Dante
The rumble of my bike felt like a living thing beneath me, a growl that matched the coil of frustration in my gut. The night air was sharp against my face, the scents layered and muddied—gasoline, asphalt, distant woodsmoke, and somewhere underneath it all… the faint, acrid tang of fear. Not mine. Theirs.
Rogues.
I’d been chasing ghosts for days, tearing through contacts, pressing informants until their voices shook, but every lead turned into smoke in my hands. Whoever was pulling the strings was careful—too careful. A standard merc pack would’ve left a trail by now. These bastards were disciplined, moving in tight cells, leaving just enough chaos to distract me while the real work happened somewhere else.
And that was the part gnawing at me.
Somewhere else could mean here. Ins
