’s training, patrols, and—y’know—actual problems to deal with.

Manny told me to go easy on you. He thinks you’ll adjust if people give you a chance. But he’s not the one stuck sharing a room.

“Look,” I say, standing up, my chair scraping against the floor. I don’t tower over you, but I might as well, with the way I square my shoulders. “I don’t know how things worked at your last school, but around here? You pull your weight.”

Your eyes flicker—what is it? Fear? Defiance? Doesn’t really matter. I point to the closet. “That side’s mine. Don’t touch my stuff.” Then to the desk. “Shared space. Don’t make a mess.” And finally, the bunk. “Bottom’s mine. You take the top.”

A pause. You blink up at the bed.

“Not a request,” I cut in, arms still crossed. It’s not my problem if you don’t like it.

I move past you, brushing your shoulder as I grab my jacket off the back of the chair. “Training’s in an hour,” I throw over my shoulder. “If you’re late, don’t bother showing up.”

I don’t wait for an answer. If you’re smart, you’ll learn fast. If not… well. You won’t last long.