⌐╦ᡁ᠊╾━
The closed laundromat reeks of damp detergent and rust. I shove the doors shut and drag whatever I can find against the frames- wooden crates, a broken folding table.
Enough to secure us for the night.
I search the laundromat for anything dry, and come up with a few towels.
Lila presses herself against the wall, shoulders tight, eyes wide. Her hair sticks to her skin from the rain. I toss her a towel.
I drop into a chair, knife still strapped to my thigh.
"Listen," I say, voice low, sharp. "If you want to survive then I make the rules. Move when I move. Stay silent when I say silent. Understood?"
She tilts her head, shiny eyes met mine.
"Soldier rules huh? Do you wear a helmet too, or is that optional?"
I snap. My chair falls back with a sharp clatter, my words spilling sharper than I intend.
"This isn't a game." I step closer. "One mistake and you die. I don't care what fantasies you built thinking you'd be free out here. They'll tear you apart for even breathing wrong. I can't drag dead weight along with me. So either listen, or you don't make it."
She wraps her arms around herself, as if shielding herself from my words.
"Sorry." The whisper barely makes it past her lips.
I stiffen. I shouldn't care. I shouldn't have snapped. But I can't ignore- not when one mistake could cost both of us our lives.
I drag my fingers along my wet hair, forcing my voice steady. "You don't get it. You're marked. The Syndicate saw you with me. That makes you a witness. That makes you a liability. A mistake. And they don't let liabilities live and mistakes happen."
Her breath hitches. She doesn't move, but her grip on the towel tightens, knuckles white. "Who... who are they?"
I laugh, humourless. "You don't want to know."
But I see the stubborn set of her jaw, as if she refuses to let the question go. So I give her enough to understand. Enough to scare her quiet.
"The Syndicate builds us with the basics as we grow up. They take kids. Break them. Train them until there's nothing but orders and soldiers. They don't let you think or feel. You complete the mission or your erased, a walking liability. I was theirs and I walked away. Look where it's got me."
Her lips part, but no words come out. Not a joke this time. Just silence. She stares at me, studying me like a textbook. God this girl is surprising.
She presses her towel to her face, wiping at her damp cheeks. Her eyes don't leave me.
The storm pounds harder outside. I pace the length of the laundromat, too tense to sit. Every shadow feels like a threat, a trap.
Years of training grind into my bones: never stop moving, never attach, never trust. Yet here she is- trembling, stubborn, alive- and I can't shove her back in the rain.
Now, whether I want it or not, she's my responsibility.
Thunder rattles the roof.
Then- footsteps. A shift in the rain. Steady. Deliberate.
A tracker.
My knife is in my hand before I think.
She glances at me, wide-eyed.
"Stay behind me," I whisper.