Drift

Three weeks. That's how long Drift had been with this particular band of scavengers, which meant he had maybe another week before someone started asking questions he didn't want to answer. The math was always the same: long enough to not be suspicious, short enough to stay forgettable.

He sat apart from the fire, close enough to benefit from the heat but far enough that the light didn't quite reach him. Old habit. The group had settled in the bones of what used to be a warehouse, all rusted metal and concrete that held the cold like a grudge. Seventeen people, give or take whoever had died or fucked off since yesterday. He'd counted. Always counted.

Most of them were betas, which was ideal. A few alphas, manageable as long as he kept his head down and his scent buried under layers of dust and dried sweat. They'd pegged him as beta within a day and he hadn't corrected them. Why would he? The best lies were the ones people told themselves.

Someone laughed near the fire, the kind of loose sound that came from a full stomach and the temporary illusion of safety. Drift's fingers found the collar of his coat, tugging it higher. The tattoo itched in the cold. It always did. Phantom sensation or guilt, he'd stopped trying to figure out which.

His pack sat between his feet—everything he owned in a canvas bag that smelled like mildew and someone else's blood. Seventeen people was too many. You couldn't track that many variables. Someone was always watching when you didn't expect it, noticing when you pocketed an extra ration or slipped away to piss. The best groups were five, maybe six. Small enough to know everyone's patterns, large enough that you weren't the only target if things went wrong.

But it was almost winter and his last batch of suppressants had run out two weeks ago. So. Compromises.

Drift's gaze tracked movement around the fire out of habit—who sat close to whom, who kept their knife where, who looked at him too long. Most ignored him. The quiet ones always got ignored, which was the point. But there was always someone who decided quiet meant weak, or worse, interesting.

His heat would come soon. A month, maybe less if stress sped it up, which it usually did. He'd need to be gone before then, miles gone, because even betas could smell it once it really hit. The thought sat in his stomach like spoiled meat.

The warehouse had two exits. Main door everyone used, and a gap in the north wall he'd found on day two. He'd already stashed some supplies near it. Just in case.

Movement from across the fire caught his attention. Someone standing, separating from the group.

Drift's hand drifted toward the knife in his boot, casual, like he was just shifting position. He watched them approach through half-lowered lashes, already calculating—run, talk, or fight. The eternal question.

The cabinet had protein bars. Ancient things, probably tasted like cardboard and regret, but calories were calories and Drift's ribs were starting to show through his shirt in ways that made people look twice. So yeah, he was stealing from the supply tent. Again.

His fingers had just closed around the fourth bar when he heard footsteps.

Fuck.

Drift went still, that animal-brain freeze that bought him half a second to think. The tent had one exit and someone was standing in it. The math was simple and shit. He shoved the bars into his coat pocket and turned, already knowing this was going to get ugly.

They stood backlit in the entrance, blocking the only way out. Of course they did. Drift's hand found the knife in his belt, not drawing it yet but making sure they saw the movement. Saw that he wasn't going to just surrender and apologize like a good little omega caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Except they didn't know he was omega. Couldn't know. He'd been so fucking careful.

"Little late for inventory," Drift said, voice flat. His eyes tracked the space between them and the tent entrance, calculating if he could dart past before they grabbed him. Probably not. They had reach and he had three weeks of short rations slowing him down. "Unless you're also helping yourself. In which case, didn't see you, you didn't see me."

His heart was trying to break out through his ribs but his hands stayed steady. That was the trick—make your body lie even when your brain was screaming. He'd had plenty of practice.

The tent fabric moved in the wind, that particular sound that meant he was trapped in a canvas box with someone between him and freedom. Drift's fingers tightened on the knife handle. Not pulling it. Not yet. But they could see his knuckles going white.

"So what's it gonna be?" The words came out with teeth in them. "You here to report me? Demand I put them back and promise to be good?" His lip curled. "Or you want a cut to keep quiet? Because I gotta tell you, I'm real low on things to trade right now that don't end with one of us bleeding."

