TOBIAS POV
The enemy infantry is hidden, but I know that they are out there. Danger clouds my mind as we slowly approach the ruins, the tank clinking as it crawls behind us. I keep my gun raised with the rest of my squad just in case.
Zeke takes point ahead of me and signals for us to follow him inside one of the buildings on the left, most likely because he thinks it is a good idea to make for higher ground. We will need the leverage if there is an ambush to cover everyone else below in the street.
Our group is smaller compared to others, but it contains some of our best men. Zeke is the leader, and nobody would complain, since he is a military genius. I'm honestly confused as to why he isn't a general or some other position higher in rank.
We file in a line behind him up a couple flights of hazardous, broken stone stairs to the third level. The air is dusty and therefore makes it hard to see and breathe without inhaling the particles.
Zeke steps forward onto the top step of the stairs and prepares to turn the corner and check for enemies in the room on our right. I stand directly below him, waiting for him to give us the all-clear.
But it never comes.
Something draws my eyes to where he is carefully walking, where a wire is meticulously laid out for someone to step on it.
"Zeke, no—!" My warning is far too late, and all I can do is hit the ground to save myself and not my friend.
The boom is deafening, and then,
darkness.
I spring up in my ridiculous king-sized bed, panting as sweat coats my forehead and drenches my shirt. It takes me a moment or so to make out the room, to find that I am in the Prior's mansion, not Afghanistan.
It was just a dream.
No. I shake my head as I drop it back down onto the pillow. It wasn't. Because it happened.
I sigh and kick the restraining, hot covers off of me before closing my eyes. Zeke was the only real friend I had in the military, or really, in life. I got to know him well over the year and a half we were deployed together. It all ended when he stepped on that thin, red wire that triggered the claymore in the doorway.
I was there when he took his last breaths, when he told me to look out for his family...
Stop. I groan out into the dark room, the sound echoing back at me. My eyelids blink rapidly to hold back tears as I get up out of bed and stumble to the bathroom.
Fumbling for the light-switch, I eventually find it and squeeze my eyes shut when I flip it on, the overwhelming amount of light temporarily blinding me. As soon as my eyes have adjusted, I turn on the tap and run cold water, which I then splash on my face. It helps me cool down, but it does nothing to relieve me of the pang in my chest that is a reminder of my dead friend.
Droplets trickle down my face, but I don't mind as I hang my head and turn off the faucet. I reach for a cloth on the rack next to the counter and dry my face off with it. When I finish, I meet the navy eyes in the mirror. My father's eyes. My eyes.
The eyes of a murderer.
I stare at my face and reassure myself. You don't even wish to kill people. You only do it to help your mother. You only kill malignant people that are untouched by the law.
But is that true?
Tris does not seem like a bad person. Then again, I still don't know much about her. What if I am completely wrong about her? What if Max is?
I don't want to kill an innocent. And I refuse to until I have proof.
There is a problem though: I have not returned to Dauntless for a month and a half now. Sure, there are other tasks I have to complete here besides killing Tris, but they would not take this long altogether.
And I have a feeling that Max and the other leaders may get suspicious one day. Maybe it is about time I pay them a visit, make up excuses as to why I have not yet assassinated the sassy blonde in the room next to me.
Not yet. I need to make up some good lies.
These pressuring thoughts linger as I pull open one of the cabinets next to mirror to grab a razor and shaving cream. After looking at myself in the mirror for so long, I quickly came to the conclusion that the stubble needed to go. It makes me look older, more stressed. Not that I really care about my appearance.
But as I open the cabinet, an object suddenly flies out with a rattling noise, and I catch it just in time. It immediately hits me that it is an orange pill bottle, containing antidepressants.
My fist tightens around the container. I don't even know why I still hang onto these. Maybe it is just the idea that they can make me happy.
It is a ridiculous concept. I already know how they affect me.
Yet I cling to the tablets with a childish hope.
The combat in Afghanistan has left me with depression and anxiety, and according to my doctor, minor PTSD. Most days I am fine ignoring that part of my mind that begs to be recognized, but other days, like this one, the memories of war are a heavy burden. Sometimes I even startle at noises that resemble a gunshot.
