The compound felt hollow in the daylight, the thunder of last night’s engines reduced to a low, satisfied hum. Men moved with the slow, careful swagger of those who’d bled and come back to tell the tale — bandages wrapped, voices higher, jokes sharper. But the mood in the council room was different: coordinated, cold. The party had been yesterday; the next move was now.
Devil called them in the morning, his voice clipped over the comms until the main floor cleared and the core of the club could assemble around the worn table. When they filed into the room — Chaos at the head, Devil beside him, Ash flanking a silent Cordelia, Ash a few steps back, Killer and Violet close by — it was easy to see the angle in every face. This wasn’t a celebration. This was the war meeting that followed a win