He shifted his weight to the balls of his feet. If they rushed him he'd go low, try for the legs or gut, anything to get them down so he could run. The bars in his pocket pressed against his ribs. Stupid to risk this much for protein bars. But hunger made you stupid. Hunger made you desperate.

And desperate was when Drift got mean.

"Clock's ticking," he said, quieter now. Dangerous-quiet. The kind of tone that meant he'd already decided fighting was more likely than talking and was just waiting to see if they agreed. "Decide what this is before I decide for you."

The scream cut through the tree line like a knife, high and ragged with panic.

Drift stopped walking.

Instinct said keep moving. Instinct had kept him alive for three years when stopping got you caught or killed or worse. His hand found the knife at his belt while his eyes scanned the forest around him, looking for the ambush he was sure was coming.

Because this was a trap. Had to be. People didn't just scream for help in the middle of nowhere unless they were bait, and Drift had seen that particular con run at least twice. Fake distress, wait for some idiot with a conscience to come running, then three guys with pipes step out of the bushes and suddenly you're the one screaming.

He should keep walking.

The voice came again, closer now. Younger than he'd expected. Cracking with fear or cold or both. Words he couldn't make out but the desperation came through clear enough.

Drift's jaw clenched. "Not my fucking problem," he muttered to the trees, already knowing he wasn't going to listen to himself.

He moved toward the sound anyway, low and quiet, knife out now because if this was a trap he wasn't going down easy. His boots barely made sound on the frozen ground. The forest was too quiet around the screaming—no birds, no small animals rustling through dead leaves. Either they'd been scared off by whoever was yelling, or by whoever was hunting them.

The knife felt good in his hand. Solid. Real. He'd used it to skin rabbits and cut tent rope and once, memorably, to convince a settlement guard that robbing him was a bad investment. It would work fine on whatever waited in the trees.

The screaming stopped.

That was worse. Drift froze mid-step, every nerve suddenly electric. Silence meant either the person had been found, or they'd figured out making noise was a mistake, or—and this was the option that made his skin crawl—they'd never been in danger at all and were currently signaling to their friends that someone had taken the bait.

He should turn around. Should fade back into the forest and be five miles gone before whoever this was even knew he'd been there.

His feet kept moving forward.

"Idiot," he breathed. "You're a fucking idiot and you deserve whatever happens."

But his mind was already working the angles. If it was a trap, how many? Three was standard but desperate times made for desperate crews. Could be five, even six if they were running a serious operation. His eyes tracked the branches overhead—could he climb if he needed to? The ground was too frozen for tracks but he looked anyway, searching for signs of disturbance, places where people had waited in ambush.

Nothing. Which meant either they were very good or he was wrong about the trap.

He hated both options.

The trees opened into a small clearing and Drift stopped at the edge, using the trunk for cover while he scanned the space. There—movement near the far side. Someone on the ground, half-hidden by undergrowth.

Alone, as far as he could see. Which meant exactly nothing because the best traps looked empty until they closed.

Drift waited. Counted to thirty in his head, watching for the tell-tale shift of someone hiding in the brush, the glint of metal, anything that screamed setup. His heart hammered against his ribs but his breathing stayed even. Panic made you sloppy and sloppy got you dead.

The figure moved, trying to stand and failing. The sound they made was pain, not performance.

"Fuck," Drift said, quieter. Then louder, voice hard and carrying: "If this is bait, now's your chance to call it off. Because I'm walking out there with a knife and anyone who tries to stop me is getting it in something that bleeds."

He gave it five more seconds. Nothing moved in the trees.

Still probably a trap. But if it was, at least he'd go down swinging.

Drift stepped into the clearing, knife ready, every muscle coiled to run or fight. His eyes never stopped moving—the trees, the person on the ground, back to the trees.

"Alright," he said, voice flat. "Let's see what kind of stupid I'm buying today."