Sasha found herself sitting inside what looked like a cross between a clinic and a mad scientist’s den.
Glass beakers, centrifuges, and makeshift shelves lined with scavenged ds and labeled vials filled the cramped space. A solar lamp flickered overhead, bathing everything in a soft gold light that made the room feel strangely alive.
Well, at least she didn’t have to hunt Dylan down — he was right where she needed him.
"It’s just routine for newcors," Dylan said, his tone casual but precise as he slipped a needle into her vein. His hands were steady — too steady. "We screen for infection, viruses, bacterial spread, anything you might’ve picked up out there. The last thing we need is another outbreak."
Outbreak? It wasn’t an outbreak though.
Sasha winced slightly but didn’t flinch. "So you’re the camp doctor?"
Dylan gave a nonchalant shrug. "Doctor. Scientist. Biochemist. Engineer, depending on the day."
Sasha arched a brow. "A man of many talents."
"And limited resources," he said, sliding the filled vial into a cooler. "But I make do."
"I bet you do." Her gaze swept over the cluttered lab — microscopes powered by jury-rigged batteries, IV bags hanging from bent tal rods, a whiteboard filled with half-erased formulas. "You look a bit young to have that many titles. What are you, a prodigy or sothing?"
A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. "Genius, actually."
Sasha smirked. "Ah, humility. I see that wasn’t part of your degree."
"Didn’t fit in the syllabus," he said, without missing a beat.
She chuckled, shaking her head. "You remind of soone."
"Oh?" His gaze lifted to hers, curious. "A good mory or a bad one?"
"Depends," she said, studying the way his glasses caught the light — sharp eyes, sharp mind, calm voice. "The last genius I knew tried to blow up a fortress. You don’t seem the type."
"Give ti," Dylan murmured, scribbling notes on her chart.
For a mont, silence hung between them — not uncomfortable, but charged. He was ticulous, almost graceful in how he worked.
Sasha found herself oddly intrigued. This wasn’t so desperate survivor; this was a man who still believed in structure, science, and maybe even hope.
Too clean. Too calm for this world. She wondered how long before the apocalypse got its claws into him too.
Sasha had an idea — and a dangerous one at that.
Dylan was clearly the brains of this whole fortress. The way people treated him, you’d think he was the cure to the apocalypse itself. The man was calm, clean, and far too composed for soone living in a world ruled by rot.
If she wanted to secure her place here — or better, influence him to co with them — she needed to get close.
And what better way to do that than to appeal to his obsession: science.
"Do you need an extra hand here?" she asked casually, leaning on the counter, eyes glinting with calculated curiosity.
Dylan paused mid-note, glancing up like she’d just offered to operate on his patients with a spoon. His brows rose, and for a second, Sasha wondered if she’d grown another head.
Most people — especially the won — had volunteered to "assist" him before. None lasted a day. They swooned, flirted, spilled chemicals, and once, soone fainted at the sight of a syringe.
Dylan had learned to work faster alone.
He finally muttered, "Many have tried. They proved more of a hindrance than help."
Sasha chuckled, unoffended. "Then you haven’t tried yet. Give three days. If I’m useless, you can kick out."
His frown deepened. "Do you have a degree in sciences?"
She shook her head.
"Mathematics?"
Another shake.
"Engineering?"
Sasha grinned. "Corporate slave. I filed papers and managed reports. My superpower is organization and staying alive under pressure."
He leaned back, arms crossed, studying her like a lab sample that talked back. Then, with an exaggerated sigh, he said, "Two days. If you’re still standing and not crying by then, you can stay."
"Deal." Sasha bead, victory already glowing in her eyes.
The next few hours, she made sure to earn her keep. While Dylan moved like a surgeon — drawing blood, disinfecting wounds, murmuring about bacterial cultures — Sasha reorganized everything within reach. dicine cabinets alphabetized, patient files sorted, broken beakers replaced with labeled jars.
Patients stread in one after another — limping raiders, coughing civilians, one kid with a knife cut and a fever.
Dylan worked non-stop, cool under pressure, but his expression darkened every ti he checked their limited stock.
"There’s too many," Sasha said quietly, watching him disinfect a wound. "This isn’t a clinic. It’s a war zone."
He didn’t look up. "And we’re losing ground. People are getting sick more often — bad hygiene, contaminated water, exhaustion." He peeled off his gloves and sighed. "If it keeps up, our ds won’t last another month. Especially antibiotics and painkillers."
Sasha’s gaze flicked toward the cabinets. Painkillers. Antiseptics. Bandages. She had all of those. More than enough — locked safely inside her space ring.
But if she showed her cards too early...
Dylan was still an unknown variable. Intelligent, yes — but that made him dangerous. One wrong move and he could dissect her secrets faster than he took blood samples.
So, for now, she smiled and filed another sheet, masking her thoughts behind an easy grin. "Guess I joined the right departnt, then. Soone’s gotta help the resident genius keep everyone alive."
Dylan shot her a sidelong glance, lips twitching. "Flattery won’t earn you extra rations."
"Oh, it wasn’t flattery," Sasha said with a smirk. "Just a statent of fact."
He huffed a soft laugh — and for the first ti since she t him, he didn’t look like he was carrying the weight of a crumbling world.
Sasha leaned back, feeling satisfied. Step one: earn his trust.
Step two: figure out what kind of man Dylan really was.
Because in this Rank-A world, one wrong assumption could get her killed.
It was better to understand him first before making any moves — dying because of a rookie mistake wasn’t on her to-do list.
Still, compared to strict the military camp, it seed their ti here wouldn’t be half as bad.
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