ZAK
The last thing Zak saw before everything went dark was Craig's face turned partially away from him. Craig was talking to John, the boy with the gun. Their voices overlapped, low and urgent, the words blurring together as the world tilted. Zak tried to focus on what they were saying, but his chest burned, and his vision narrowed, the edges fading like a closing door.
"Stay with me," someone said. Zak wasn't sure who.
Then the street vanished.
He woke up gasping. His body jerked forward as if he were falling, lungs pulling in air that tasted wrong—stale, metallic, thick. Pain shot through his chest, sharp and immediate, and he cried out before he could stop himself.
His hand flew to his shirt. Heat. Wetness. A deep, stinging ache that pulsed with his heartbeat. The pain grounded him instantly. It felt too real to ignore. Zak took another shallow breath and forced himself to stay still. His chest felt like it had been torn open and stitched back together poorly. Each inhale tugged at something inside him, a reminder that whatever had happened wasn't a dream.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Don't be gone. The thought came uninvited, sharp with fear. He remembered the bruise on his leg—how it had vanished. How wrong that had felt. Panic surged for a split second—what if this was gone too? What if he opened his shirt and found nothing there? No wound. No proof.
He swallowed hard and looked down. A thick bandage wrapped around his chest, already darkening at the center. Fresh blood. Still warm. The pain flared again, cruel and reassuring all at once.
Zak exhaled shakily. "Okay," he whispered to himself. "Okay."
He shifted slightly and immediately regretted it. The surface beneath him was hard and unforgiving. Metal. Cold even through his clothes. His head throbbed, a dull pressure behind his eyes. When he blinked, the world swam before settling.
He wasn't on the street. He wasn't in the building. He was inside something. The ceiling above him was low, ribbed steel running lengthwise, streaked with rust and grime. Dim light filtered in through narrow gaps along one side, dust floating lazily in the air. The walls were close enough that he could touch them if he stretched his arms out.
A container. The realization tightened his chest more than the wound did. He pushed himself up on one elbow, biting back a hiss of pain. The container was larger than it first appeared—long enough to fit several people, wide enough that someone had laid out makeshift bedding along one wall. Blankets, old jackets, and a torn mattress dragged in from somewhere.
Zak wasn't alone. He noticed the figures almost at once. Closest to him sat a guy leaning against the far wall. He was shorter than Craig, stocky, with thick shoulders under a sleeveless shirt that revealed solid muscle. His skin was dark, arms crossed loosely, head bowed slightly as if he'd been watching Zak sleep and looked away when Zak stirred. His hands were scarred, knuckles rough, fingers curled loosely against his biceps. He didn't say anything.
Across from him stood a girl, tall and almost as tall as Craig, with pale skin and light hair pulled back in a loose knot. She wore an oversized jacket zipped all the way up despite the heat in the container. Her face was drawn with concern, eyes fixed on Zak as if she were gauging whether he was about to pass out again.
Near the open end of the container—where a heavy door had been cracked just enough to let air in—sat another girl. She was short, much shorter than the others, with a shaved head. A white hospital wristband circled her thin wrist, stark against her skin. She sat with her knees pulled up, arms wrapped around them, staring at the floor as if it might give her answers if she watched long enough.
Zak's heart started racing. "Where—" His voice came out rough, scraped raw. He coughed, pain flaring, and had to stop.
The tall girl moved first. She stepped closer, careful, with hands raised slightly as if approaching a startled animal. "Hey," she said. Her voice was quiet. "Don't move too much."
Zak watched her mouth as she spoke, grounding himself in this small, normal detail. "Where am I?"
"In a container," she said. "We pulled you off the street."
Zak's mind scrambled to catch up. "Craig?" he asked. "The others?"
The girl hesitated. "They're outside," she said after a moment. "Talking."
Zak shifted again, wincing. "How long was I out?"
She glanced toward the open door. "A while."
The quiet guy by the wall lifted his head slightly, dark eyes flicking toward Zak. Their gazes met briefly before he looked away again, jaw tightening. Zak noted this and filed it away.
"What happened?" Zak asked.
No one answered right away. Images flooded back in fragments—the man screaming, the impact, the world spinning sideways. The sound of the gunshot, impossibly loud. The way the sky had looked between the buildings, webbing stretched tight like veins.
"You got hit," the tall girl said finally. "Not by the first one. Something else. You were bleeding bad."
Zak swallowed. "And I'm… alive?"
She nodded. "Barely."
The word hit harder than he expected. He let his head fall back against the metal wall, eyes closing briefly as exhaustion washed over him. Every part of him felt heavy, drained, like his body had spent something it wasn't sure it could afford.
The container creaked faintly as something shifted outside. Zak opened his eyes again. "Who are you?" he asked.
The quiet guy didn't respond. The tall girl hesitated, then said, "Rachel." She nodded toward the seated man. "Marco." Marco didn't look up. "And her?" Zak asked, eyes drifting to the bald girl by the door.
The girl didn't react or look up. Her fingers were curled tightly into the fabric of her pants, knuckles pale. "She hasn't said," Rachel said.
Zak frowned slightly but didn't press. His chest throbbed again, a deep ache that radiated outward. He pressed his lips together, breathing through it while focusing on the feel of the bandage, on the reality of the pain. Real. Still real. That mattered more than he wanted to admit.
He shifted his gaze toward the open door. Outside, he could hear voices—muffled, distorted by the steel walls. One of them was Craig's. He recognized the tone instantly, even without the words. Another voice answered him. Younger. Steady. John. Zak felt a flicker of unease.
He tried to sit up straighter, testing his limits. The movement sent a sharp spike of pain through his chest, forcing a low sound out of him before he could stop it.
Rachel was there immediately, a hand hovering near his shoulder but not touching. "Easy."
"I need to see them," Zak said. Rachel exchanged a glance with Marco.
Marco finally spoke in a low, rough voice. "You need to stay down." Zak met his gaze. There was no threat or challenge—just certainty.
"I'm not staying here," Zak replied anyway.
Marco studied him for a moment longer before looking away. "Your call," he said.
Zak let out a breath and sank back against the wall. His strength wasn't what he thought it was. Whatever he had lost out there—blood, energy—hadn't come back yet. He stared up at the ceiling, tracking a line of rust that ran the length of the container. His thoughts drifted, snagging on the same question over and over. How close had he been?
The bald girl shifted suddenly, her movement sharp in the quiet space. She lifted her head just enough for Zak to see her face in profile—eyes sunken, lips pressed tight. The hospital band caught the light as she moved, a silent marker of a life interrupted. Zak looked away, a knot forming in his chest that had nothing to do with the wound.
Outside, footsteps approached the container. The voices grew clearer. Craig's tone was low but firm. John's answered him, measured and unhurried. The door creaked as it opened wider, light spilling in and forcing Zak to squint.
Craig stepped into view. His eyes went straight to Zak. "You awake?" Craig asked.
Zak nodded faintly. "Yeah."
Craig exhaled, tension easing from his shoulders just a fraction. Then his gaze flicked to the others inside the container, taking them in quickly before settling back on Zak. "We'll talk," Craig said. "When you're steady."