Chapter Two

When the outer door's interlock sounded, I was staring blankly at the wall.

"Click—click—"

Twice, a half-second pause, then a heavier rebound.

That wasn't the normal return rhythm.

My heart sank as I rushed to the observation window. The next second, Mike's figure crashed into view.

He was practically dragging his feet.

The right shoulder of his protective suit was torn open, like it had been caught on something and ripped off.

The left elbow guard was cracked, blood seeping out from inside, dark and thick.

My throat felt choked as I fumbled to open the inner door's isolation lock.

"Mike!" I rushed to support him. "How did you—"

He raised his hand and pressed it on my shoulder, his grip still strong, pushing me back a step.

"Don't get too close." He was breathing hard. "I need to go through decontamination first."

He pushed himself into the disinfection chamber, the mist of disinfectant covering him like a layer of white frost. Through the glass, I could see a cut at the corner of his mouth, his teeth bloodied.

I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms.

In three years, he'd been injured on the surface before, but this time, his injuries were too severe.

When decontamination finished and he came out, he still tried to act casual, even pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"Look at your expression," his first words were actually mocking me. "Like I'm dead."

My voice trembled: "You almost—"

I couldn't say it.

I wanted to unfasten his arm guard to check the wound. Just as I touched the buckle, he gripped my wrist.

"Don't," his tone turned cold instantly. "Listen to me."

"You're bleeding," I looked up at him. "We have medicine, we have bandages—"

"Medicine is life." Mike shook my hand off, like he was training a recruit. "You use it once, you have one less time. Don't you understand?"

I looked at his uncompromising expression, feeling like a stone was lodged in my chest.

Resources in the bunker were counted by days. Especially medical supplies.

He sat down in a chair, back against the wall, eyes closed for a few seconds to recover before opening them.

"It's worse outside," he began, his voice low. "Today I saw someone I knew."

My heart skipped: "Who?"

Mike's face was grim: "Remember that client? The fat guy who always said 'money is no object.'"

Of course I remembered.

"What happened to him?" I asked.

Mike's eyes grew darker: "Dead on the roadside. Hacked. His stomach was cut open, everything was—"

He didn't continue, just raised his hand in a downward cutting motion.

My stomach lurched sharply, almost making me vomit the compressed biscuits from this morning.

I opened my mouth and finally squeezed out: "I'm sorry."

Mike raised an eyebrow: "Sorry for what?"

"You keep going out... I can't do anything—"

"Shut up." His tone was impatient, yet seemed to be suppressing some emotion. "You're useful here. You understand systems, understand finances, understand all those account passwords. What could you do out there? Fight with knives? Or be a radiation detector?"

I was left red-faced by his rebuke, unable to argue back: "At least, let me deliver supplies to Lena today."

Mike looked up, his gaze instantly ice cold: "No."

"You're injured," I forced myself to meet his eyes. "You need to rest. I'll go to the nearest passage entrance, her bunker isn't far, I'll follow the route you taught me—"

Mike laughed, a laugh with no warmth at all. "What I taught you was 'don't go.'"

I was speechless.

He walked to the storage rack and began packing food and water into his backpack. His movements were steady, as if the wound didn't exist. Every time he stuffed in a pack of compressed food, I felt more like a joke.

"I'll go," he said.

I panicked: "You're seriously injured!"

Mike fastened the backpack and looked up at me, his voice lowered, like he was nailing the words into my brain.

"Listen clearly. We need to survive until order returns, or until we build order ourselves."

He pointed at me: "And you, Arthur, that smart brain of yours is an asset. Not something to feed to knives."

My throat tightened: "But you're also—you're one of us too."

"That's exactly why I have to go out." Mike said it matter-of-factly. "I can fight, I can run, I can endure. You can't."

He walked toward the heavy door, placed his hand on the access panel, and looked back at me.

"Don't do anything stupid." His tone was full of pressure. "Arthur, you are our hope."

They always said that, but was that slim hope really worth all their sacrifice?

I knew better than anyone—they were both doing this for me.