Wren walked down the alley with her hood low and her breath measured, each step calculated to seem like she didn't know anyone was watching. But she knew. He was there. Somewhere behind her or above her. Maybe even in front. Warren didn't leave gaps in coverage. If he wanted a trap to spring, every angle was planned.
The ruins smelled like rot. Wet paper. Burned plastic. But more than that, they smelled old, like time had soaked into the bones of the place and was still bleeding out slowly. It got into her throat, into her clothes, into the hollows behind her eyes. But she didn't flinch. Not now.
Her fingers itched at her side where the charm sat tucked into her coat pocket. A small piece of bone, polished and carved with a single line, a warding mark her cousin had etched by hand before they were separated. It wasn't magic. But it was hers. A thing that had meaning. A thing that said: someone once wanted you safe.
The coat she wore was too big, intentionally so. Warren said the shape of her mattered. That she should look like prey: delicate, soft, the kind of pretty that made people assume fragility. Her features helped, large eyes, high cheekbones, and a mouth that always looked like it had just stopped smiling. It made them look twice. Made them underestimate. Made them come closer. Thin. Young. Easy to grab.
She hated it. Hated how she looked. Hated pretending. But she was learning not to let that matter. It was a performance. He'd told her that. Predators saw patterns. You broke the pattern, you broke them.
She passed a crumbling storefront with shattered glass still in the frame. In the reflection, she caught a glimpse of herself. Pale face. Loose shoulders. Mouth a little open. Soft.
She didn't look like herself. That was the point.
A scav marker was etched into the wall just past the entrance. Faded, but still readable. Safe house two blocks south. Or it had been, once. She didn't turn her head to look. That would break the illusion. Warren had drilled it into her: every movement told a story. Every twitch of a hand, every stutter in her step. Predators didn't see people, they saw openings.
She kept walking.
Her thoughts flicked to the plan. She didn't know all of it. Warren hadn't told her everything. But she understood the shape. She was bait. The alley was the net. He was the club.
It wasn't the first time she'd been made to do something she hated. Not by Warren, by others. In the Wilds, people didn't always ask. Sometimes they just shoved you forward and said, run.
This was different. Warren asked. And when she said yes, he looked at her like her wishes mattered.
Her eyes scanned the windows above. No movement. But that didn't mean they were alone. She'd seen how fast things could change. One second, the world was quiet. The next, it was screaming.
She adjusted her pace. Slower now. More vulnerable. Let the shape of her draw attention.
Her left foot caught on a cracked piece of pavement. She stumbled, not hard, but enough to make it look real. Her hands stayed loose at her sides. Her breathing picked up just a little. Nothing obvious. Just enough.
The shadows grew thicker the deeper she went. Buildings leaned in close. Trash and old bones littered the gutters. Somewhere, water dripped with a slow, rhythmic pulse. She let it become a heartbeat.
Her own.
She passed a narrow mouth of an alley to her right and didn't look. But she heard it. A shift. Fabric against brick. Leather scraping on stone.
They were here.
She swallowed. Not fear, focus. There was always a moment, right before storm, when the world felt full. Like it was holding its breath. She stepped into that space and let it carry her forward.
One of them said something. Low. Ugly. The kind of voice that made your skin want to peel itself off. She didn't flinch.
"Bet she's soft everywhere. You soft, girl? We'll find out."
"That mouth looks made for something better than talking. Probably shuts tight when she cries."
"She's got the kind of face you want to break. Bit by bit. Take turns and watch it change."
Another stepped out ahead of her, blocking the alley's end. He was big. Arms like steel piping. Mouth already curled into a smile.
Behind her, more footsteps. They thought they had her surrounded. Thought she was frozen. A girl alone in a broken city.
"Let's see if she screams pretty."
"Bet she moans prettier. I want to see the moment it changes. When she stops pretending to be strong."
"You remember the last one? The screamer? We didn't even need rope. Just held her down and let the noise burn out."
"She pissed herself halfway through. This one looks tougher. Might take longer. We got time."
"I want her to remember every second. Make her count our names with her teeth missing."
They laughed. Not loud. Just that kind of laughter that smelled like rot. The kind that meant they were savoring it before it even began.
She stopped.
She dropped her shoulders slightly. Tilted her chin down. Let her knees bend just a little like she might collapse.
Warren had laid the traps. She just had to be the match.
One of them moved closer. She heard the click of something metal, a knife, probably. Close range. Cowards always liked it close.
