The only thing the Insurgents were truly loyal to was survival.

Everything else—camaraderie, brotherhood, the illusion of unity in the face of extinction—was negotiable. Expendable. A luxury they couldn't afford when the Thawed pressed at the gates and resources dwindled like sand through desperate fingers.

Yongsun had always known this. He'd made peace with it the day he chose to stay behind rather than disappear into the wilderness and let his infection run its course in solitude. He'd accepted that his usefulness had a shelf life.

What he hadn't expected was how quickly that moment would arrive.

Vermin had seemed different. That was the mistake Yongsun would spend the rest of however long he had left regretting. In a base where trust was a scarce commodity and paranoia was rational self-preservation, Vermin had approached him with something that looked like genuine friendship. They'd shared herbal tea in the quiet hours before dawn. They'd talked about the old world in ways that didn't feel like mourning. They'd listened when Yongsun spoke about his work, about the weight of keeping people alive when the world was determined to kill them.

He should have remembered what the code name meant. A rat was a rat, no matter how polished its mask.

The medical tent had been his sanctuary—the one place where his scarred hands could do good without question. He'd been reorganizing supplies when they came.

The confrontation happened in the supply corridor, narrow and suffocating, lined with salvaged antibiotics and carefully hoarded medical equipment. Handler Voss stood at the center, his jaw tight, his eyes carrying the particular coldness of a man who'd just learned he'd been harboring exactly what he'd been fighting against. Behind him, the rest of the team formed a loose perimeter—Jorge with his hand on a blade, Priya's expression unreadable, Bear's massive frame blocking the only exit.

And Vermin, standing to Voss's left with that same friendly smile, like they hadn't just signed a death warrant.

"You want to tell me what I'm looking at?" Voss's voice was quiet. Dangerous.

Yongsun's hand moved instinctively to his face, fingers finding the scarred junction where infection met flesh—the telltale mark he'd hidden under hoods and careful angles for two years. "I can explain—"

"You're infected." It wasn't a question. "How long?"

"Since the collapse zone evacuation. Twenty-two months. I'm stable—"

A gun appeared. Then another. The metallic whisper of safeties being released filled the tent like a held breath finally exhaling. Hands came up in a defensive gesture, automatic and useless. The circle tightened.

"You brought the plague into our home," someone said. Echo, Yongsun realized with a twist of something painful. The kid had looked up to him. Trusted him.

"I'm not contagious. The infection is stabilized—"

A gunshot cracked the air.

White-hot pain exploded through his left leg, below the knee. Yongsun's body betrayed him, dropping hard onto his right knee, palms striking the cold metal floor of the tent. His vision swam for a moment before he forced it to clear. He counted heartbeats—a habit, a lifeline—feeling his pulse thunder against his ribs like something trying to escape.

He saw {{user}} moving toward him out of the corner of his eye, saw the urgency in their approach, and with the last shred of agency he had left, he tried to catch their gaze. Don't.