The thing is, I thought I was ready for war. After all, I had spent my entire life dealing with pain, both physical and mental, so I didn't think much about it when I enlisted.
I wasn't ready.
I was just a seventeen-year-old, trying to escape the clutches of my father and unknowingly running straight into hell. Now here I am, four years later, regretting the decision that forced me to grow up too fast.
The pills don't help. They only make me feel unlike myself, make me spiral even more down the rabbit hole.
So I set the bottle back on the shelf in the cabinet. They will not help me deal with the issues that I have to work out by myself.
Including the Tris situation.
How am I supposed to put off the assassination until I can figure something out? How do I prove that I am still on Max's side, on Dauntless's side, when I am not immediately following through with the orders given to me?
Abandoning my position at the mirror, I leave the bathroom after making a spur of the moment decision.
It is time to make an appearance.
xXxXx
TRIS POV
A small creak stirs me awake, followed by the sound of quiet footsteps on the marble floor outside my room. I furrow my eyebrows in confusion, squinting to see the time on my phone when I press the button on the side of it. My tired brain registers that it is the middle of the night, and the only person that could be outside my door is Four, since my family members sleep on the other side of the house.
Where is he going?
Without thinking, I roll out of my bed, cross the room, and throw a stray hoodie on over my head. After pulling on my shoes and grabbing my phone, I hurry out my door and down the stairs to catch up to Four, who is most likely in his car by now.
I peak out the windows of the garage door. As soon as he backs out and drives down the street in his sleek, black sedan, I get in my own car, start it, and back out of the driveway quickly. Luckily, I make out the lights on the rear of his car at the end of the street, so I am able to catch the left turn he makes just in time.
Speeding to the stop sign, I look both ways carefully and do a left turn onto the main road. Four isn't too far ahead of me now, and there is almost no traffic, so I make sure to slow down in case he recognizes my car.
As I drive, I think about where he could be going, becoming even more bewildered when he takes turns down roads that I have never been down before.
He and I have been on much better terms since we made up. At this point, we have both accepted that there are many things we don't know about each other, and we have decided to talk about ourselves more often and share rather than brush over everything and keep quiet.
During these last couple weeks, I have discovered a fraction of the shadowy person he is. He is an only child and refuses to mention anything else about his childhood. He is laid back and prefers the simple things. He is a natural with computers. He doesn't like being reminded of being in the military, and he alluded to losing someone he cared about over there.
He was finally opening up to me.
So why does he suddenly feel the need to be so secretive? I thought we were getting closer.
I guess not.
After tailing him for another fifteen minutes, we arrive at what looks like an abandoned warehouse, except there are dozens of cars parked out front. What business could he have at a dilapidated building?
I stay out on the road while he turns into the parking lot, waiting patiently for him to park and walk inside. It doesn't take him long—he is quick at getting things done and never wastes time—and when I see his tall figure near the building, I swing my tires to the side to drive into the parking lot, pulling into the space farthest away from the building.
I regret parking so far away. I thought it would be safer, just in case, but it takes me a full two minutes just to make it to the door. However, I notice a couple of bulky men out front when I approach. Whatever is happening at this place, it must be something that needs to be kept a secret if there are guards out front.
Deciding that I would rather not mess with those two, I make a detour and go around the side of the building, hoping to find another way in. Luckily, I stumble upon a heavy, metal door that sits in the center of the seemingly endless steel wall. Smiling because everything seems to be in my favor, I turn the handle, only to find that it is locked.
"Dammit," I groan under my breath. But I don't give up, instead yanking on the handle again and again. Eventually the door gives in and swings open, much to my delight. It must have been jammed. With a quick glance over my shoulder, I slip inside the building unnoticed.
Inside the vast room, crowds of mostly men are gathered around five different mats that rise a foot above the ground. Dim lights hang above the mats, and other than that, all other parts of the warehouse are dark. Two fighters stand across from each other on each mat, throwing punches and kicks at each other.
