Blood dripped from my knuckles like raindrops off rusted gutters. The scent of sweat, gunpowder, and iron hung thick in the air. My chest rose and fell in jagged rhythms. Around me, the street was littered with the crumpled bodies of Grayson’s men—hired thugs, some barely out of their teens, others old enough to know better.
They came at me twenty strong. Only I stood now.
I spat blood to the side, then cracked my neck. One of them still groaned near the alley wall. I strode over without hesitation, grabbing him by the collar. His eyes were glazed with fear.
"Please," he whimpered. "I was just—just following orders."
I slammed his head into the concrete. Once. Twice. Until he stopped making sounds.
No mercy.
That was the thing about war—it strips the elegance out of killing. Makes it
