Two Weeks Later
ALERIC
The memory of that night is a series of strobe-light flashes, drenched in crimson and the scent of peppermint.
I had promised them, Jason, Ian, my brothers-in-arms, that the "Devil" was dead. I’d promised I wouldn’t go berserk again, that I was a leader now, not just a weapon. But the moment I saw her, broken and discarded on that cold tile, the promises burned away like dry straw. My blood didn't just boil; it turned to molten silver.
Axel didn't ask for permission. He didn't wait for a strategy. He simply tore through the surface of my consciousness and took the wheel. The first neck I snapped felt like a dry twig, a small sound that didn't even begin to satisfy the rage. Half of those wolves are in the ground now, and though the diplomat in me knows it was
