Snap magazines in half.
Crush firing mechanisms with my grip until springs scream and metal deforms.
One of them groans.
One of them whimpers.
The youngest one stares at me like I’m death wearing a man’s body.
I line them up against the alley wall, their backs to the brick, their hands on their heads.
“On your knees,” I tell them.
They obey.
The youngest one sobs.
Not loudly.
Just a thin, leaking sound like air escaping a punctured tire.
“I—I don’t wanna die,” he says hoarsely. “I just—I just needed the money.”
The word mercy tastes like treason in my mouth.
Alliance doctrine rises up in me like a reflex, cold and absolute and ugly:
No witnesses.
No loose ends.
No mercy for assets in active engagement.
My jaw locks.
My hands curl into fists.
I can feel my pulse in my teeth.
“Shut up,” one of the older ones snaps at him, his own voice shaking. “Stop begging.”
The kid looks at me again, eyes huge and glassy.
“Please,” he whispers.
The jalshagar stirs behind my ribs.
Not feral.
Not hungry.
Just… alert.
Waiting.
I look at their faces.
Really look at them.
