The shelter breathes with us.
I don’t mean metaphorically. I mean the concrete exhales cold, the pipes sigh like old lungs, the lights hum in a way that feels almost sentient. This place used to be a service bunker for the rail line—emergency power, emergency shelter, emergency lies. Now it’s ours. For however long “ours” lasts.
Adrian seals the steel door behind us. The lock slides home with a sound that lands heavy in my chest. Final. Protective. Possessive. I don’t know which scares me more.
“Clear,” he murmurs into his comm, voice low, controlled.
Zee’s reply crackles back, tinny but alive. “You’ve got maybe four hours before they start sweeping the south grid. Ivy leaked a pattern. They’ll assume you doubled back.”
“Did we?” Adrian asks.
I look at him. He looks at me. We both do
