It’s not safe down here. Back before the Recruiter Rebellion, the Protectorate tried to keep the subway tunnels clear—tried to patrol them and chase out those who used the underground network for black-market goods between the Neverlands and the Dark City. But even the Protectorate couldn’t monitor the entire grid of crisscrossing passages, and it’s always been rumored that there are caved-in sections. Sections still filled with plague rats, downed until they sense human flesh.

I shiver, the air damp and colder than outside, the walls slick with half-frozen condensation. There’s an almost imperceptible draft flitting across my cheeks. And in the distance water drips into a puddle, every drop creating a distinct ping that echoes over and over. The stranger’s breathing slows to normal even though I’m still gulping at the air, little hiccups shuddering through my chest. I hear him step toward me, feel him coming near and I throw up a hand, ready to ward him off.

I still don’t understand what happened back on the roof. How he was able to walk so casually with those two Unconsecrated women.

Why he bothered to save me. Me.

“Who are you?” I ask, my voice strained and overly loud as it bounces sharply off the tiled walls.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says. He sounds too close and I take a few steps away, putting distance between us. It’s impossible to see anything down here—the darkness is absolute—but my other senses kick in. I can smell him, the tang of his sweat with an undercurrent of fear and adrenaline. I can hear the sound of each inhalation, the way he holds his breaths and exhales slow and long.

I can feel the heat of him.

“Who are you?” I ask again, trying to sound hard and unafraid.

He shifts, the sound of fabric sliding along the wall. “My name’s Catcher,” he says, his voice nearer than it was before. I take rapid steps away until I hit another set of bars with my back. I sidestep, stumbling over something that clatters in the blackness, metal against metal.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “Did they hurt you?” There’s anger in his voice and he’s moving toward me again.

I think about the large man kicking me, swinging at me, kneeling on me. Yes, I want to tell him. Yes, they terrified me. They made me feel small and weak and I’m not used to that. I despise those feelings.

“No, it feels good being kicked,” I say instead, infusing the statement with as much sarcasm as possible. Slowly I slip my hand into my pocket, hoping he can’t hear me shift. I slide the knife out. Simply holding the familiar handle bolsters my courage, makes my breathing come easier. I’m finally in more control of this situation.

I hear his sharp inhalations, feel his exhalations across my skin. He’s close, too close, and I raise the knife in front of me. “Back off,” I tell him.

“It’s okay, Annah,” he says.