Souls Below - Rebellion

Chapter Eight.

I stole another glance at Krane, heart skipping when he was already watching me, a faint smile playing at his lips—quiet, almost shy. The kind of look I wasn’t used to from Krane. Normally, I’d have deflected it with a joke, something easy and sharp to keep the space between us light. But my mind stalled. My tongue caught behind my teeth.

I just stared, pulse ticking faster. Had he noticed the shift to? The strange new tension between us? Unspoken words of what if?

“You know,” he started, voice low, barely above the hum of the city below, “something felt different this time. While I was gone. I didn't feel the need to explore.”

I blinked, frowning. “You were in the Mech Sector. There’s a hundred places to mess around in over there.” He chuckled, nodding once.

“Yeah. And yet... I didn’t. Barely left the work site.” He turned his gaze out over the skyline. The machinery across the horizon pulsed and blinked in dull red intervals, like the city had a heartbeat of its own. His eyes drifted back to mine. “I kept working. Fast. Focused. Just trying to finish quickly.”

“Why?” His fingers tightened slightly around mine, just for a second.

“Because all I could think about was getting back.” He paused, like the words weighed more than he expected. “Seeing you again.” My breath caught, shallow and sharp.

“... What?” I managed to whisper. 'Makers, why did I have to sound do dumb?' I thought bitterly to myself. He laughed—a little louder this time, a little more nervous. He shifted closer, shoulder brushing against mine which sent tingles down my arm.

“Ridiculous, right?” he jested. “Whole sector to roam, new routes, half-built towers, and the days just felt... slow. Empty.” He glanced down briefly “Like I’d left something behind. Something... important.” I didn’t answer. I couldn’t, my chest felt too tight. I didn’t know what I’d been expecting him to say. Maybe something lighter, something easier to laugh off. But this—this sank deeper.

“I guess...” He hesitated, the faintest hint of color rising beneath his skin on his face. “You just make me feel complete.”

The words hit harder than I expected—gentle, but deliberate. Not the kind of thing Krane threw around. Not to me, not to anyone. And now they were just... there, suspended between us like a wire strung tight.

His hand slipped from mine, trailing lightly up my arm. A touch which sent heat skimming along my skin. I froze, His face close now—closer than it had ever been. The space between us vanished until I could feel the warmth of his breath, smell the rust of old metal clinging to his shirt, the hint of smoke in his hair.

I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Something in me leaned in—just barely. The part which had started to notice the way his nose wrinkled after I washed my hair, or how he would run his hand through his hair when he was stressed. The part which had been secretly hoping the strained feelings weren't one sided—

A piercing tone rang out, sharp and sudden, splitting the moment like glass. The city’s shift alarm—Night cycle. I jumped, startled, instinctively drawing back, eyes darting around as lights across the skyline began to blink out, sector by sector, people turning in for the night. Darkness fell fast in the Lower City. Quick. Practical. Unforgiving.

I turned to look at the rooftops going dark, then back at Krane. He had shifted away, or maybe he hadn't been that close to begin with, the dying light making it difficult to tell.

'i***t Mira! What the hell are you doing?!' I yelled in my head, kicking my self for almost causing a rift between our friendship. 'Keep your fantasies too yourself!'

His smile remained, but it was quieter now, dulled at the edges, eyes not matching, looking somewhere else entirely. Regret twisted in my chest, sharp and unexpected. I didn’t know what I’d wanted from him. Didn’t know what I meant to do, but it felt like an important moment just slipped through me fingers.

“Come on,” Krane mumbled, rising to his feet. “Better get you home before the old man tacks another week onto your grounding.” He didn’t offer his hand this time, just started walking toward the stairs. I sat there for a moment, alone in the silence he left behind, staring after him like the rooftop might give me the right words. His voice floated back. “You coming?”

I scrambled to my feet and followed.

~*~

We walked in silence, the sounds of the Lower City closing in around us—boots scuffing against pavement, distant voices fading behind metal shutters. The curfew whistle hadn’t sounded yet, but the air was already taut with the rush of people making their final errands, eager to disappear indoors before the city turned hostile.

My mind wasn’t nearly as focused.

Something in me kept looping—his closeness on the rooftop, the way his voice had dropped when he’d said he missed me, the look he’d given right before I pulled away. Krane kept one pace in front of me. Quiet. Unreadable. Every so often, I caught him rubbing the back of his neck, like something beneath his skin was overheating.

I frowned. The air had cooled with the cold rotation settling in. A sharp breeze sliced through the narrow corridors between buildings, enough to raise goosebumps and pull my jacket tighter across my chest. The air had a bite to it, and yet... Krane looked like he was overheating. Cheeks flushed. His jaw was tense, his breathing just slightly too shallow, like he was trying to keep something inside.

I stole another glance. Was he sick? I hadn’t seen him like this before. Not even after a week straight in the rust yards. I’d brushed it off at first—blamed the tension between us, the weird energy on the rooftop—but now I wasn’t sure. Maybe it was more than that. Maybe he’d been exposed to something. Chemicals? Something from the Mech sector? Contamination wasn’t uncommon over there—rust spores, toxin leaks, radiation pockets no one officially admitted existed.

