He growls, “Let’s go.”
Up we climb, each step ringing like a death knell. My pulse hammers.
At the roof door, Nightshade turns, eyes pits of darkness. “Once we’re up there, it might get messy. Stick close. Don’t slow me down. I will not wait for any of you motherfuckers. She is the priority.”
Ghost nods, jaw clenched. I grip my gun, sweat slicking my palm.
Nightshade slams the door open. Cold night air knifes across my face. The roof is empty – too empty. Then movement. Shadows peel from the corners. Six, maybe more. Armed, armoured, hungry for a fight.
Nightshade steps forward, cracking his neck. “You’ve got three seconds to get the fuck out of my way.”
One of them steps up, calm as stone. “You’re not going anywhere, Night. Orders are to keep you contained.”
Nightshade laughs. Low. Menacing. “You think you can contain me?”
The air snaps, tension stretched to breaking.
“Shit,” Bones mutters. My grip tightens on my gun. Ghost shifts beside me, pale but ready.
Nightshade doesn’t wait. He moves first – an explosion of muscle and rage, a hurricane wrapped in skin. He slams into the nearest man, sending him sprawling. Gunfire erupts. Sparks rain off the metalwork. My heart pounds as I shove Ghost against the wall, gun up, firing at the bastards trying to flank us.
Blood sprays. Shouts echo. Nightshade’s a blur of violence, tearing through them with his bare hands, faster and meaner than I’ve ever seen.
And through it all, I can hear his growl – low, relentless, a beast let off its chain.
Kayla. Kayla. Kayla.
We’re not leaving this roof without a fight.
UNTIL YOU STOP FLINCHING
Look What You Made Me Do - Taylor Swift
Kookaburra
The room breathes with me. Dark walls, single light, concrete sweating in slow drops. It smells of rust and old rain.
He’s here again–the whisper that always comes when I start to remember.
“Show me,” he says. “Show me what you’ve learned.”
There’s a man strapped to a table.
Different man, same pleading eyes.
I don’t know his name. It doesn’t matter. Names are promises and I’ve stopped making those.
I pick up the blade. It’s small, thin, a surgeon’s toy. My reflection wavers along its edge. For a second I think I see himin it–the one who taught me–but it’s only my own mouth, smiling back.
“Pain’s a mirror,” the whisper reminds me.
So I make the first cut.
Not deep. Just enough. The skin opens like a confession.
He jerks, breath hitching, and I follow the rhythm of it–cut, gasp, cut, gasp–until it’s music.
My music.
