| 3 | Branded

I stand frozen, staring at the eyes of the man in the blue suit, waiting for the alarm to be raised, for rough hands to grab me. But instead, the man nods his head to the side, silently telling me to go.

Oh, my God…

Something I can’t quite name washes over me—relief? fear?—but I don’t dwell on it. I can’t. My legs move of their own accord, carrying me past the man. I grab Marcus’ arm, probably too tightly, and all but drag him out of the store.

We don’t slow down, our footsteps echoing on the sidewalk as we hurry away. The streets blur around us, my focus narrowed to the path ahead and the need to put as much distance as possible between us and the store.

It isn’t until we’ve walked several blocks that I allow myself to slow down. Beside me, Marcus exhales heavily, the sound ragged with relief and lingering fear.

My mind races, replaying the encounter over and over.

Maybe he didn’t see me?

…

No, he saw me. I looked right into his eyes. He saw me…

I glance at Marcus, noting the anxiety etched into every line of his face. Whether it’s from the encounter with the man or the nervous cashier, I can’t tell. But I force myself to push the questions aside, forcing myself to focus on what’s ahead.

The mission isn’t over and I don’t want to make him worry any more than he should.

The hard part is done.

We walk in silence for a moment longer, my mind scrambling to come up with something—anything—to distract the very obviously nervous teenage boy beside me.

“Three,” I blurt out.

Marcus furrows his brows, confusion momentarily replacing the worry on his face. “What?”

“My parents,” I clarify, surprised by how steady my voice sounds even to my own ears. “They had a three-year age difference.”

“Had?” he echoes, his tone laced with a cautious undercurrent.

“They’re dead.” The words come out flat, emotionless, and I can’t help but feel a twinge of guilt.

“I-I’m sorry,” he mutters, and we lapse back into silence.

I don’t elaborate, knowing the rumors of how my mother died jumping off of a cliff and my father was killed by Talos’ authority will soon get around to him. It’s a story known to many in the underground community—a tale of forbidden love and tragic consequences. One that took place in the very sector that we’re walking in.

Morris had explained it all to me when I was old enough to understand. He’d been friends with my parents, had witnessed their downfall. Their crime? Loving someone from a different Ring.

Morris told me that it was an accident, that they didn’t mean to get caught. But sometimes I can’t help but wonder if the reason they were caught was because they abandoned me. Maybe they tried to ask for forgiveness from their respective Ringleaders and ended up being executed instead.

Can I blame them?

Before I can spiral down the same rabbit hole, a loud alarm cuts through the air, both of us involuntarily jolting.

“What is that?” Marcus yells, his voice barely audible over the piercing sound.

The sound is familiar. I hear it all too often when I walk on edge of the tunnels at this time of day.

It’s 7:45PM…

“Warning alarm,” I say, my voice laced with urgency. “We need to move.”

He doesn’t hesitate, the paperbag crunching under his hold. Out of the corner of my eye, I see men dressed in black uniforms, pouring out of vehicles, rushing to their posts.

This is what they call the ‘Forewarning Quarter’. At 8PM, the border to cross into the next sector is closed and it remains closed until 12PM the following day. It is a crime to stay in the sector of a Ring that you don’t belong to after hours, so the alarm rings at 7:45PM to warn visitors that they have fifteen minutes to cross the border.

But of course, there are exceptions. They’re just not relevant to us.

Marcus and I hurry down the block, just two more blocks away from the edge of the forest. But as we come closer, my heart sinks when a pair of soldiers begin walking toward us from the corner ahead. They walk past us, and for a moment, I’m relieved.

That is until one of them calls out. “Hey!”

I feel Marcus tense beside me, his body coiling to sprint. “Stop,” I hiss through clenched teeth. “Don’t panic.”

I steel myself, my own movements ceasing.

Don’t panic. Stay calm.

We turn to face the soldiers, my heart hammering in my chest. The palms of my hands break in light sweat, my knuckles bleaching as I clench my fists tightly in anticipation.

“Where are you two headed?” one of them asks, his tone deceptively casual.

He looks nonchalant, not a flicker of suspicion in his eyes. And I’m relieved until I turn to look at his fellow soldier and I notice the intensity in his gaze. He eyes me from head to toe, the hard look in his eyes never faltering.

I open my mouth to respond, but my voice fails me. My tongue feels like lead, heavy and immovable.

“The border,” Marcus answers smoothly, not a hint of hesitation in his voice. I could kiss him for his quick thinking.

It’s okay. We’re going to be okay.

For a moment that stretches into eternity, the soldiers regard us. Then, miraculously, the first one nods. “Be on your way then.”

Oh, thank God.

Relief floods through me, so intense it makes me dizzy. We turn to leave, our calm exteriors belying the storm of emotions underneath.

But we’ve only taken a few steps when a second voice calls out.

“Hold on. You, in the hoodie.”

My blood runs cold. “Keep going,” I whisper to Marcus, my voice barely audible. “Don’t look back.”

I turn slowly, back to the soldiers, facing what feels like my fate. The one who called me back locks his arms behind his back, his brow furrowing as he questions me.

“Where do you belong?” he asks, his tone leaving no room for evasion.

There’s an investigative look in his eyes as he analyzes me like I’m under a microscope. I know by now he’s noticed my ambiguous coloring, the shade that doesn’t quite fit any single Ring.

“Santos,” I lie, forcing my voice to remain steady.

