Chapter 127: I Was Wrong About Owen.
The echo of the gunshot still hung in the air like a dying crack of thunder when movement erupted below.
Down beneath us, Sinn and the group started running toward the stairs. Sinn’s tall frame broke into motion first, his right boot lifting from the cracked pavement in slow degrees, the sole scraping against loose gravel that scattered in tiny sparks under the moonlight.
His left arm pumped forward, jacket flapping open in heavy folds. Behind him, the others followed in a staggered wave: boots pounding, bodies leaning into the sprint, their faces tight with sudden alarm.
The sound of their footsteps rose in a delayed, chaotic rhythm, dull thuds against concrete that traveled upward through the night air toward us.
May reacted instantly.
She pulled away from me, her body twisting with urgent grace. Her hands moved quickly, yet every motion stretched under the slow lens of the moment.
She reached for her shirt first, snatching it from the dusty ledge where it lay crumpled. The fabric unfolded in mid-air as she shook it out, sleeves swinging heavily. She thrust one arm through, then the other, the material sliding over her sweat-damp skin with a faint rasp, clinging momentarily to the curve of her breasts before settling.
Her breathing was sharp and fast now, chest rising and falling in visible heaves.
I reached into my pocket.
My right hand dropped to my discarded pants, fingers sliding inside the warm fabric. The denim resisted slightly before my fingertips found the bundled cloth of her undies. I gripped them soft, slightly crumpled, and began pulling them free.
The material caught on the pocket’s edge for a long second, threads pulling taut, before releasing with a quiet pop. I extended my arm toward her, the underwear dangling from my hand, the small garment swaying gently in the cool wind.
May grabbed them from me without a word. Her fingers brushed mine in the exchange, warm, slightly sticky with sweat and remnants of our joining.
She balanced on one leg as she stepped into the underwear. The fabric whispered up her calves, then her thighs, catching briefly on the slickness still coating her skin before she yanked them over her hips with a sharp tug. She adjusted the waistband with a quick wiggle, then reached for her skirt, the night air licking across her half-dressed body.
All around us, the infected were fully awake now. Their moans grew louder, a rising chorus of hunger that echoed off the broken walls. Hands slapped against the base of the building. Bodies slammed into the lower levels with wet, clumsy thuds.
May’s eyes met mine for a fraction of a second, wide, urgent, still carrying the afterglow of what we had shared, before she glanced toward the stairwell access door at the far side of the rooftop. The night had turned electric, the quiet intimacy between us fracturing under the weight of approaching chaos.
"We need to go," May said, her voice low and edged, the words slicing through the stale air like a blade drawn halfway.
When May says that, it means the probability has already turned against you.
The moment the sentence left her lips, the night itself seemed to tilt. I snapped my gaze downward toward the entrance.
Owen’s bald head gleamed under a slash of moonlight, skin stretched tight and reflective as he sprinted for the armored vehicles, pistol raised.
He dove inside one. The engine roared before the door even slammed shut. Tires spat gravel as it peeled away.
"I was wrong about Owen," I muttered, the words tasting like rust.
"Were you?" May answered, her breath warm against my cheek.
I turned to her. Her eyes, sharp, dark, calculating. She had known. Of course she had known. She had run the probability and said nothing, which meant she had calculated that saying something earlier would have changed the outcome in a direction she liked less.
I filed that for later.
Below us, the infected surged. Hundreds of them. Their bodies moved in eerie unison, shoulders rolling forward, bare feet slapping pavement, heads snapping toward the building like iron filings to a magnet. A low collective moan rose, vibrating through the floor under my boots.
Then, closer, boots on the stairs. Heavy, frantic. The team climbing fast, which was the right instinct, the ground floor was already lost.
"What do we do?" May asked. The first time on this entire mission I had heard that tone from her. Not fear exactly. The specific sound of someone whose calculations have run out of good options.
I seized her face in both hands. My palms registered the heat of her skin, the faint tremor along her cheekbones, the way her jaw flexed once under my thumbs. Dust motes swirled between us in the moonlight shaft.
"Third floor," I said. "It’s open air, no roof. They can’t surround you from above. Go up and wait for me."
Her eyes flicked across my face, pupils dilating, searching. "I thought we were going together."
"May."
"I’m not leaving without you," she said. Her fingers locked around my wrists, nails biting skin, grip fierce enough to leave crescents. "Not this time."
"I need to make sure the others get up safely." My thumbs brushed once across her cheekbones, feeling the fine grit of concrete dust there. "I’ll be right behind you."
She held my stare another heartbeat, running probabilities I couldn’t see. Whatever verdict flashed behind her eyes, she swallowed it. A single sharp nod.
"I’ll wait," she said.
I released her face. The absence of her warmth registered instantly against my palms as I spun. My boots pivoted on the worn floor, rubber soles squeaking once.
I exploded toward the stairwell, shoulders low, elbows tight. The hallway blurred, peeling paint whipping past, exposed wires swaying like black veins, spent casings rolling and clinking underfoot.
Behind me, May’s lighter footsteps already climbed toward the open sky. Ahead, the team’s boots thundered upward, closer now.
I didn’t look back. Only forward. Momentum carried everything now.
