Chapter 2

Ben was still unconscious when they lifted him onto the stretcher.

The medical crew escorted me to the infirmary, ran a full check, stitched and wrapped a few cuts, and kept me there until dawn before finally letting me go.

Ben still hadn’t woken up. I headed back alone to our seven-man squad’s private quarters, intending to lay out a clean debrief—at the very least, everyone needed to know why Ben was the one in a hospital bed.

Our quarters sat along the edge of the inner ring near the training grounds: a row of old warehouse rooms converted into living space, each door marked with our own ID placard.

Before I even reached the door, I heard arguing inside. The voices weren’t kept that low—clearly they thought I was still in the infirmary.

“I told you we shouldn’t listen to him. His plans look pretty on paper, and the moment something goes wrong, he gets people killed.” That was Adam, openly pissed.

Blake jumped in even faster. “Ben almost died out there. If we hadn’t gotten lucky, he’d be lying outside the wall right now. And it’s Leo’s plan again—every time we end up cleaning up his mess.”

“Been deputy too long, he really thinks he’s somebody,” Charlie snorted. “Talks like he can see the future.”

I raised my hand and pushed the door open.

The hinge gave a soft click. Inside, it was like someone hit mute—every sound cut off at once.

Their faces froze the way kids do when they’re caught doing something wrong, but the awkwardness got crushed into disdain almost immediately.

Unpacked gear was spread across the table. Someone still had half a ration bar in hand.

I shut the door, let my gaze sweep over each of them, and spoke as evenly as if I were taking roll. “If you’ve got a problem, say it to my face.”

Adam went first, voice stiff. “Stop acting calm. Why’s Ben hurt that bad? You screwed up the calls—changed the retreat route on the fly and got us dragged out there.”

I looked at him without raising my voice. “I gave the calls—and that’s why Ben got hurt?”

Blake shoved in. “You gonna deny you designed the retreat route? The route, the timing window—your fingerprints are all over it. If something goes wrong, who else do we blame?”

I didn’t answer immediately. Instead, I shifted my eyes to the center of the room.

McKenna sat at the table, still in her field jacket, gray dust ground into the cuffs. Her expression was calm—almost managerial—like she was already prepared to define what this argument was “about.”

I asked her, not loud, but clear enough for everyone. “Is that what you told them?”

The room went quiet again.

McKenna looked up, gave a small sigh, the kind meant to signal understanding. She stood and stepped between me and the others, palms angled down in a calming gesture.

“Don’t do this,” she said. “Leo just got back. He’s exhausted. No one wanted today to happen. You can’t pin it all on Leo.”

The moment she said it, the others looked even more fired up.

She kept going. “And don’t keep blaming him. I share responsibility too. I trusted Leo too much—I didn’t expect the retreat plan he gave would be dangerous.”

Smooth. Not a single word about her changing the order. Not a single word about her ignoring my warning.

I watched her, my restraint intact. “I made two retreat plans. I said—”

“Enough.” Cole straightened from where he’d been leaning against the wall and walked out slowly.

Cole was our point man, and besides McKenna, the one everyone trusted most.

He didn’t move fast, but he carried that forward-man pressure like a habit—like he could take control of the room whenever he wanted.

He stared at me, a thin, cold smile on his mouth. “The retreat plan was yours. That’s a fact. If it’s your plan, then when something goes wrong, you’re responsible. What’s the issue?”

Right then Charlie kicked his chair back. The legs shrieked against the floor.

He cut his eyes at me, voice dripping with mockery. “When are you gonna stop hovering over the captain? Give her some space, yeah?”

That line changed the air.

Faces turned complicated—some embarrassed, some entertained, some relieved, like they’d finally found the moral high ground.

Because a consensus had already formed: McKenna and Cole were a pair, and I was the clueless guy who wouldn’t take the hint—the problem.

I looked at McKenna, and too many fragments flashed at once: the engagement ring before the world ended; her saying “not public, for now” after it did; the two of them standing shoulder to shoulder on the training grounds; the way she never explained, never denied, whenever people joked.

McKenna and I had made it official before the outbreak, but the end of the world ruined everything. No wedding. No honeymoon. Just survival.

We lived in the same base, but she didn’t want anyone thinking she’d climbed because of me—so she never acknowledged what we were.

Later we formed this field squad together, and even with teammates who bled beside us every day, she never said a word.

To avoid “conflict of interest,” she kept me at arm’s length.

And at the same time, she stayed close to Cole. I asked her about it more than once in private; every time she brushed it off as “work.”

But the team wasn’t blind. They saw McKenna and Cole together and simply decided that was the truth.

Which made me, naturally, the third wheel—clingy, disrespectful, trying to wedge myself into their relationship.

The irony was brutal: one sentence from her—“Leo is my fiancé”—and the ridicule would have died on the spot.

But she never said it.

Her silence wasn’t forgetfulness. It was permission.

Permission for them to treat me like a “homewrecker.” Permission to keep me stuck in the awkward corner. Permission for me to absorb the gossip she didn’t want to deal with—and the responsibility she didn’t want to hold.

McKenna withdrew her gaze, as if she were finally ready to “settle” it.

Her tone turned more like an order. “This ends here. Leo, write the report. Spell out what was wrong with the retreat plan. Admit the mistake. Operations needs to see an attitude. The team needs an explanation.”

When she said admit the mistake, her eyes didn’t flicker once.

In that moment, I understood: for her, my choices over the past year had become something she felt entitled to.

I built her tactics. I built her retreat contingencies. I shielded her from questions in debrief. I polished her achievements into something presentable. When things went wrong, I pulled the blame onto myself so the squad wouldn’t split on the spot.

I didn’t blame the others for not seeing it—I chose to stay low-profile. I chose to hand her the credit so she could stand firm faster.

What I couldn’t accept was this: she knew exactly who had been doing the real directing, and she still made a habit of ignoring every ounce of what I’d done. When she needed it, she pushed me to the other side without hesitation—so she could keep wearing the face of the “trusted captain.”

I didn’t argue. I didn’t raise my voice.

I reached into the inner pocket of my jacket, took out my deputy insignia, and set it on the table. The metal clasp clicked against the surface—clean and sharp.

It was the symbol of my authority as deputy.

Someone frowned. Someone sneered. Someone instinctively assumed it was a threat.

I looked at McKenna, my voice as flat as a completed procedure. “I’m out. Effective immediately. From now on, your command calls, your retreat plans, your debrief reports—don’t come to me.”

Adam snorted. “Like anyone gives a damn.”

Cole’s smile widened. “Go on, then. Don’t look back.”

McKenna stared at the insignia. For a second, hesitation flickered—then she crushed it, lifted her chin, and her voice went cold. “Without me, you’re nothing.”

Cole chuckled beside her, like he was backing her play.

I swung my pack back onto my shoulders and pulled the door open.

The corridor outside was lit in harsh, white light. The air reeked of disinfectant.

I didn’t offer one more explanation. I didn’t look back to see their faces.

Explanations were never how problems got solved—especially not when they’d already decided I was the problem.

I shut the door and kept walking down the corridor, steps unbroken, heading out.