“That so?” he muses, skepticism dripping from every syllable.

The air seems to thicken, making it hard to breathe. And then, the words that hang everything in suspension:

“Remove the shades.”

In this moment, balanced on a knife’s edge between freedom and capture, I realize that everything—Briannah’s life, Marcus’ safety, my own future—hinges on what I do next.

My heart skips a beat, anxiety and adrenaline pulsing through my veins. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a pair of soldiers crossing the street, their boots rhythmically hitting the pavement as they approach. My body feels like it’s on fire, a thin sheen of sweat breaking out across my skin.

I take a step back, glancing over my shoulder to see Marcus disappearing around the corner towards the forest’s edge.

At least the medicine is safe. They’ll be safe.

As I turn back to face the soldiers, one of them steps forward. My hand moves instinctively to my face, fingers grasping the frame of my shades. The soldier halts, waiting. The world seems to hold its breath as I slowly remove the glasses.

Time’s up.

My gaze snaps up, meeting the icy blue eyes of the nearest soldier. I exhale shakily, the cool evening air making my feverish skin breakout in goosebumps. Then, without warning, I break into a sprint.

The shades slip from my grasp, shattering on the concrete. But the sound is quickly drowned out by a furious shout: “It’s a goddamn X!”

My feet pound against the pavement, each step jarring through my body. An ear-piercing alarm cuts through the air, and suddenly the street is bathed in a deep, pulsing red light. It's not the usual Closing Quarter alarm—this is something far more sinister.

My heart thunders in my ears, drowning out everything but the slap of my boots on the ground and my ragged breathing. Ahead, I spot three more soldiers in black uniforms running straight for me. I make a sharp left, barely squeezing through a closing gate. The property owner’s angry snarl follows me as I dash across his backyard.

I vault over a wooden fence, the rough boards scraping my palms. I tuck and roll as I land, the impact knocking the wind from my lungs. As I scramble to my feet, an angry growl freezes my blood.

No… No, no, no.

I see it: a massive Rottweiler charging towards me, teeth bared.

Panic surges through me as I spot a ladder against the nearby house. I lunge for it, my hands grasping the cool metal rungs. But I'm not fast enough. The dog's teeth sink into my boot, tearing through leather and into flesh. A yelp of pain escapes me as I kick out, my free foot connecting with the dog's head.

I drag myself up the ladder, each movement sending fresh waves of pain through my ankle. As I reach the roof, the deafening whir of helicopter blades fills the air. The wind whips my hair around my face as soldiers begin to rappel down.

There's nowhere left to run. And with no other option, I jump.

The impact is brutal. A sickening pop in my ankle is followed by a sharp, shooting pain up to my knee. I land hard on my shoulder, agony lancing through my collarbone and neck.

Get up. Get up! Get up! Get up! You have to keep moving.

I bite back a scream, forcing myself to my feet. But as I try to take a step, my injured ankle gives way. The fight drains out of me as I limp across the lawn, but the wailing alarm and flashing red lights don’t stop.

Then, seemingly out of no where, a black truck screeches to a halt in front of me, ‘Special Talos Forces’ emblazoned on its side in stark white letters. Before I can react, someone grabs a fistful of my hair, slamming my face against the truck's cold metal door. Pain explodes through my skull, my vision blurring.

Rough hands wrench my arms behind my back, cold metal biting into my wrists as handcuffs click shut. I'm thrown into the truck, landing hard on my injured shoulder. The doors slam shut with a finality that chills me to the bone.

A hiss fills the air, followed by a noxious smell that burns my nose and throat. My limbs grow heavy, my thoughts sluggish. As the truck lurches into motion, I fight to stay conscious, focusing on the gray bench in front of me even as my vision swims.

Stay awake. Do not fall asleep.

I don’t know how long it is until the truck finally stops, and I'm yanked out unceremoniously. My feet drag across unfamiliar ground as I'm half-carried into a blindingly white room. The fluorescent lights sear my retinas, adding to the pounding in my head.

I'm thrown to the floor, the cold surface a shock against my skin. I try to move, try to fight, but I can’t.

The gas… I can’t move.

I feel my shirt being cut away, leaving me exposed and vulnerable. Despite the paralysis induced by whatever gas they used, I flinch when a needle plunges into my arm.

No… What’s going on? What are they doing to me?

Through the haze, I hear words that make my blood run cold: “It's a mutt. Brand it.”

Then, pain.

Excruciating pain.

It sears across my chest, the acrid smell of burning flesh, the cruel laughter of my tormentors, and my screams wailing—it all blends into a hellish blur.

“Shut up!” an angry voice snarls, and the breath from my lungs is kicked out of me, bruising my sides.

Please, make it stop…

I whimper in pain as more blows follow, simultaneously beating me until the last one aims perfectly for the side of my head and my neck pops. This time, the familiar ringing in my ears sounds like music, and I’m too far gone to care as I feel myself being dragged against the cold floor.

“The other one got away,” a man's voice confirms as the echoing sound receding footsteps meets my ears, distant and hazy.

Marcus..?

…

Good. He did good.

In that, I find relief. Relief in the gift of knowing that the last thing that I did was save my friend’s life. That at least I know I will not die in vain.

For a moment, I almost feel happy, and I finally give in to the darkness pulling me away. But as I allow myself to slip away, another thought crosses my mind, and I’ve never felt more terrified: this isn't over, I’m not dead yet.