She shifted her weight to her back foot, slowly, subtly. The charm pressed lightly against her coat lining, grounding her.
They were still talking. Still laughing.
"I got dibs on her hair. Wrap it around my fist when I shove her into the wall."
"Don't break her too fast. She's got that look. Like she'll scream real sweet if you time it right."
She stopped listening.
She was listening for Warren. For the change in air. For the sudden silence that always came before he struck.
She thought of the Wilds. Of old roads and sunless trees and the sound of insects dying in water. This was better than that. At least here she had a say.
Another step. Closer. She could see his eyes now. No light in them. Just want.
She hated this.
But she was learning.
She was bait, yes.
But she wasn't helpless.
She was the reason they were going to die.
She didn't look toward the rooftops. Didn't search for Warren. She didn't need to.
He was already watching.
She held still.
And waited for him to burn them down.
As Wren walked deeper into the alley, four men appeared from the shadows. They were looking at her, their eyes hungry, their movements predatory. Warren stayed hidden, watching from the scaffolding above, breathing slow through his nose. His grip on the pipe never loosened, but he didn't move. Not yet.
He had been following them since she walked out into the open. Saw how they looked at her. Saw how they split off when she turned. He'd watched their formations. One always trailed. One walked left flank. The leader hovered close. The last, twitchy and too eager, muttered to himself.
They thought they were predators.
He was here to teach them what that meant.
His eyes flicked to Wren. She was moving exactly right: shoulders low, steps loose, chin dipped. Playing her role. Trusting him to be where she couldn't see.
She'd given him that trust without words. Just a nod. Just a look.
That meant something.
Then, he heard it.
One of the men leaned in closer, his voice low and predatory. "You're not going anywhere, girl," he said with a sick smile. "We're just getting started. Don't try to run, you'll regret it."
The others laughed. Warren didn't blink.
"We'll have some fun with you, girl," the leader said, voice thicker now. "Then, we'll pass you around, just like the others."
Warren started counting breaths.
They were exactly what he thought.
He stayed low, shifting silently on the beams above. Watching each one. One by one.
The first, lean, smirking, all teeth and sneer, kept licking his lips. He was the kind that liked to talk. Would be the first to run if he thought it was turning. The way his weight leaned forward, always expecting the last laugh, but never braced for impact. A flash of cowardice just behind the grin.
The second was bulkier, taller, and walked like he thought his weight was power. The kind that cracked his knuckles for show and assumed it meant something. But he moved slow, favoring his right side, maybe from an old injury. He mistook size for invincibility. He didn't know how to bleed yet. That was dangerous.
The third was nervous. Not obviously. But he kept twitching his fingers. Kept shifting side to side. Eyes never on her face. Always lower. The type that didn't talk, just watched. Watched too long. He thought being quiet made him less responsible. It didn't. Warren clocked him as the one most likely to flinch if things turned. The kind that panicked when alone, but laughed loud when protected.
And the last, the leader, the one doing most of the talking.
Relaxed. Measured. No tension in his shoulders. That was the worst kind. The ones who thought routine was justification. Like he'd done this before. Like he'd keep doing it.
Warren studied his gait. Confident. Too confident. He wasn't watching for traps. Wasn't expecting consequence.
Warren stayed crouched, breathing low. He didn't need to rush. This was about the pacing. It was about savoring every moment.
Each of them had already shown him who they were. He didn't need their names. He didn't want them. Names made things linger. These four were shapes. Wounds in the shape of people.
He catalogued them: The Mouth. The Moan. The Hair. The Scream.
They circled her like moths around a flame they didn't understand. Drawn in by their own hunger. But she wasn't the light. She was the flame. She was stronger than most he'd ever met. They couldn't see it. They didn't deserve to.
He shifted slightly along the ledge, never breaking line of sight. They joked again. He caught the words. Filth. The kind that deserved no mercy. The kind that thought cruelty was clever. That tormenting others made them strong.
He kept watching. The one with the mouth moved closest. Said something obscene. Warren didn't hear all of it. Didn't need to. Wren didn't react. She was good. Steady. Holding.
The one in the back scanned the rooftops once. Not well. Just a glance. Like he thought he should, not like he knew what he was looking for. Warren didn't move.
The big one cracked his knuckles. Tried to look imposing. Shifted his stance like he wanted her to see his weight. Like threat was his only skill. Warren made note of his footing. Weak on his left. Poor balance. No guard.
