I didn't tell Benet where we were going.

  I led him by the wrist through one of the City's outer arteries, my ntern hooded low, his vision sealed off with a strip of cloth torn from Ard's old tabard. He stumbled once and swore under his breath.

  The blindfold did more than block his sight. It made him cautious.

  That was the point.

  We passed three junctions and one colpsed archway before I stopped. This space had once been a cistern, wide enough for carts, now empty save for rubble and dust. The walls were intact, the ceiling high overhead.

  No growth. No spoor. No movement.

  I set the ntern down and crossed to the pump mounted into the far wall.

  It groaned when I worked the handle, old metal protesting, then water surged up, clear and cold. I let it run for a moment, watching for any discoloration or grit. It stayed clean.

  Good enough.

  "All right," I said. "You can take it off now."

  He hesitated, fingers worrying the knot of his blindfold. "Here?"

  "Yes."

  The cloth came away. He blinked hard, eyes darting, scanning the shadows, the ceiling, the passages leading out.

  "Where are we?" he asked.

  "Somewhere safe."

  "That's not an answer," he grumbled.

  "It's the only one you need right now."

  He took a few tentative steps, boots scraping. "There's nothing here."

  I nodded. "That's the idea. No reason for any monsters to drop by."

  He swallowed.

  "I've scouted the surrounding corridors twice. You'll be fine as long as you don't make noise or wander." I gestured to the working pump. "You'll have water. Light. And food."

  I set the pack at his feet and opened it, ying out the contents methodically so he could see them. Hard bread. Dried meat. A small sack of grain. Enough for a week if he rationed.

  "On second thought, I don't know about this—" he began to protest.

  "Tomás agreed to it," I snapped. "And he's injured. He didn't argue."

  "That's different," Benet said. "He's green. He doesn't know better."

  I looked at him. "He knows enough. He understands that doing this, however uncomfortable, is necessary."

  He said nothing to that.

  I handed him the st item: a fsk, stoppered and sealed. "Don't open this unless you absolutely have to—when you can't bear it anymore. It'll help you sleep."

  He stared at it, then at me. "So this is it, then. Quarantine."

  "Yes."

  "And you're just... leaving me here."

  "For your own safety."

  "Mine?" He ughed once, short and sharp. "Or yours? You don't trust us."

  I felt a jolt of irritation.

  "I don't trust the infection," I said quickly. "And neither should you."

  He turned away. For a moment, I thought he might refuse. Push past me. Test how far I was willing to go.

  Instead, he knelt and began arranging the rations with careful, deliberate movements, his jaw tight.

  "Fine," he said. "Fine. Just... don't forget about me when the Saintess returns."

  "I won't. I promise."

  I stepped back, then farther, until the ntern light no longer reached him. At the st junction, I paused long enough to mark Evelyn's map.

  Benet.

  The st name.

  Ard and Tomás were already inked into their own isoted pockets of the City, far enough apart that sound would not carry. Rocher remained at base camp, sedated but unbound. He was already symptomatic enough that there'd be no reasoning with him. We'd left him a knapsack of his own rations.

  I folded the map away and set off toward Tomás's section, sighing deeply.

  In the game, this had all looked so innocent.

  An excuse to force development with the heroines. To heighten tension through jealousy and longing. To push them into conflict with one another while circling the Hero.

  Experiencing it from the other side had stripped the fantasy clean.

  Men like this did not become coy under pressure. They became territorial. Aggressive.

  Separation was the only way to keep us alive.

  By the time I reached Tomás, my skin was feeling too tight.

  It was subtle at first. A low heat that had nothing to do with the exertion. A restlessness that made it hard to keep still. I ignored it, as I had ignored worse, and ducked into the space I had cleared for him.

  Ard and Benet had helped me get him there earlier, one on either side of him, his weight slumped awkwardly between them. Every step had been a negotiation—his bruised ribs making it painful for him to breathe. He had tried to hide it, teeth clenched, insisting he could walk on his own, but his bance had given out twice before I stopped entertaining it and ordered them to support properly.

  They'd left him where I told them to. Propped against the wall, torso elevated, injured side supported. Sedated to ease the pain.

  I adjusted his position, pulling his shoulders forward and tucking a folded cloak beneath his head. He stirred, brow creasing.

  It was beginning to wear off. I could see it in the way his fingers twitched, in the shallow hitch of his breath.

  I used the time while I had it. I lifted his tunic delicately to check the residual bruising. It had not fully subsided, but it was smaller now. Less mean-looking.

  He shifted and let out a soft sound of discomfort. Then he blinked up at me, confusion giving way to recognition.

  "Miss Cire?" he said, voice rough.

  "I'm here," I replied. "Don't move yet."

  I helped him sit up slowly, guiding his weight until he was braced against the wall. When his bance held, I handed him water.

  "Here," I said. "Take small sips only."

  That was when the real work began.

  Over the next few days, I watched Tomás like a hawk.

