Bian sat in the darkened store, hunched over on a pile of old cloth bags, his knees drawn up, fingertips stuffed into his mouth.
He was biting them again.
The taste of iron had long since coated his tongue. He didn't even flinch anymore when his teeth broke skin. His fingertips were raw, and the metallic tang of blood lingered in the back of his throat, but he didn't stop. His eyes were wide, ringed in shadows, fixed on the concrete slab blocking the front entrance. Every now and then, when a distant rustle echoed from somewhere outside—a breeze, an animal, maybe just his imagination—his head would jerk up, gaze snapping toward the sealed gap, pupils narrowing with suspicion and dread.
It had been a day.
Dican had left an entire day ago.
He was only supposed to grab a craft and come back. That's it. With Dican's strength and speed, it should've taken no more than a few hours, even if he was delayed. But the sun had set once and risen again, and there was still no sign of him.
