Blown-out buildings in an underground city, fire in the streets, men fightin’ with pipes and broken glass. Screamin’ in three languages. Limbs twitchin’ in the gutters.
It’s beautiful.
I drop into the chaos. Land on a roof. Slide down a wire spine of twisted rebar.
The moment my boots touch dirt?—
I feel them.
The dying.
The nearly-dead.
The afraid.
The spark curls off them like mist.
My fingers ache for it. My chest opens without tryin’.
The first one rushes me—blood in his teeth, gun in his hand.
I touch his throat.
Unspool.
It doesn’t even take effort. He falls like cloth.
The spark floods into me. Sweet and sharp. Hot enough to melt the back of my teeth.
I breathe out—and somethin’ inside mepurrs.
I don’t stop.
I move through the alleys. Through the trenches. Through the fire.
And with each one I touch—each body I strip of that glowin’ thread?—
I feel better.
Stronger.
Cleaner.
More.
I tell myself I’m doin’ this for Clara. To refill what’s lost.
But somewhere deep in the override, deeper than the mission, deeper than her?—
I like it.
They beg.
I take.
They fight.
I take.