  I counted his breaths while he ate, noting the rhythm and depth. Shallow, yes, but even. Nothing beyond what the ribs would expin. His pupils tracked me normally when I moved, no dition except for the low light. His hands shook, but only with fatigue and pain, not the fine tremor I had begun to recognize.

  I asked him small, pointless questions and listened to how he answered them. His responses were slow, but coherent. No fixation. No drift. No edge of agitation.

  Nothing.

  I checked his temperature again. Warm, but not flushed. I brushed my fingers along his wrist, gauging the pulse, then pulled back, unsettled by how ordinary it felt.

  Somehow, he had been spared.

  The thought sat badly with me, sharp and sour, and I resented him for it before I could stop myself.

  "You're eating on your own now." I forced a smile. "That's good."

  "Hard not to when it's the only thing I can do."

  My mouth twitched. "How's the pain?"

  He shifted his weight, grimacing. "Still there."

  "Getting better?"

  He sighed. "Honestly, no."

  I nodded. "You need to start moving more tomorrow. Short distances."

  "I don't think I can..."

  "You have to."

  He winced suddenly, dropping the meat. It skidded across the stone and came to rest against the wall.

  I felt something spike, sharp and disproportionate.

  "Careful," I snapped. "That's food."

  "Sorry," he said, reaching for it, fingers clumsy.

  "Just leave it," I said, already moving to retrieve it myself. "You're going to waste everything at this rate."

  He looked at me, startled. "I didn't mean to."

  I closed my eyes, counted once, then handed the meat back.

  He studied my face. "You okay?"

  "Yes."

  It was a lie, but not one I was ready to examine.

  I helped him through the rest of his meal, then forced him to stand, guiding him through a few careful steps. He sweated and swore and nearly fell once, but he managed.

  That should have been enough.

  It wasn't.

  By nighttime, my thoughts had begun to snag. It was like static at the back of my mind, a constant awareness that would not resolve. Heat pooled low in my belly, distracting and insistent, a deep, demanding thrum.

  From my bedroll, I gnced over at Tomás. His breathing was slow, the rise and fall of his chest unbroken. I waited through several breaths to be sure.

  Then I tried to take care of it. Quickly. Careful not to make a sound. It was a clinical, desperate act, like ncing a wound. Just draw the poison out and be done with it.

  The sensation did not abate. It only sharpened, a baited hook that wouldn't set, leaving me more frustrated and on edge than before.

  My mind turned to logistics. To lists. To things that still needed to be done.

  But irritation bled through everything, souring my thoughts.

  Why me? Why was it always me?

  Why was I allowed no margin for weakness when everyone else was granted one?

  The heat still simmered, a constant, maddening presence beneath my skin.

  The hours stretched into days. I began to lose my sense of sequence.

  I would reach for the water basin, blink, and find myself elsewhere in the task than I remembered. Movements repeated. Motions overpped.

  Tomás fumbled the spoon again. It struck the stone and scattered grain across the floor.

  I stared at it a beat too long.

  "By the Goddess," I said. "Can you not manage one simple thing without making a mess of it?"

  He froze. "I'm sorry."

  The word nded like a blow.

  "No." I pinched the bridge of my nose. "That was unfair of me."

  He nodded, but didn't look convinced.

  Silence followed, heavy and exposed.

  I hated it.

  I hated the way the City pressed in, the way responsibility accumuted without release. How I could not be everywhere at once and yet was held accountable for all of it. And I hated my hypocrisy—for resenting the care I gave freely when I so desperately needed it myself.

  I stepped forward to retrieve the spilled grain, not noticing how near I'd come until my bance shifted.

  Tomás caught my wrist.

  "Miss Cire."

  The sound of my name cut through the fog.

  I looked down and found my fingers twisted into the fabric of his trousers, knuckles white, grip firm enough to wrinkle the cloth.

  There was no reason for it. No intent I could justify.

  Horror washed through me, cold and immediate. I tore my hand free and staggered back.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm so sorry."

  He stared at me, wide-eyed, as I turned and fled.

  I didn't stop running until I reached my own marked section of the City. My legs gave out as soon as I crossed the threshold. I caught myself against the wall, missed, and slid breathlessly down the stone.

  I stayed there for a moment, head bowed, palms braced against the floor. My heart hammered hard enough that it felt audible, each beat sharp in my chest. It took several long seconds before the world steadied enough for me to lift my head.

  The heat was still there. It hadn't lessened with the exertion. If anything, it was worse now, concentrated and raw, stripped of distraction.

  I dragged the map from my pocket with unsteady fingers and spread it across my knees. The inked names stared back at me. Ard. Tomás. Benet. Each boxed into their own pocket of space, measured and deliberate. Distances calcuted so that nothing could cross.

  This would work. It had to.

  Or else, I had nothing left.

  I folded the map carefully and pressed my forehead to the stone wall, breathing through my nose, waiting for the chill to seep into my skin.

  Waiting for something—anything—to quiet the heat.