As far as I knew, we were in the same location, but I wasn’t yet able to confirm whether that was the case. Then, as a former SEAL, I was considered a VIP resident. As a former prosecutor, I wanted to believe she’d received the same designation, but four principles determined hierarchies at the safe zone—the ability to build, heal, farm, and protect. Everyone else was considered non-essential, or NEs. I was a Protector, my level set at the highest rank for a guard: Class 1 Elite.

Sighing, I ran my fingers through my hair, crossed off the area I’d searched the day before, and went to the bathroom to prepare for my day.

Once finished with my morning routine, I dragged on the all-black uniform that regularly made me want to turn my weapon on myself and stepped out into the main corridor. 

A few other guards, these in gray camo, made their way down to the “mess hall” on the ground floor. From what I’d gleaned in the last three weeks, the safe zone had started as an apartment community that the government seized from the original developer. However, the need for a safe space for citizens arrived quicker than expected, which explained the construction still underway on the farthest edge of the complex’s perimeter. 

My living quarters were on the seventh floor out of eight. Yet, I bypassed the elevator and took the stairs, in no mood to be stuck inside a windowless box and expected to engage in small talk about ridiculous shit as if all was right in the world.

Loud chatter and laughter greeted me the closer I got to the repurposed grand event hall. Then, swallowing my annoyance, I entered the large room with the checkered flooring, ornate coffered ceilings with gilded accents, and communal tables. 

A few of the guards tossed head nods my way. 

Several others waved. 

I ignored them all. 

I wasn’t there to make friends. I was there because I couldn’t leave without my girl.

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