Jian Yuche's position was deliberate.
His body was angled to cover the gap where Lingyun's shoulder met Zhenlan's. His weight was balanced on the balls of his feet and his eyes tracked the survivors crowding the doorway—counting faces, watching hands, measuring distance.
Qiao Ren's noise cut through it all. At least he wasn't screaming anymore. That was a plus. But it had changed to a whimpering sound. Wet and ragged. His hand still clutched his shoulder, his blood slowing down as it soaked through his fingers.
The survivors pushed forward again causing their bodies to shift as their shoulders pressed together. The space between them and the barrier shrinking.
Lingyun didn't move.
Zhenlan's breathing was audible beside him. Controlled. Steady.
Chenghai's jaw was tight, his posture rigid despite the bruising still visible on his ribs.
But Jian Yuche stayed where he was.
Watching.
Assessing...
