LEIGH
I showed up to the supply station that morning expecting paint buckets and rollers like everybody else.
Half the east wing was still scorched black from Petrov's attack and you could smell the char before you even rounded the corner.
Then Grave opened his mouth and ruined it.
"You will be going to the Slaughterhouse," he said, nodding north like we were supposed to know what that meant. "You two are on pig blood duty. Two large containers, back before noon."
I looked at Yelena and Yelena looked at me.
Then I looked back at Grave. "We're using pig blood for painting?"
The man had the audacity to tilt his head like I was the unreasonable one in this scenario.
He was hard to miss — built like a linebacker who'd decided to go feral, midnight black eyes that never seemed to blink
