The man doesn't look up. "No."
That's it. Just... no. No inflection. No eye contact. Nothing.
The woman beside him sighs and puts down her clipboard. "Don't mind Havoc. He's just focused. I'm June."
She doesn't look anything like the other women here. No leather, no hard edges. She looks... house-wife-y. Like she wandered into the wrong building.
"Savannah," I say, though she obviously knows that.
"We haven't seen Legion," June says, tucking a strand of honey-blonde hair behind her ear. "But Havoc and I were just talking and we decided that the two of you should come to dinner tonight. Our place isn’t far. The kids would love to meet you."
The man, Havoc, apparently, straightens up—all six-foot-whatever of him—and stares at me. Doesn't say anything. Just looks.
I feel my throat go dry. There's something in his gaze—not hostile, exactly. More like he's measuring me for a coffin.
"I'd love to," I say, plastering on my best Ashby smile. The kind of yes I was raised to give, even when I have no idea what I was agreeing to.
June beams. "Wonderful! Havoc makes the best ribs you've ever tasted."
I nod, backing toward the door. I need to find Legion before I accidentally commit to any more social engagements with people who could probably kill me seventeen different ways.
As I turn to leave, Havoc calls, "Dinner's at seven sharp." His voice is low and mean. "Tell Legion if my kids can be at the table on time, so can he."
I smile again—practiced for just such an occasion. Fish-out-of-water meets man-who-could-disappear-me-and-still-make-it-home-for-bedtime-stories. And then quickly leave.
Outside, the sound of gunfire cuts through the air. Not random shots but a controlled rhythm—three quick bursts, then silence, then three more. I follow it like a beacon.
The shooting range sits at the edge of the property, half-hidden behind a row of shrubs. It's crude but functional—a dirt berm, paper targets pinned to metal stands, brass casings scattered across packed earth.
Two young men stand side by side, firing at human-shaped targets. They look younger than the rest of the men I've interacted with so far. A larger man stands behind them, arms crossed over his chest like a disappointed father.
There's not a single woman here. No buffer, no translator between worlds. Just men with guns.
I hesitate at the edge of the range, feeling the weight of the man's gaze shift to me. He doesn't smile, or nod, or acknowledge me in any way. Just watches, waiting to see what I'll do.
But on his vest—cut, whatever they call it—is a handy little name-tag patch. Butch, it reads.
Feeling stupidly brave, I step directly into Butch's line of sight, close enough that he can't ignore me, but far enough that I'm not interfering with whatever lesson he's teaching.
"Excuse me," I say, my voice steady despite the guns. "I'm looking for Legion."
Butch's face remains impassive. He's older—fifty maybe, with lines carved deep around his eyes. His arms stay crossed, fingers tapping against his bicep like he's counting something only he can hear.
"Haven't seen him," he says, finally. His voice is surprisingly quiet, forcing me to lean in slightly to hear him over the ringing in my ears from the gunfire.
I start to turn away when he speaks again.
"You wearing that ink or is it wearing you?"
I stop, my hand instinctively covering the scabbing on my wrist.
"You're not the first pretty girl to get a man's name put on her skin," he continues. "Won't be the last. Question is—you get it because you want everyone to know who you belong to, or because you're trying to convince yourself?"
The younger men have stopped firing, pretending to reload while they eavesdrop. I don't say anything back to Butch. Mostly because his question was quite deep and layered and I'm not sure how to answer.
Which, now that I think about it, was probably the point.
Butch holds my gaze for three more seconds, then nods once and turns back to his students.
