The list felt heavier than it should have.
Ty walked the long concrete corridor with the folded paper tucked into the inner pocket of his black jacket, the edges of it pressing against his chest with every step.
Noah had written the names in sharp, precise handwriting—eight of them, all mid-to-high ranking members of the Pride who had access to the restricted levels, the specimen cages, or the old research logs. Some Ty recognized from training. Others he had only seen in passing during briefings. None of them had ever looked at him twice before last night. Now every one of them felt like a potential blade at his back.
The overhead lights hummed in uneven intervals, casting long, flickering shadows along the walls. Old biohazard symbols still clung to the concrete in faded yellow and black, half-scraped away by years of boots and damp. The air smelled of recycled oxygen, gun oil, and the faint metallic tang that never fully left the lower levels.
Ty kept his pace steady, hands loose at his sides, eyes scanning every junction the way he used to scan ruined streets.
He needed to move.
The quiet after last night had left him restless. His body still carried the deep ache of being taken apart and put back together, and his mind kept circling the same questions: how much of Noah was still the boy he used to know, how long the quiet in Noah's veins would last, and whether staying to hunt the rat was survival or just another kind of trap.
The training grounds opened up ahead of him like a vast underground cathedral of concrete and steel.
High ceilings vanished into shadow. Heavy bags hung in uneven rows. Metal racks of free weights lined one wall. The floor was scarred from years of boots, blood, and dropped equipment. A few groups were already working—sparring circles, circuit drills, the rhythmic thud of fists against leather.
Ty headed for an empty heavy bag near the far edge, where the light was thinner and the noise less dense. He wrapped his hands quickly, the fabric rough against his knuckles, and started in without warmup.
Jab. Cross. Hook. The bag swung hard under the force. Sweat began to rise along his spine within minutes. He pushed harder, letting the physical burn drown out the noise in his head. It took him longer than it should have to notice the stares.
At first it was just one pair of eyes—some mid-rank soldier with a lion tattoo dark against his forearm, watching too steadily from across the floor. Then another. Then a small cluster near the free weights, heads tilted together, voices low.
When Ty's gaze cut across them, the conversation died. One of them looked away too quickly. Another held the stare a second longer than necessary, jaw tight, before turning back to his partner.
Ty's eyes narrowed. He kept punching, but the rhythm changed—more controlled, more aware.
The glares weren't random. They weren't the usual measuring looks new promotions sometimes got. These carried weight. Calculation. Dislike that felt organized.
This isn't small, he realized, breath steady even as his pulse climbed. The leader of the rebellion didn't just plant a few dissatisfied men. He spread the idea. Made it sit in enough heads that people are already choosing sides without saying it out loud.
The thought settled cold in his stomach. A handful of conspirators could be cut out. A quiet current running through half the facility was something else entirely.
He finished the round, unwrapped his hands, and left without looking back. The whispers followed him to the exit like smoke.
The residential corridors felt narrower on the way back. Ty kept his shoulders relaxed and his expression blank, but every person he passed registered now—posture, eye contact, whether they stepped aside or held their ground. He reached his door without incident and stopped.
A small folded note was taped to the metal at eye level.
Ty pulled it free. The front simply read hello in neat, almost childish handwriting, followed by a small hand-drawn smiley face. He frowned, flipped it over, and felt his pulse skip.
Do you want to leave?
No signature. No threat. Just the question, clean and direct.
Ty's grip tightened on the paper. He had never said it out loud. Not to Noah. Not to Jax. Not to Rafe.
The desire to walk out of this place and disappear into the surface ruins had lived only in the private space behind his ribs. Yet someone had written it like they already knew the answer.
A soft, squeaky voice spoke behind him.
"H-hi."
Ty spun, hand already halfway to the knife at his lower back. The man standing a few paces away immediately raised both hands, nearly dropping the thick notebook he was clutching.
He was shorter than Ty by a noticeable margin, narrow-shouldered, and looked like he had gotten lost on the way to a completely different building. A ridiculously oversized sweater—soft-looking, some faded academic shade of blue—hung on his frame over plain jeans.
Huge black-rimmed glasses sat slightly crooked on his nose. His hair was a soft, messy dark brown that fell into his eyes. He carried the nervous energy of someone who spent more time with machines than people.
Ty stared down at him, unimpressed. "Who the hell are you?"
The man took a quick step back, almost tripping over his own feet. "S-sorry! I'm Arthur. Arthur Vale. I didn't mean to startle you. I just… I saw you come back from training and thought it was better to get to know tge person that is rising in ranks, haha."
Ty didn't relax. "Ok. So what, you wanna be my friend or something? What do you even do in here?"
Arthur's cheeks flushed. He adjusted his glasses with a trembling finger. "Yes. Well. Sort of. I'm the one who keeps this place from collapsing, basically. Engineering, power systems, structural integrity, the old research servers that still half-work. Me and a small team. We're usually down in the boiler levels and the electrical grid. That's why you've never seen me. We don't come up unless something is about to explode or the ventilation starts recycling toxic air."
Ty looked him up and down again, slower this time.
The sweater. The jeans. The notebook hugged to his chest like a shield. The way his voice kept cracking under the slightest pressure. He looked less like a critical member of an underground warlord's stronghold and more like a nervous student who had wandered into the wrong apocalypse.
"You expect me to believe the guy in the cartoon sweater is the reason this entire facility hasn't caved in?" Ty asked flatly.
Arthur gave a small, embarrassed laugh that sounded more like a squeak. "I know how I look. People always say that. But the generators, the water reclamation, the reinforced bulkheads on the lower levels—those are my designs, or what's left of the old ones that I keep patched together. If I wanted to shut this place down, I could do it in under an hour. That's… sort of the point."
Ty's eyes narrowed further. "hm."
Arthur's gaze flicked to the paper still in Ty's hand, then away again. "what's that?"
Ty studied him in silence for a long moment. "Nothing. Don't go poking your nose in my business. I have work to do," Ty said at last, voice cool. "Important work."
Arthur nodded quickly, almost bobbing. "Of course. Sorry. I just… wanted you to know well... of me." He lifted one hand in a small, awkward wave. "I'll be around. Well. Downstairs. Mostly."
Ty didn't answer. He turned, unlocked his door, and stepped inside. The heavy metal shut behind him with a solid, final click.
Outside, Arthur remained standing in the corridor for a few seconds longer, hand still half-raised, notebook pressed tight to his chest. Then he adjusted his glasses, turned, and hurried away toward the stairwell that led to the lower mechanical levels, sneakers soft against the concrete.
Inside the room, Ty leaned back against the door, the note still crumpled in his fist, the list of names burning quietly against his chest.