The wind whistled past the rusted skeletons of cranes as they left the harbor behind, carrying with it the metallic tang of decay and salt. Rhett could taste it on his tongue—bitter, like blood that had gone cold. Their footsteps were slow, dragging, each of them limping in a different rhythm that created an uneven percussion against the cracked asphalt.
Rhett kept stealing glances at Henrik's hunched form, watching the way his shoulders curved inward like he was trying to disappear into himself. His gait was all wrong—favoring his right leg, his left arm still cradled against his side like a dying bird. His breaths came in shallow pulls, audible even over the wind, and every few steps he'd falter, just for a moment, before forcing himself forward again.
