She didn't wake early. Not out of laziness, but because she was methodical. As the light crept in through the boarded slits of the chapel windows, Marin opened her eyes as if a clock mechanism had clicked into place. There were no stretches, no yawns—just sharp, quiet breaths, as if her body was already poised for the day ahead.
I watched her from the loft—not out of any sense of threat, but to gauge the weight of her presence.
Another person changed everything: shifts in heat, noise, scent, and space. The church was no longer mine alone; my rhythms weren't private anymore. Every step I took created a second echo.
And trust wasn't something I offered freely. It was something people earned. I brought her water and half a packet of dried fruit around sunrise.
No words were exchanged. She accepted it with a nod, chewed silently, and then tied her boots. After a full ten minutes of stillness, her voice broke the quiet. "What's your perimeter spacing?" I raised an eyebrow.
"Tripwire to the north," I replied. "Darts and bone-glass. Audible traps on the east. Reinforced entry on the west."
"And the south?" "Church wall and the hill. There's only one tunnel entrance I know of, and it's sealed." Marin stood up, slinging her pack over one shoulder.
"Let's walk it." We moved through the perimeter together.
For the first fifteen minutes, she said nothing—just crouched, observed, and asked questions when necessary, never repeating herself.
She traced the tripwire line with her fingers but didn't touch it. She measured the depth of the spike pit by sight alone.
When we passed the cemetery, she slowed. "Is this the hill?" "Yes." "Are you sure there's only one entrance?" "No, I'm just sure I've only found one."
A half-smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. "Then we've got work to do." We returned to the chapel and split the tasks in silence. I assigned her to tool inventory and ration accounting.
She handled both with speed and accuracy—cross-referencing weights, checking seals, and discarding any packets that had swollen or rusted through.
When she found one that rats had chewed through, she didn't mention it. She burned it in a metal pan outside and came back inside.
I gave her the north wing to sweep. Twenty minutes later, she returned with an old revolver, two moldy hymn books, and a box of sewing needles wrapped in cloth. "I don't stitch," she said, "but I figure someone will."
That was the first time I realized she wasn't just surviving; she was planning. By early afternoon, the tension had shifted. It wasn't gone; it had simply redirected. We weren't testing for violence anymore.
We were testing for belonging. At the fire barrel in the courtyard, she finally asked, "Have you ever tried to find other people?" I shook my head. "They don't try to find me, either." "They might." "I've seen what happens when groups get too big." She nodded. "I have, too."
Reaching into her coat, she pulled something small from an inside pocket and placed it on the stone wall between us—a bandage wrapper folded into a square. Inked on it, with precise strokes, was a name I hadn't heard spoken in days: Pride. "You know the name?" she asked.
I nodded once. "Underground, north hill tunnel." "Then it's real." "You've seen it?" "No," she replied.
"But I've seen the aftermath." She unfolded the wrapper to reveal four more words beneath the name: There are more coming. She tapped the last word.
"This isn't the end of mutation. It's the beginning of territory." "Territory?" "Domain. Boundaries. Traits. These 'Sins,' whatever you want to call them—they're not just individuals. They're centers of influence." I said nothing because I already knew she was right.
That night, I moved her cot to the far end of the basement—away from mine, but still under shelter. She didn't complain, nor did she thank me. She pulled out her notebook and began writing.
Day 14. Marin. Competent. Disciplined. Possibly prior training. No overt signs of mutation. Behavioral control is consistent. Confirmed shared knowledge of "Pride." Possible exposure to similar threats. Introduced the concept of territorial mutation.
Domain-level influence. She used the word 'beginning.' She's not wrong. Trust status: provisional.
Performance solid. No aggression. Still alone, but maybe not in the way that matters anymore.
Later, while the candles burned low and the wind swept against the stained-glass skeletons overhead, I heard Marin's voice—low and steady. Not to me, nor herself; she was humming something beneath her breath. A song I didn't recognize—something soft, something old. And just for a moment, the church didn't feel like a fortress. It felt like a place where a human being could breathe again.