The rain began to hammer against the tin roof of the bunker, drowning out the hum of the city. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and the smell of a wolf in distress. Cane lay motionless on the metal workbench, his chest a map of scars that refused to close.
I was still sitting on the crate, my fingers intertwined with his cold, heavy hand, when the steel door at the far end creaked open.
Viper stepped in. He walked over to a wooden desk, pulled a silver flask from his vest, and took a long, slow sip.
"Vane’s gone," I said, my voice sounding thin and hollow in the vast space.
Viper spat some tobacco into a rusted bucket and leaned back against the desk, crossing his tattooed arms.
"Kid’s always had a temper like a short fuse on a heavy charge," he said, his voice