This is an illegal fighting ring.
Searching the crowds for Four, I am shocked to see him fighting another man who has a tattoo that spirals up his arm. I cross the room to get a closer look. I don't know why this is so surprising to me; I mean, I knew he was able to defend himself—and me—but I didn't know he was this good.
Four circles his opponent with a discerning eye. I admire the way he moves gracefully and looks as if he is calculating how to beat the other man. And then that all ends.
He strikes out forcefully without warning or mercy, throwing brutal punch after punch at the man's stomach, temple, jaw. I watch nervously, tapping my foot as I silently pray that he won't get hit. This seems like a deadly fight.
But it is only dangerous for the other guy, I realize. Four is extremely talented in this department, and the crowd must think so too. They roar with excitement, throwing their fists filled with money up in the air. As horrible as the bloody scene looks, I find myself entranced by the way he moves, power rippling through his muscles.
The fight ends with a single blow to his opponent's temple. Everyone cheers and congratulates Four as he steps off the mat and heads for his small duffle bag that sits off to the side. I decide to go to him.
As I walk closer, I see him wipe his sweaty face off with his shirt, getting a flash of his tight abs as he does so. Biting my lip, I try to remain unaffected by the sight and step up next to him.
"Are you insane?" is the first thing he says when he sees me, his eyebrows tightening. Immediately, he yanks me closer to him and pulls my hood up over my head. "What the hell are you doing here?!"
I scan the room, suddenly feeling stupid. What if someone had seen my face? I could get in big trouble.
Clearing my throat, I reply, "What are you doing here?"
Four sighs, swings his bag over his shoulder, and drags me by the arm toward the back door. I keep my head down as we pass people, and he protectively presses a hand to my back to get them all to back off. Trust me, the tactic works. His threatening stare is enough to make someone pee their pants with fear.
As soon as we are out of hearing range, he drops his bag on the floor and bends down to unzip it. "You can't tell anyone," he orders. I nod, glad for his honesty, and watch as he digs through the bag. He retrieves a small packet and stands up. "I fight to make extra money on the side. For my mom."
"Oh," I mutter understandingly. I don't know much about cancer treatment, but it must be expensive. Now I don't really blame him for participating in illegal activities.
Ripping open the packet, he pulls out an antiseptic wipe. He hisses when he scrubs it against his bloody knuckles. Despite his own split hands, I assume that a lot of the blood belongs to the guy he fought. Gross.
"Why did you follow me, Tris?" he asks, not looking up from his task.
I shrug, kicking at the ground, unsure of my answer. Why did I? "I don't know. I was just curious, I guess."
Four seems to accept my explanation, looking up at me momentarily before looking back down at his wounds. "Well...don't do it again. You're not safe here." Message received.
Just as I am about to change the subject to get the attention off of my thoughtless actions, a random guy walks up to us and punches Four in the shoulder playfully. "Hey, Four," he greets with a bright grin, and he tries to turn his gaze to me, but my head remains lowered.
"Tris, it's fine," Four reassures me. "You can trust him."
That makes me look up. I am met with the face of a handsome stranger who looks to be around my age. His dark skin matches his warm, brown eyes, and I feel myself relaxing. He seems friendly enough, and if Four is able to trust someone, then, well...
"Oooooh, Four has a lady friend." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Tris, is it? I'm Uriah." With a charming smirk, he sticks out his hand. I place mine in his, and he shakes it enthusiastically, getting a giggle out of me. I haven't known this guy for two minutes, and I am already amused just by being in his presence.
"Nice to meet you, Uriah," I say.
Four interrupts us by turning to Uriah. "What are you doing here? I told you to stay away from D...you know." He looks at me out of the corner of his eye when he stumbles upon the word.
I narrow my eyes. Why couldn't he just tell Uriah to stay away from the illegal fights? What is such a secret that he couldn't even say the word? I am fully aware of the fights by now.
