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Kang surges forward, a low, feral sound escaping his chest. But I stop him with a hand pressed hard to the slab of muscle at his chest. “I got this,” I whisper, my eyes locked on the drunk’s face. The tension under my palm is volcanic.

The drunk sneers, eyeing Kang over my shoulder. “He lets you fight your own battles now, huh? Must be nice. Real partnership.”

He leans in, face inches from mine. “You think you’re better than us? You’re nothing. Just a pretty cunt in a black dress, hiding behind Authority muscle.”

The words are designed to hurt, to bait, to get a reaction. I give him one.

He reaches for me, hand closing over my breast with the casual entitlement of someone who’s gotten away with worse. I let him, just long enough for his fingers to curl.

Then I hit him.

My fist snaps up, powered by every ugly memory I’ve ever had, every fucker who ever thought my body was a prize for the taking. The impact cracks across his jaw, knuckles meeting bone with a wet, sickening pop. His eyes go wide, and for a second he looks at me with something like wonder.

Then he drops. His knees buckle, and he crashes face first to the concrete floor, a final, wet thud echoing in the tunnel.

Silence. Kang stares at me, his mouth slightly open, not quite believing.

I flex my hand, shake out the sting, ignoring the radiating pain in my arm. “Let’s go,” I say, and step cleanly over the body.

Kang follows, his breath sharp and ragged, lips parted, eyes on me like I’m the last thing in the world worth watching. As he falls into step beside me, I can’t help but notice the distinct, large bulge tightening the fabric of his black Authority pants. The sight is a jolt of raw, carnal heat that cuts right through the adrenaline and the fury.

We don’t stop walking until the tunnel bends out of sight, and the sound of the man’s snoring is lost in the air. The atmosphere has fundamentally changed: now, it’s not just anger that coils between us, but a desperate, mutual hunger.

By the time we reach our quarters, I can feel the hum of the Sanctuary three tunnels away—a dull throb in the walls, like the heartbeat of a giant animal. Here, though, it’s dead quiet. The lights are low, the air thick with the static haze of sweat, ozone, and recycled breath. Kang unlocks the door, steps inside first, checking the corners with that Authority instinct he’ll never lose.

I slip past him, and for a second we’re pressed together in the narrow entryway, his chest against my back, the fierce heat of his palm at the small of my spine. I toe off my boots and peel away the socks, feeling the cold of the floor bite at my heels. My body is wired with adrenaline, muscle memory replaying the taste of blood and sweat from the tunnel. The slap of knuckles against jaw, the sharp pop as bone gives. It shouldn’t thrill me, but the rage is a fire still running in my veins.

Kang closes the door. I turn, lean against the wall, arms crossed. Kang’s already watching me, green eyes tracking every micro-shift of my expression. The words stall out in his throat. For a few heartbeats, we just stare—a silent negotiation about who moves first.

Finally, he breaks. “I see our training back in the prison actually worked.” His voice is low and dry, edged with sarcasm. He cocks his head, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “Remind me to never piss you off again.”

The tension in my neck unwinds a single click. I let myself smile, just a flash of teeth. “You should know better by now.”

He grins, a flash of white in the dim. “I do.”

I cross the room in three steps, the battered concrete floor cool under my soles. My shoulder twinges, but I ignore it. There’s a patch of light on the table, blue-white and cold as the surface of a scalpel. It looked exactly like moonlight, but my scientist’s brain immediately countered: We are too far underground for that. It must be the result of a massive, distant filter—a thin, precious beam of the outside world filtering down from one of the Sanctuary’s high ventilation shafts. I move into this borrowed light, let it bleach the blood from my knuckles, and watch Kang follow, drawn in by the gravity of the moment.

He sets his back against the wall, hands stuffed into the pockets of his Authority jacket, and just… waits. It’s an invitation. A challenge.

I’m too wired to care which.

I walk right up to him, let the dress swish at my knees, and reach for the buttons on his uniform. He watches my hands, says nothing as I undo the top three. His skin is warm and smooth under the stubble of hair, a lattice of old scars and new bruises. I drag my fingers down, slow, until they catch on the hem of the shirt. I pull him forward, feel the muscle tense under my grip.

I spin him, push him back onto the bed. Kang lands with a soft grunt, the bed frame squeaking in protest. I straddle him, knees pinning his hips, and grab his wrists in both hands, pressing them to the mattress above his head.

He doesn’t fight. Not yet.

His breath comes a little faster, ribcage rising and falling in time with mine. The pulse at his throat beats steady as a clock.

I lean down, close enough to feel his lips against my ear, and whisper: “Why did you do it?”

His voice is a hiss in the dark. “Do what?”

“You could have left me,” I say, my mouth at his jawline. “Could have walked. But you didn’t.”

He swallows, throat bobbing against my lips. “You know why.”

“No,” I say. “Tell me. I need the truth, not the soldier’s answer.”