When The World Ends

Untitled Part 58

The tunnels always smelled the same—damp concrete, rust, the faint tang of mildew that clung to your hair and clothes no matter how many times you scrubbed. After days above ground, bouncing between half-looted houses and hollowed-out storefronts, coming back down into the underground was almost jarring. Too quiet. Too still. Like stepping into the mouth of something that had been waiting for you.

Amiel walked a few paces ahead of us, his torchlight cutting a thin, flickering line down the stone. He didn't say much, just kept his shoulders squared, his stride unhurried but deliberate. A man who'd mapped these tunnels into his very bones. Behind him, the four brothers carried the bulk of our haul—cans, jars, some clothing, a decent set of tools Leo insisted on salvaging from a shed. I trailed near the back, not out of laziness but habit. The rear gave me space, gave me sightlines. It also meant I could listen.

The brothers had been talking more lately. Not to me—not directly—but enough that I caught snippets in the quiet stretches when boots scuffed against stone. Laughter, sometimes. A curse muttered when Donatello nearly dropped a pack. But more than once, I'd heard my name pass between them like a stone tossed into still water, ripples spreading.

"She kept pace better this time."
"You think Amiel noticed?"
"She's still green."
"Not for long."

I never let on that I heard. Better to keep my cards close.

By the time we reached one of the larger alcoves, Amiel stopped, lifting his torch. "Here. We'll rest. Tomorrow, we inventory." His accent carried weight in the stone chamber, final, unquestioned.

The room was wider than most, a place once used for storage maybe—low ceiling, iron pipes running crookedly along one wall. The brothers moved easily, like a well-practiced routine. Mickey dumped his pack with a grunt and sprawled out immediately, muttering something about his back. Donatello lined their supplies in neat stacks against the wall. Raphael leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, eyes scanning the shadows as if daring them to move. Leo... Leo set his pack down without a word, then crouched near the faint fire Amiel had started, coaxing sparks into life.

It wasn't long before the five of us—Amiel having vanished down some corridor on his own errand—sat in a rough circle around the small, crackling glow. The fire didn't banish the cold, but it made it easier to forget it.

For a while, no one spoke. The kind of silence that carried weight, pressing down as steady as the stone ceiling overhead. Then Mickey, predictably, got restless. He picked up a pebble and flicked it across the circle, aiming low. It clinked against the toe of my boot.

I ignored it.

Another followed. Then another.

"You're a terrible shot," I muttered finally, not looking up.

He grinned, eyes catching the firelight. "Not trying to hit you. Just trying to see how long it takes you to snap."

"Careful," I warned, deadpan. "You won't like me when I do."

That earned a sharp bark of laughter from Raphael, who tipped his head back against the pillar. Even Donatello smirked faintly, though he didn't look up from fiddling with some piece of scrap. Leo gave no reaction, just fed the fire another bit of kindling.

Mickey leaned forward on his elbows, clearly emboldened. "C'mon, Jade. You gotta give us something. A story. A joke. Even a smile. You're wound tighter than Raph's fists."

"Difference is," Raphael cut in, "my fists break things."

That drew another round of low chuckles, and against my better judgment, I felt the corner of my mouth twitch. Just a fraction, but it didn't go unnoticed.

"There it is," Mickey crowed, triumphant. "Told you she had one in there."

I rolled my eyes, but didn't bother hiding the small huff of a laugh that escaped me. For once, the sound didn't feel foreign. It settled in the circle, warm as the fire.

Later, when the flames had burned low and my eyes grew heavy, I stretched out near the wall, half-wrapped in my coat. Sleep never came easy down here—too many years of training myself to wake at the smallest sound—but exhaustion had its way. I drifted in that in-between haze, not fully under, not fully aware.

That's when I heard them.

Mickey's voice was low, teasing but cautious. "You've got that look, Leo. The one you get when you're sizing up more than a fight."

Silence. Then a soft scrape of Leo shifting where he sat.

"She's not like us," he said finally. His tone wasn't dismissive—it was weighted, almost reverent. "She's not trained like we were, not carved up and hardened from the start. But she still... doesn't back down. Even when she should. Even when it would be smarter to."

Mickey chuckled. "So you like the stubborn streak."

"It's more than that." Leo's voice dropped, almost thoughtful now. "She's been through hell, but she hasn't let it turn her into nothing. Most people we see now—they're either cruel or hollow. She's neither. She's got this... fire. Doesn't matter how much she's lost, she still bites back."

Another pause. The sound of Leo rubbing a hand over his jaw carried faintly. "She reminds me there's something worth protecting. Something worth fighting for that isn't just survival."

Mickey scoffed softly, though it didn't land sharp. "Careful, brother. Sounds like you're talking yourself into trouble."

The next morning came heavy with routine—inventory, sorting, cleaning weapons. I slipped into the rhythm, silent as ever, until Mickey sidled close, smirk tugging at his mouth.

"Somebody's got a crush," he said under his breath, sing-song, just loud enough for Raph and Donnie to hear.

Raph's answering smirk was wolfish, Donatello snorted without looking up from the tangle of wires in his hands, and Leo said nothing at all. Just tightened the strap on his pack and moved on.

I didn't rise to it. Didn't need to.

That night, though, when the firelight caught the edge of my knife and I tilted it just enough to see my reflection in the blade, I caught the flicker of my own lips twitching upward. Almost a smile.

Almost.