The shelter was holding its breath.
Or maybe that was just Camille. Her back was pressed against a cold pipe, her thighs numb from crouching for too long, and the air smelled like mildew, rust, and mystery trauma. The girl hadn't moved from the far wall—still hunched, still clutching that Frankenstein's knife like it was her favorite emotional support weapon.
Camille's thoughts, however, were sprinting laps.
Okay. We are officially in Crazy Town. Population: Knife Goblin and two tired girls. Beautiful. Fantastic. Peak vacation energy.
The woman's mismatched eyes tracked their every breath, her chest still rising and falling like she hadn't realized she could stop running yet.
Alexis slowly raised a hand, palm forward. "We're not with anyone. We crashed here. Our shuttle—transport—whatever you want to call it—it went down."
She simply stared and tilted her head. Then, in a voice like broken static, she said, "What organization assigned your patterning?"
