He moved to get out, then paused, glancing around at the endless stretch of trees and empty road.
No diners, no gas stations—just wilderness.
And the runner?
Out of fuel, its engine cold as a winter stream.
I saw his hesitation and spoke up, my voice flat.
“My leg’s still mending, and you made it worse. I’m not going anywhere.”
Alpha Adrian didn’t argue.
“I’ll check the perimeter for a trading post or something. Stay in the runner.”
“Okay,” I mumbled, too drained to fight.
He climbed out, slamming the door shut—and I heard the lock click.
Through the window, I watched him pull out a weathered map. A small market, half an hour’s walk east. No name, no way to call. He’d have to go on foot.
He started trudging away, his shoulders hunched with frustration.
The second his figure van
