I straightened my shirt, rolled my shoulders once, and moved to the inner hallway where I'd stashed the gear for tonight's trip. The smell of oil and canvas—leather belts, reinforced backpacks, folded black jackets—filled the air like an old soldier's memory.
Light armour, enough to deflect a Stage 1 zombie's claws but not the bite and still flexible for running. I pulled one of the smaller jackets from the pile and threw it over my shoulder for Qinglan.
Speaking of which, A faint tapping came from the far end of the hall.
I turned.
Mu Qinglan approached silently, already dressed in a dark body suit, leather jeans and her office shirt gear fitted snug against her body, her hair tied into a high, efficient knot. No jewellery. No ornaments. Just a woman prepared to move. To fight.
She stopped a few steps away, her electric blue eyes scanning me up and down.
"You ready?" she asked.
"I was born ready," I said, smirking.
