Page 5 of Pack Frenzy
“Hey!” My voice breaks on the word, but I double down anyway.
Mustache turns, eyebrows raised.
“Give her my banana.” I tap my tray.
He gives me that blank, dead-eyed look.
“Give mine to the girl with the nut allergy,” I say. “I’m not eating this crap anyway.”
“That’s not how this works, princess.”
“Then make it work.” The words come out steadier than I feel. I wave my banana through the bars, and my hand is shaking—from hunger or fear, I don’t know anymore. “Or what—you gonna let her go into anaphylaxis? Pretty sure even Nexus doesn’t want to explain a dead Omega because you couldn’t swap her nut paste for my banana.”
He stares a beat too long. In that silence, I realize what I’ve done—drawn attention, made demands, become memorable.
Everything the Omega Institute told me not to do. But the image of Sabrina sneaking me food when Mom insisted I needed to lose ten pounds flashes in my mind, and I can’t take it back. Won’t take it back.
He snatches the banana with a curse and stomps to her cell.
A small gasp. “Oh, thank you.”
Those two words land in a place I thought had gone numb from welding shut all these years. When was the last time someone thanked me? Or that I did something that mattered, even if it was small?
Maybe that’s dangerous. Maybe caring about these girls will make this worse. But I’m here, in this place, and if I lose the part of me that gives away bananas, what’s left?
Besides, I’ve skipped meals before, while she’s probably terrified enough without adding a swollen throat to her morning.
I lean back on the cot, pressing my palms over my eyes until colors pulse behind them.
“You’re okay,” I whisper to no one. “You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re?—”
My stomach is already regretting the charitable impulse, growling like I’ve betrayed it, which I have. But this tiny splitinside me? It doesn’t hurt as much as the hunger does. It almost feels... warm.
Sabrina would’ve done the same thing,I think. She was the one sneaking extra dessert to me when Mom put me on another diet. The one who stood between me and Dad’s disappointment.
The memory squeezes in close, too tight to breathe. I shove it away before it can take root and sprout tears I won’t be able to stop.
Footsteps pause outside my door. A soft beep, then the slot opens again.
A different voice this time—steady, low. “Mancini.”
I blink up. It’s the Beta from last night. He slides a pair of gray foam slip-ons with vent holes and a stampedNEXUS ASSETlogo on the heel.
“Facility issue,” he says. “Courtyard’s damp.Safety saysno bare feet.”
I eye the shoes. “You delivering high fashion now?”
One corner of his mouth threatens a smile and then thinks better of it. “Just… wear them.” He nods once, like that’s a compromise, and starts to move on—then adds, softer, “Keep your head down.”
“Thanks, Mercado.”
“Eli,” he corrects. “Call me Eli.”
“Thanks for the shoes, Eli.”
His gaze flicks to my bare toes, then to the camera in the corner. “Two minutes until everyone heads outside,” he says in a loud voice, then he’s gone.
I tug the slip-ons on. They’re a half-size too big, but the foam warms fast, and the floor sting disappears. They squeak when I flex. Ridiculous. And somehow it helps to know he brought them for me, and I’m sure Nexus shoes don’t come in half-sizes anyway.