That would explain the weirdness, strange behaviour. The quiet intensity. The way he’d nearly—

'No.' I told myself sharply. This was Krane. Despite how I began to feel, he was my friend. He hadn't shown any interest other than what we normally shared, and part of me decided I would learn to live with that.

We rounded the corner—and both of us slowed at the same time.

Strem stood in the doorway to my place, arms folded across his barrel chest, gaze hard, his blocky frame filled the threshold like a barrier. He didn’t say anything at first, just watched us with that heavy stare of his, the kind that made you feel like your bones were being measured.

Krane slowed, steps faltering a few meters from the house. His whole posture changed, like someone had slipped a wire between his spine.

“Good to see you, Amira,” Strem rumbled finally, voice gravel-thick like most of the older tradesmen. I gave him a small nod, but the unease had already settled in my gut.

“Hey Strem.” I responded, but my eyes were on Krane. He hadn’t moved—not even a fraction. His whole body had gone rigid, like something had coiled tight beneath his skin. The heat rolling off him now felt more like rage than fever.

“Head home, boy,” Strem added. The words were casual. The weight behind them wasn’t. Krane didn’t budge, muscles taut, like a barely contained storm.

Jerard appeared behind Strem, gaze sweeping between them. His eyes narrowed when they landed on Krane, caught his stance immediately— reading the tension like a blueprint. He didn’t raise his voice, as usual didn’t make a show of anything.

“Mira. Inside please,” His tone was calm, firm. The kind that didn’t need a shout to be obeyed. I started to move—until Krane stepped in front of me. His body angled just slightly, but the meaning was clear. He was standing between me and Jerard. Not only in defiance—there was something else. Something almost protective. Instinctual.

Jerard’s expression shifted. Eyes sharpening.

“Careful, Krane,” he warned, his tone suddenly different. Low. Sharp. Like he knew what this could become if it spun too far.

I blinked, confused. The air felt electric again—not like it had on the rooftop, but still charged. My chest tightened. I didn’t understand what was happening—but I could feel it spiralling. This wasn't Krane, this wasn't the boy who protected me from bullies and hid me from the Guards. My eyes darted to the back of his neck, skin red flushed. I blurted the first thing that made sense.

“I think Krane’s sick.” The silence that followed was instant. Tense. All three men turned to look at me. The words hung there, like a drop of oil in water. Heavy. Mismatched. Wrong. I felt heat rush to my face under their stares, my throat tightening.

“Back at the warehouse,” I hesitated, eyes darting to Krane, “he looked flushed. Like when the sickness starts. I thought… maybe that’s why he’s been acting weird. It’s the only thing that makes sense.” Krane turned to look at me—expression cracked wide open. Shock. Hurt. Stunned. He stared at me like I’d just slapped him, lips parted and eyes wide, but it took him a second to find words.

“... You... The only thing you can think— what?” he stammered, voice was raw and pitched a fraction higher than usual, tangled with disbelief. “You... think I’m sick?” Even Strem looked surprised, blinking like he hadn’t expected my outburst.

“Enough, Krane,” Strem scolded, stepping forward. But Krane didn’t move. Didn't look away. His eyes stayed locked on mine, chest rising and falling too fast. There was something in his stare—something wounded and fierce all at once, like he was fighting to hold something in and failing.

“Mira… ” He spoke my name quietly. I almost didn’t hear it, but it wasn’t the sound of it—it was how he said it. Like it meant more. Like it hurt. And I felt it. Like it hooked under my ribs.

A shiver worked up my spine. My pulse jumped—fluttering hard against my ribs, that strange weight in my chest, the flutter I couldn’t name, rose again like it had on the rooftop. But stronger now. Unavoidable.

“Enough!” Strem’s voice cracked through the air. I flinched, the moment shattered. Krane’s jaw tightened, and with a sharp breath he turned away, fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white. He silently walked off without looking back, disappearing into the shadows between buildings, his boots hit the ground harder than they needed to.

I stood frozen for a second, watching his silhouette vanish down the alley. My chest felt tight, pulse still thudding where his voice had landed in me. I turned back to Strem.

“Are you going to call a Medic?” I asked, the words tumbling out too fast. “If it’s the sickness—if something’s spreading in the Mech sector—I can help pay it off. You don’t have to—”

“He’s not sick, Mira,” Strem cut in, rubbing a calloused hand down his face. “At least... not the way you think.” I blinked.

“What?” 'Wow, I was really on the dumb wagon today,' I thought sarcastically. Strem looked at me. Really looked, and his expression softened, just barely.

“You two really do share everything,” he stated. Not quite a compliment. Not quite an accusation. I frowned.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jerard stepped forward before he could answer.

“Not now, Mira. Guards’ll be making rounds soon, and Strem needs to get home before curfew whistle.” I hesitated, looking between them.

Strem didn’t say anything else. Just turned, hand pressed to the bridge of his nose like he was holding back more than just words, a man worn down to the bone. Jerard watched him go, something unreadable etched across his face. When I glanced up, he caught my eyes, managing a tired, smile softening his expression, and held the door open for me.