Three of them peel away from the far barricade and walk straight toward us. No detour. No pretense.
The leader is broad, slow-moving, the kind of man who’s learned to rely on size and scar tissue instead of speed. A fresh cut runs from his temple to ear, still pink at the edges, not quite healed. I can only imagine what he did to earn that. His two shadows flank him: one twitchy with a fresh buzz cut and nervous eyes, the other leaner, hands already hovering on his belt buckle.
Masks are half up, showing enough face to make the disrespect intentional.
They stop five feet away. Close enough for words. Far enough to draw steel without crowding.
Vi tenses against my side. I feel it, the instinctive urge to fight.
“Get to work,” I tell her. “I’ll take care of this.”
“But—” she starts to say.
“Go.”
The scarred man speaks first. Voice flat. Practiced.
“Armen. Word’s spreading fast. You’ve got yourself a special little Runt.”
I don’t answer. I just look at him. Let the silence stretch until it feels like pressure on his throat.
He shifts his weight, impatient. “Smart mouth on her. Good with her hands. Doesn’t break easy. Sting dragged her off like she’s already branded. Now, you’re playing guard dog in the open corridor. People are talking.
“Let them,” I say.
“Sure. And they’re saying she’s too good for one crew. Too useful. Too... interesting.” His mouth twists. “We’ve all got Runts. We share the load. Keeps things balanced. You hoarding her breaks the balance.”
The twitchy one snorts. “She’s not even limping that bad anymore. Bet she’d look real pretty reassigned.”
I feel the shift in my blood, cold, focused, the way it gets right before something breaks.
The scarred leader raises a hand, silencing the kid without looking at him. Eyes stay on me.
“Here’s the offer,” he says. “We don’t want trouble. But fairness matters down here. Circulate her. Let her work the hubs, the runs, whatever. Spread the value. Or we take it to the council. Let them decide if one group gets to keep a prize like that.”
The council. Old word. Empty now. Just a ghost people rattle when they want to sound bigger than they are.
I tilt my head. “You think the council will side with you?”
“I think they’ll side with stability,” he replies. “And right now, you look unstable.”
Behind me, movement, soft, deliberate. Rogue steps out from the shadow of an old ladder that leads to nowhere. Eyes bright with that dangerous amusement he wears when he’s already decided how many bones he wants to break. He doesn’t speak. Just stands at my left shoulder, his half-mask covering the disdain he holds for these men.
Then Sting.
He comes from the opposite side, boots measured on cracked tile, coat open, hands loose but ready. Stops at my right.
Three on three.
The air thickens. The kid’s hand twitches again. The lean shadow shifts his stance. The scarred leader doesn’t flinch, but I see the recalculation in his eyes, reassessing odds, weighing pride against survival.
I speak before anyone else can.
“She’s not circulating.”
He exhales through his nose. “That’s not how it works.”
“Wrong.”
