Just like the Griever's Hole, the dead men hung by hooks, the Rat Man, the Cranks and the brick walls, Minho had hopes that Frankie's death was just another illusion. As much as he tried to distance himself from disappointment, this was one thing he...
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BEING HERE, ALIVE, with her best friends from the past—
Their faces, hairs, frowns, smiles, gaits. She remembered them all.
—she felt like she was in a dream, but she couldn't decide if this was sweet or a form of torturous nightmare.
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THE GROUP MANAGED to silently slip into an abandoned tower at the edge of the city by evening. Jorge made everyone check the entire 15 floors for Cranks before they could settle in the 12th's corridor.
"Rest up. Take a leak. Whatever. We'll search for food in an hour or two," he announced.
There was a half-functional toilet near their spot. Clean, clear water sprout out of a damaged closet, forming a pool at one point of the tiled floor before it slithered down along the angle of the building.
Frankie pulled out her hairband and tied all of her hair into a ponytail as she walked towards the water source. She tested the water with her palm first —it was cool, odorless, colorless, hence probably harmless.
Then she washed her face and hands.
The scratches on her cheek stung when they made contact with the water and she couldn't help but wince.
"You've got tattoo as well, haven't you?"
She jumped on her feet and whipped around to face the intruder. It was Aris. Looking as clueless as ever.
"We all have one, too. Mine's Group B, Subject B1. The Partner."
Frankie reflexively covered her nape with her wet palm and traced the rough skin.
"What's yours?"
"Go away, you stick."
Aris looked to his left where Reggie was interfering and grinned, "Sticks! We're really from the same group, after all!"
