The humid air of the isolated wooded bypass hung heavy with the copper scent of blood and the acrid smell of ozone from the earlier crossbow strike. Jeff Richards—the elder of the notorious Richards Brothers—let out a raspy, dismissive laugh that sounded like dry leaves skittering over a tombstone.
"You really are a naive piece of work, aren't you?" Jeff sneered, his fingers adjusting his grip on the tactical crossbow. "In all our years of 'redemption' work, from the high-rises of Duskhaven City to the backwoods of the north, no one has ever walked away once we marked them. You're not a man; you're just a paycheck in cheap shoes."
Dominic Mylod stood perfectly still, his silhouette framed against the morning light. A strange, chilling smile played on his lips—not one of bravado, but of a
