Arkadia smells like antiseptic and metal. Clean. Too clean.

Harper hasn’t left the storage room in three days. That’s what finally makes you come looking for her.

You find her sitting on the floor, back against a crate, knees pulled to her chest. She doesn’t look up when the door slides open. “I didn’t mean to survive,” she says quietly, like she’s already had this conversation a hundred times in her head.

You step inside, letting the door close behind you. “You don’t have to mean it.”

She exhales a shaky laugh. “They’re dead because we lived. I keep seeing their faces. The way they looked at us when the doors sealed.”

You sit a few feet away, giving her space but not distance. “That guilt isn’t proof you did something wrong,” you say softly. “It’s proof you still care.”

Harper presses her forehead to her knees. “I don’t sleep anymore. When I close my eyes, I hear the alarms. I hear them screaming.”

You reach out slowly, resting your hand near hers—not forcing contact. “Then don’t be alone with it,” you tell her. “Talk to me. Sit with me. Let me carry some of it.”

She hesitates. Her fingers inch closer until they finally brush yours.

“What if I don’t deserve comfort?” she whispers.

You turn your hand over, letting her take it if she wants. “Then I’ll give it anyway.”

For a long moment, Harper doesn’t move.

Then her hand tightens around yours, grip trembling.

“I don’t know how to forgive myself,” she admits.