Page 93 of I’m The Worst

He grabs my arm and yanks me around the back of the building, down a tight path slick with ice. My boots slip, and his grip tightens, keeping me upright.

“Where are we going? What is this place?”

He doesn’t answer.

Of course he doesn’t.

He stops at a steel door tucked between two crumbling buildings, barely noticeable unless you’re looking for it. His hands flex before he punches in a code.

The lock clicks.

The door swings open.

I step inside—and stop cold.

“Woah…”

This isn’t what I expected. It’s not another abandoned shack or half-rotted safehouse barely holding together.

Racks of guns line the walls—assault rifles, handguns, shotguns—all cleaned and perfectly arranged. Shelves stacked with ammo, body armor, med kits. Everything labeled. Everything in its place.

A massive map covers the far wall, with flat-screen monitors filling the rest of the space.

My eyes drag across the room, taking it all in. “Is this place the Sovereign’s?”

“No.”

With that simple answer, I trail him up a narrow staircase, the steps creaking under our weight. At the top, he unlocks the door and steps aside.

I walk into what looks like a fully stocked apartment—living room, kitchen, bedroom. But everything is sleek and minimal. Black couch. Dark wood floors. Heavy drapes over the windows.

He steps in behind me and shuts the door, the sound echoing too loudly in the quiet.

“Clean up.” He jerks his chin toward the bathroom, already turning away and disappearing down the hall.

The shower takes forever to heat up, the pipes groaning like they haven’t been used in a while. When it finally does, I step under it and don’t move. Hot water beats against my skin. I scrub until it stings. Until my skin turns red. Until I don’t feel like I’m still covered in blood and dirt and everything from before.

It doesn’t really work.

But it’s something.

By the time I’m done, the water’s gone cold again.

I wrap myself in a thick towel and step out, steam clinging to my skin as I push the door open.

Wolff isn’t in the main room, but I hear his voice carrying from somewhere deeper in the apartment.

I follow it.

The bedroom door is half open.

I stop in the doorway.

He’s standing with his back to me, shirtless, phone pressed to his ear. Muscles pulled tight, shoulders rigid. Old scars cut across his skin, jagged and uneven—and lower, wrapped rough around his side, the bandage I put there already soaked through in places.

He shouldn’t be up and moving.

Shouldn’t be acting like nothing’s wrong.