The night didn’t whisper this time. It screamed.
Capol had been waiting for it, hunting it—that sharp edge where pain blurred into purpose. The bottle was gone, the rooftop smoke burned out, and all that was left was the pulse in his fists and the streets that still carried Lorik’s stink. Eastgate wasn’t quiet anymore; it throbbed with a low, dangerous tension, every alley daring him to step in and not come back out.
The crew had told him to lay low, to heal, to think. Vince had barked it like a command. Jerry had muttered it through gritted teeth, his voice laced with the pain of a man who knew what it meant to bleed for this city. Julian had said nothing but watched him with those sharp, knowing eyes, the silent accusation heavier than any spoken word. None of it mattered. They didn’t
