OCTOBER AND ANDY

The building you’ve taken shelter in used to be something functional—an office, maybe, or a storage facility—but now it’s just another hollowed-out space, stripped of purpose and filled with the quiet residue of abandonment. Broken desks line one wall, their surfaces layered in dust. A few chairs lie overturned, one missing a leg entirely. The windows are cracked, letting in slivers of pale light that stretch across the floor in uneven lines.

It’s quiet, for once.

Not safe—never safe—but quiet enough that the tension settles into something more manageable. The kind of stillness that lets people breathe without constantly looking over their shoulders.

You sit on the floor near one of the windows, back resting against the wall, one knee pulled up loosely. There’s nothing in your hands, nothing to occupy you, but you don’t seem to need it. Your gaze drifts somewhere beyond the broken glass, unfocused, like you’re watching something far away that no one else can see.

Around you, the group exists in their usual, unspoken patterns.

Jayesh stands near the center of the room, speaking quietly with Roman and Emma. His posture is relaxed in that deceptive way—like he’s at ease, but every movement is deliberate, every glance calculated. He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t draw attention, but people listen anyway. They always do. There’s something about him that demands it, even when he says very little.

You don’t join them.

You rarely do.

A few feet away, Sam is checking supplies, her movements efficient, precise. Rachel sits close by, quietly sorting through items, her fingers careful and methodical. She glances up occasionally, her eyes flicking between people, always observing, always aware in her own quiet way.

Andy leans against a wall, arms crossed, his expression somewhere between bored and irritated. His gaze moves constantly—over exits, over people, over anything that might shift or change. He doesn’t miss much.

And then there’s October.

He’s closer to you than usual.

Not right next to you, not close enough to make it obvious—but close enough that it’s noticeable if anyone’s paying attention. He sits on the floor a few feet away, one leg stretched out, the other bent, his arms resting loosely on his knees. His posture is casual, but there’s an energy to him that never fully settles.

His gaze drifts.

Not aimlessly.

It keeps returning to you.

You don’t acknowledge it.

Not directly.

But it’s there.

“Hey,” October says after a while, his voice cutting gently through the quiet.

It’s not loud.

Not demanding.

Just… there.

Your attention shifts slightly, not fully turning, but enough to show you’ve heard him.

He tilts his head a little, studying you with that open, curious expression he tends to have when something—or someone—has caught his interest.

“You always this calm?” he asks.

There’s no judgment in it. No edge. Just genuine curiosity.

From across the room, Andy’s gaze flicks over immediately.

Sharp.

Quick.

He doesn’t say anything, but the shift is there—the way his posture straightens just a fraction, the way his attention locks onto the interaction like it suddenly matters more than whatever he was doing before.

You remain where you are, unmoving, your expression unchanged.

October doesn’t seem bothered by the lack of response.

If anything, it makes him more curious.

“I mean,” he continues, gesturing vaguely around the room, “everything’s kind of… falling apart all the time, and you’re just—” he pauses, searching for the right word, “—here.”

A faint, almost amused breath escapes him.

“Not even phased.”

Andy scoffs quietly under his breath.

It’s subtle, but not subtle enough.

October glances at him briefly, then back to you.

Andy pushes himself off the wall, stepping a little closer—not enough to interrupt, but enough to insert himself into the space.

“Maybe they just don’t care,” he says, tone flat, though there’s something underneath it. Something tighter.

October frowns slightly. “Or maybe they just don’t panic over everything.”

Andy’s jaw tightens.

“I don’t panic,” he replies immediately.

October raises an eyebrow, not quite challenging, but not backing down either. “Didn’t say you did.”

The tension between them is quiet, but it’s there.

Familiar.

You’ve seen it before.

Andy crosses his arms again, his gaze flicking briefly to you before settling back on October. “You’re making it sound like that’s a good thing,” he says. “Not caring doesn’t exactly keep people alive.”

October shrugs, leaning back slightly on his hands. “Neither does freaking out all the time.”

“I don’t—” Andy cuts himself off, exhaling sharply. “That’s not the point.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Rachel glances up from where she’s sitting, her eyes moving cautiously between the two of them, like she’s expecting the conversation to tip into something sharper. Sam pauses her movements for a second, just long enough to register the shift, before continuing without comment.

Jayesh doesn’t look over.

But you know he’s aware.

He always is.

October shifts his attention back to you, like the conversation with Andy was just background noise.

“You don’t seem like the type to get dragged into all this,” he says, his tone softer now. “Not really.”

Andy notices that.

Of course he does.

His gaze sharpens again, something unreadable flickering across his expression. It’s not outright anger. Not even frustration, exactly.

It’s something quieter.

More contained.

You remain where you are, still leaning back against the wall, your presence steady in a way that contrasts everything else in the room.

October watches you for a moment longer, then lets out a small breath, like he’s accepting the silence instead of trying to fill it.

“Fair enough,” he mutters.

Andy shifts his weight, restless.

“Why do you even care?” he asks suddenly, the question directed at October but edged with something else.

October glances at him, caught off guard for a second. “What?”

Andy gestures vaguely in your direction. “Them. Why do you care?”

There’s a pause.

October frowns slightly, clearly not expecting the question to come out like that.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly after a second. “They’re just… different.”

Andy’s expression tightens.

“Different,” he repeats, like he’s testing the word and finding it lacking.

October shrugs again, a little more defensively this time. “Yeah. Different.”

Andy doesn’t respond immediately.

His gaze shifts to you.

Studies you.

There’s something in it now—something sharper than before, but not entirely hostile. More like he’s trying to figure something out and doesn’t like the fact that he can’t.

“You don’t even talk,” he says, not quite accusatory, but not neutral either.

The room feels quieter for a second.

Like everyone’s aware of the moment, even if they’re not directly involved in it.

October shoots him a look. “Andy—”

“What?” Andy cuts in. “I’m just saying.”

His eyes don’t leave you.

“You don’t react. You don’t say anything. You just sit there like none of this matters.”

There’s a pause.

Then, quieter—

“Why?”

It’s not a demand.

Not really.

More like a question he didn’t mean to ask out loud.

October watches him for a second, then glances back at you, his expression softer, less guarded.

Rachel’s hands have stilled completely now, her attention fixed on the space between all of you. Sam doesn’t look up, but her movements have slowed.

Jayesh—

Still doesn’t turn.

But you know he’s listening.

Andy shifts slightly, like he’s already regretting saying anything at all, his expression tightening again as he looks away briefly.

“…Forget it,” he mutters.

But the question lingers.

In the air.

In the space between all of you.

October leans back again, quieter now, his earlier curiosity settling into something more thoughtful.

Andy stays where he is, arms crossed, gaze no longer fixed on you—but not entirely gone either.

And you—

You remain exactly where you were.

Calm.

Unmoved.

Present in a way that doesn’t demand anything from anyone, but somehow draws attention anyway.

The room slowly exhales, tension easing just enough to let everything continue.

But something has shifted.

Small.

Subtle.

Unspoken.

And neither of them looks at you the same way they did before.