ZAK
I barely made it five steps out of the container.
The metal door closed behind me with a harsh noise that shattered the morning stillness. My legs buckled as if they needed permission to give way. The ground rushed at me too quickly. I heard someone shout my name—Craig, I think—and then everything tipped sideways and went dark.
I came back slowly.
Not all at once. First came sound, then weight, then pain—or the lack of it.
Voices hovered over me, low and tense. Breathing was too close. I opened my eyes, and the light pierced me, making me groan and turn away.
"Don't move," Rachel said. Her voice was soft yet urgent.
I blinked, forcing my vision to clear.
I lay on my back inside the container. This was the same place I'd woken up before, but this time everyone was here. All of them.
Craig stood by my feet, arms crossed, his face unreadable. Hassan crouched to one side, his expression tight and his jaw clenched, as if he was holding something inside. Chris lingered near the door, glancing between me and the outside every few seconds. Abdi leaned against the wall, arms folded, his posture tense and protective, though his wings were nowhere to be seen.
Selma was closest.
Too close.
She knelt beside me, one hand hovering over my chest as if unsure whether she could touch me. Her face had gone pale.
"What?" I rasped. My throat felt dry and raw. "What happened?"
No one answered.
That's when I noticed it.
The pain was gone.
Not just dulled or manageable—gone.
I took a sharp breath and instinctively pressed my fingers against my chest where the man's nails had torn into me before. I remembered the heat of it, the wetness, and Rachel's hands slick with blood. I had felt my vision narrowing as the world tried to pull me under.
My fingers found smooth skin.
No bandage. No tenderness. No scab.
Just skin.
I froze.
Slowly, I lifted my shirt.
The wound was gone.
Not healed poorly. Not stitched. Gone as if it had never existed.
The container fell completely silent.
I looked up, my heart racing, and met Craig's gaze. For the first time since I'd known him, he looked… unsettled. Not scared—Craig didn't do fear—but something close to it.
Hassan whispered, "That's not possible."
Chris shook his head, stepping back a little. "No. No, I saw it. There was so much blood—"
Rachel's lips parted. "I cleaned it," she said quietly. "There was tissue damage. Deep. You shouldn't even be conscious right now."
Selma finally touched my arm, her fingers light but grounding. She stared at my chest, as if afraid it might start bleeding again if she looked away.
Abdi was silent, just watching me with sharp, calculating eyes, like a piece of a puzzle had fallen into place.
Marco stood by the far wall, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. John leaned beside him, tilting his head slightly, studying me as if I were a weapon he didn't know how to use yet.
The bald girl—she still hadn't told us her name—sat on a crate near the back, hugging her knees, her eyes wide and unblinking.
I swallowed. "I—" My voice cracked. I cleared my throat and tried again. "I don't know how."
Craig stepped closer. "But you knew it might happen."
It wasn't a question.
I hesitated. Too long.
Selma looked at me then, really looked, as if she saw something new layered over what she thought she knew. Not fear—something closer to awe—and worry.
"I didn't plan it," I said. "I swear."
The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable.
Finally, Craig nodded once. "We'll talk later." His tone made it clear that wasn't up for discussion. "Right now, you need to rest."
I didn't sleep again after that.
Night fell heavy and close.
The container was quiet in the way only dangerous places ever are. People slept in shallow bursts, weapons within reach, their bodies positioned for escape rather than comfort.
I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying the looks on their faces. The shift. The way everything had tilted without anything physically moving.
That's when I heard it.
A soft rustle. Fabric. Metal.
I turned my head slightly.
Marco and John stood near the far end of the container, half-hidden in shadow. My bag lay open between them.
My bag.
Adrenaline surged through me.
I acted before my mind could catch up.
I rolled off the crate and came up fast, my momentum pushing me forward. John turned just in time to see my fist connect with his jaw. I didn't throw it wildly—I snapped it out, clean and tight, the way I'd been taught. His head snapped sideways, and he stumbled back with a grunt.
Marco reacted quicker. He lunged, trying to grab me around the waist.
I dropped my weight and twisted, hooking his arm and using his momentum against him. A sharp pivot, a pull, and he hit the floor hard, the breath knocked out of him.
Someone shouted.
Lights flicked on.
John charged at me again, anger replacing surprise. He swung wide. I slipped inside the punch and drove my elbow into his ribs, feeling something give. He gasped and staggered.
I followed with a low kick to his knee—not with full force, just enough to knock off his balance. He went down with a curse.
Marco was already pushing himself up, teeth bared. He threw a fast and heavy punch this time.
I blocked it, redirected the force, and stepped in close. My knee drove up into his midsection, and he folded. I wrapped an arm around his neck and twisted, using leverage instead of strength. He hit the ground again, not moving this time.
"Zak!"
Craig's voice sliced through the chaos.
I stepped back, breathing hard, hands up, scanning the room. Everyone was awake now.
Chris stood near Selma, his eyes wide. Hassan stared at the two men on the floor, reassessing every assumption he had made. Abdi had moved without my noticing—now he stood between me and Selma.
Rachel rushed forward, checking Marco first, then John. "They're alive," she said quickly. "Just… incapacitated."
