„The Underground Wolves: Scout’s Secret”

Chapter 1. A Meeting in the Humming Switchfloor.

The Switchfloor's low ceiling hummed with stolen current, vibrating through Romy's bones as she traced a faded arrow on the wall pointing toward “Ward.” The junction smelled of sweat, ozone, and the bitter tang of boiled chicory—the dense cocktail of humanity compressed into the metro's arteries. She adjusted the strap of her supply bag, her fingers smudged with the charcoal dust that seemed permanently embedded in her skin, and scanned the flow of bodies for a familiar silhouette. Even before she spotted him, something in her chest loosened, as though her body recognized his presence before her eyes did.

Zorn emerged from the Command Post tunnel, his pale face a ghost among the crowd, dark circles cupping his eyes like bruises. His chin-length black hair fell forward, partially obscuring his gaze, but she could feel the intensity of it nonetheless—that careful, assessing sweep he gave every room, every passage. The multi-tool at his belt caught the dim light as he moved, and his wool sweater hung loose on his frame, a result of the metro's perpetual rationing.

When he saw her, his expression didn't change, but something in his posture did. A slight unbending, like a wire losing tension. Romy felt the familiar ache bloom in her chest—that mixture of comfort and frustration that had become synonymous with loving Zorn.

He reached the rusted iron column where she waited, and without a word, his hand found the small of her back, steering her gently away from a scavenger whose eyes were too bright, movements too jerky. The touch was practical, protective—and yet, his fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary, sending a current through her that had nothing to do with the jury-rigged wiring overhead.

“Medical Bay released you early,” he observed, his voice a low rumble that seemed to rise from the depths of the tunnels themselves. “No emergencies today?”

Romy shrugged, her light brown eyes following the path his hand had taken as it returned to his side. “Just inventory. We're running low on disinfectant again.” She studied the shadows beneath his eyes, the pallor of his skin. “You look worse than usual. Bad briefing?”

A dry, almost imperceptible laugh escaped him. “The mechanical order of the generator rooms is preferable to Ulf's strategic planning.”

She reached up to brush a strand of hair from his face, her fingertips ghosting over his skin. “You need to sleep, Zorn. Real sleep.”

Something flickered across his features—a momentary tightening around his mouth—before he caught her hand and lowered it. “Sleep is a luxury in short supply.”

Their eyes held, and in that moment, the crush of bodies, the hum of voices, the constant mechanical drone—all of it receded. The weight of everything unspoken pressed against Romy's chest. She wanted to ask him why he kept this distance between them, why his touch always retreated, why his eyes said one thing while his body said another. She wanted to tell him that whatever burden he carried, she would carry it too. That her brother's disappearance didn't mean Zorn needed to become a ghost himself.

Instead, she hummed a half-remembered tune, her fingers tracing the lines of old graffiti on the column. “Has your squad been assigned to the next surface run?”

“Three days.” His eyes followed her fingers. “Perimeter check first, then a quick scavenge. No more than six hours topside.”

The surface. The word alone sent a chill through her, images of toxic mist and feral Ghüls rising unbidden. Every time he went up, a part of her feared he wouldn't return—just like Mikael hadn't. The fear must have shown on her face because Zorn's expression softened fractionally.

“I always come back, Romy.” The words were simple, but his eyes held a promise that stirred something deep within her.

“I know,” she replied, though the knot in her stomach tightened. “Just... be careful. The antibiotics won't last another month.”

He nodded, his gaze drifting over her shoulder, suddenly alert. “We should move. Ulf's finished his perimeter check.”

Romy turned slightly to see the tall, straight-backed figure of Ulf approaching from the main tunnel mouth, his grey officer's uniform impeccable despite the grime of the metro. His intelligent eyes found them immediately, and a brief nod acknowledged their presence.

“He watches you,” Zorn observed, his voice neutral but his body tensing subtly.

Romy sighed, tucking a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear. “He watches everyone. It's his job.”

“Not like that.”

Before she could respond, a group of off-duty guards pushed past them, jostling Romy against Zorn's chest. His arms came up instinctively to steady her, strong and sure, and for a breathless moment, she was encircled in his warmth, the scent of him—wool and metal and something wild she couldn't name—enveloping her. His heart hammered against her cheek, surprisingly fast, and when she looked up, his dark eyes were dilated, fixed on her with an intensity that made her own pulse quicken.

“Sorry,” she murmured, though she wasn't sorry at all.

His hands lingered on her arms, as if he was fighting some internal battle about whether to pull her closer or push her away. She could feel the tension in his fingers, see the conflict in his eyes—desire warring with duty. Always duty.

“Zorn,” she breathed, a question and a plea wrapped in his name.

For a heartbeat, she thought he might kiss her. Then his expression shuttered, and he released her, taking a deliberate step back. “I should report back to Rex. The scout squad has mapping to finish.”

The sudden space between them felt vast, cold. Romy nodded, swallowing her disappointment. “Of course.”

From her fortified booth in the adjacent marketplace, Wike observed the exchange, her sharp, pale blue eyes calculating. She sat on her stool padded with bundled rags, one hand absently turning a silver necklace she'd found on a scavenge. The air in her Coin-Stall was smoky and close, carrying the scent of leather and metal polish. She watched the gentle way Romy touched Zorn's face, the fractional softening of his perpetually guarded expression. She saw the moment his walls came back up, the careful distance he re-established.