"I know," Uriah says seriously for a moment, looking at Four apologetically, and I get the notion that he looks up to him, like he is an older brother. "But we're in a bad place right now. I don't really have a choice." I don't know what they are talking about, but it sounds like Uriah is in a bad financial situation too.
Four sighs, conflicted. "I know."
Uriah claps him on the shoulder. "Anyway, I better get fightin'. Hopefully I'll see you again sometime soon." Four bids him farewell, and then he turns back to me with a childlike wave. "Bye, Tris."
I smile. "Bye, Uriah."
When we are left alone, Four tells me to stay put for a moment while he goes to collect the money that people had bid on him tonight. This time I follow his orders, watching him gather up the money across the room before he comes back.
"We should leave now," he tells me. "We shouldn't be here longer than we have to."
I nod and trail behind him out the same back door I entered in. In the dim streetlights, I can see the pile of cash in his hand, which he then stuffs into his duffle bag. It must have been a few hundred dollars, a thousand at most. To me, it seems like nothing. But to him, it must count toward his mother's life.
Sometimes I want to offer him money to help her, but I know that he wouldn't want my pity and that it would only make him think I saw him as weak. I don't want to give him that impression; he can definitely take care of himself.
"So, who is Uriah? How did you guys meet?" I ask as I walk alongside Four through the back alley and toward the parking lot.
He slows his pace a little before gulping. Nobody else would have noticed the tiny movement, but I take note of the way his Adam's apple trembles slightly.
"I never told you straight up, but I lost a friend over in Afghanistan. His name was Zeke, and he was the leader of my squad," he says.
I can tell that he does not enjoy discussing this topic, but I am too desperate for answers to stop him.
He clears his throat. "Anyway, Uriah is his younger brother. Their dad died about six years ago, which left their mom to take care of them along with their three other siblings, who are now seven, ten, and eleven, I think."
"Oh, God." I can't imagine what that family has had to go through between losing an oldest son and a father.
"Yeah. I promised Zeke I would look after them...and I do help out with the bills every once in a while when I can, but ultimately Uriah and his mother are responsible for making the money. I try to keep the kid away from these fights; the last thing he needs is to get caught by the police and be taken away from his family, but..." He chuckles, though there is no humor there. "I mean, what can I do? When he can't put food on the table for his siblings, I can't exactly stop him from going to these fights. Or blame him."
I feel sick. Suddenly coming to a stop, I look up at Four sadly. He halts as well. In the dark, the hollows of his cheekbones are shadowed, making his face look even more defined, hardened.
"What?" he asks quietly.
Shaking my head, I put a hand up to my head, shoving the hood off and running my fingers through my long hair. "Is it selfish that I want to help him? And you?" I question. "I mean, every part of me screams to give you both money to fix your situations as best as I can. But how many unfamiliar people are out there that have their own problems and need money?—"
He cuts off my rambling. "Tris," he says firmly. "I don't want your money. Especially because you feel obligated."
"I do not feel obligated!" I reply hotly. "I want to do it because you're my friend, Four. But I know you won't let me."
I see him close his eyes, his thick eyelashes touching his cheeks. When he opens them, I observe the way he scans my face, unsure of what to say. Which is strange, because he always knows what to say.
"You can't help everyone." His voice is surprisingly soft. "Thanks for the offer and everything, but my mother is my responsibility, and I can't ask this of you. Although if you want to help Uriah, I won't exactly try to prevent you from doing it."
I will. I definitely will. I don't care that I only just met him; I have seen what a kind person he is, despite his troubles, and it would eat away at me if I sat back and did nothing while he and his poor family struggled and starved.
I am startled when I feel fingers slide between mine, though I do not react physically besides breathing somewhat heavier. Four stares down at me with a genuine smile, and the sight makes me feel like I accomplished something.
"You know, you're all right, Tris," he mutters. With a squeeze of my hand, he lets go, heading toward his car as if nothing just happened.
And I would walk to my own car, but my legs aren't exactly working at the moment. The only muscles that seems to remember how to move are in my face, and they begin to ache as I practically skip across the parking lot with a full blown grin.
I think Four likes me.