Craig's gaze bore into me. "Explain."
"They were in my bag," I said. My voice steadied, even though my heart was racing.
John groaned, trying to sit up. Marco stayed down, breathing shallow but even.
Craig looked at both of them, then back at me. "Why?"
John spat blood onto the floor. "We wanted to see what else he was hiding."
The words hit hard.
Selma looked at me again. Not awe this time—something fiercer. Protective.
Craig stayed quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "Enough."
No one argued.
Marco and John were moved to opposite sides of the container. Rachel stayed with them, watchful. The bald girl hadn't moved at all—she just stared at me, as if trying to decide whether I was human or something completely different.
The silence that followed felt heavier than the fight.
Craig rubbed a hand over his face and then gestured for everyone to spread out and breathe. He exuded authority without yelling—an authority that stemmed from not wanting things to fall apart again.
"Everyone sit," he said. "Now."
They did. Slowly. Reluctantly.
Zak stayed standing.
Craig noticed. So did everyone else.
Craig's eyes flicked quickly—assessing the way Zak's posture hadn't wavered, how his breathing had already evened out despite the burst of violence. The absence of blood. The lack of any visible damage.
Healing was one thing. This was another.
"We need to be clear," Craig said, his voice low. "What happened tonight doesn't vanish just because we don't like it."
Hassan nodded, arms tightly folded. "He took them down fast."
"Too fast," Chris added softly. Not accusing. Just observing.
Abdi shifted against the wall, looking thoughtful rather than impressed. "He didn't waste movement," he said. "Didn't overcommit. That wasn't panic."
Zak opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Selma's eyes remained on him. She hadn't spoken since the fight, but the way she watched him now—as if memorizing him—made his chest tighten.
Craig exhaled. "Here's what I see," he said. "We have someone who heals quickly enough to survive injuries that should kill him. And"—his gaze sharpened—"someone who can defend himself without weapons."
Marco groaned softly from his corner. Rachel shot Craig a warning look, signaling not to push too hard too fast.
Craig continued anyway. "That changes how we plan."
Zak tensed. "I don't want—"
"I'm not saying you're a weapon," Craig interrupted. "I'm saying you're an asset whether you like it or not. Just like Abdi."
Abdi didn't react. He didn't need to.
Hassan rubbed a hand down his face. "If he can heal," he said slowly, "then… what else?"
The question hung there.
Selma swallowed. "You mean—other people?"
Zak's heart raced. "I don't know if I can."
"But if you can," Chris said softly, "that matters."
Craig nodded. "For now, it stays theoretical. No testing. No pressure." His eyes locked onto Zak's. "Your body isn't a tool unless you choose it to be."
That helped. A little.
Across the container, John hadn't said a word.
Zak noticed because John wouldn't look at him.
He sat with his back against the wall, knees bent, hands tightly clasped like he feared they might move on their own. His jaw clenched, then relaxed. When his eyes finally lifted, they didn't meet Zak's—they fell short, as if he couldn't handle direct eye contact.
Guilt rolled off him in waves.
Not fear. Not anger.
Guilt.
Rachel knelt beside the bald girl, who had tucked herself further into the shadows during the argument. She spoke softly, her voice calm and steady.
"It's okay," Rachel said. "They're not going to fight again."
The girl hesitated, then nodded.
Rachel glanced up at Craig. "She hasn't introduced herself yet."
Craig looked over, his expression gentler than it had been all night. "You don't have to if you don't want to."
The girl shook her head quickly. Then, quieter, "I want to."
She stood, hands clasped in front of her, chin lifted as if bracing for impact.
"I'm Teresa," she said. "I'm twelve."
Her voice didn't tremble, but it came close.
Rachel smiled at her, not too big, not forced. "She's been helping me," she added. "Handing supplies. Counting inventory. She's good with details."
Teresa's shoulders relaxed a little at that.
Selma gave her a small nod. Hassan followed suit. Chris offered a half-smile. Even Abdi inclined his head, acknowledging her presence like it mattered.
Zak met her eyes for a moment. She looked curious, hopeful—as if she wanted to belong but didn't know how to ask.
Then John spoke.
"Zak," he said hoarsely.
Everyone turned.
John swallowed, his throat bobbing. "I shouldn't have gone through your bag."
Zak didn't respond.
John pressed on anyway. "I didn't know what you were. I still don't." His eyes darted to Zak's chest, then away. "But I know I crossed a line."
Silence fell again.
Craig watched him closely.
"So why did you really do it?" Craig asked.
John hesitated.
Just long enough.
Zak noticed. Abdi noticed. Craig definitely did too.
"There are things you're not saying," Craig said flatly.
John clenched his jaw. "Not yet."
That was the wrong answer.
Craig didn't push, which worried Zak more than if he had.
The container settled into uneasy quiet after that. People shifted, lay down, and tried to sleep.
Zak couldn't.
He lay there staring into the dark, chest rising and falling, feeling too whole, too capable, too visible.
Healing was a known fact now.
So was the truth that he could fight.
And somewhere in the shadows, John lay awake too—guarding a secret he hadn't yet admitted.