The leader laughed again. Said something about what came next. Promises made without care. Imagined futures. All vile. All spoken like they were planning dinner.
Warren breathed out slowly.
Still not yet.
Let them think they had her. Let them believe it. Let the shape of their arrogance stretch thin.
He moved to the next corner of the beam, silently. Muscle memory. Rain-slick but manageable. His coat didn't rustle. His boots didn't scrape.
He glanced down at her. She hadn't moved. Eyes forward. Shoulders soft. Just like they wanted.
But her fingers were twitching. Subtle. She was waiting.
For him.
He wouldn't let her wait long.
But they weren't done yet. The fourth man, the one who said she'd scream, murmured something. Warren didn't write it down in his mind. He etched it. Like something to carve later.
His fingers curled tighter around the pipe.
They circled closer.
Still not yet.
He wasn't done knowing them.
Every muscle in his body was coiled. Not tense. Just precise. Ready.
He took in the shapes again. Not just who they were, but how they moved. What parts of their bodies spoke when their mouths didn't. The one with the lips? Bounced on his heels too much. The big one? Stepped wide, overconfident gait. The quiet one? Always half a step off. The leader? Too smooth.
Warren locked the patterns in.
Timing mattered.
Everything they said stacked the charge. Every look, every word, every angle. He wasn't going to kill them clean. Not because they deserved more pain, but because Wren deserved closure.
Still not yet.
Just a few more lines.
Then he'd cut the scene short.
That was when he made his move.
He didn't drop from the ledge. He descended, like judgment. No roar. No warning. Just weight and motion and silence.
The Mouth never saw him.
His last smile was smug. Self-sure. Right until the shadow fell. His breath hitched, he knew. Somewhere in the animal part of him, he felt it coming. And he knew it wouldn't stop.
One moment he was licking his lips.
"You'd look better with no teeth in that pretty little mouth of yours," the man sneered, his last words, wet with spit and certainty.
The next moment, Warren was there, too fast, too close.
Then he drove the pipe into his mouth with all the weight of the street behind it. Bone cracked. Teeth shattered. The man buckled, spasming, twitching on the ground. Warren didn't stop. He brought the pipe down again. Then again. Until the head was nothing but wet pulp and the blood had spread in a wide fan across the wall.
One down.
The Moan turned. Stared. Too slow.
His eyes went wide with the wrong kind of recognition. The kind that only hits when the future collapses all at once. He tried to speak. All that came out was a frightened wheeze.
Warren dropped low and swept the legs. The man hit the pavement hard. Before he could scream, Warren drove his heel down hard into the base of the spine, sharp, deliberate, paralyzing. The body jerked once. Then again. Legs went limp. Then he knelt. Warren pressed a knee into the small of the man's back. No taunts. Just force. He gripped the collar, yanked him up slightly, and then slammed his face into the pavement. Once. Twice. A third time. Until the sound stopped being sharp and started being soft.
He left him alive.
Not merciful.
Intentional.
He crawled now. Moaning. Begging. Just like he'd wanted her to.
The Hair was already moving.
Panic had hit him first. Before pain. He saw the blur that used to be a man descending through the air, and his hands moved before his thoughts caught up. But it was too late. Terror made his limbs clumsy. He reached for something, maybe a blade, maybe just a fantasy, but Warren was faster. The pipe cracked across his wrist with a sound like snapped firewood. He screamed, cradling the ruined limb. Warren didn't pause. He stepped forward, grabbed a fistful of hair so hard it ripped at the roots, and yanked the man's head back, exposing his throat. Then he dragged him, stumbling, panicked, across the alley by the scalp. No ceremony. Just control. Just reminder.
"You like hair?" he said, quiet.
He pushed his face into the wall and smashed the man's face into concrete until he went limp.
Three.
The Scream tried to run.
He'd always thought he'd know when it was coming. Thought he'd be ready. But the sound of his friends dying peeled something essential out of him. He ran on instinct. Not courage. The kind of run that starts in your gut and screams 'you're next.' Warren let him take two steps.
"Don't run. It'll only be worse for you if you run," he said, cold and steady.
He didn't get far.
Warren caught him by the back of the coat and spun him around. He didn't speak. Didn't monologue. He just stepped into the man's space and drove the pipe into his ribs with brutal precision. The scream didn't come right away. First came the stagger. The twitch. The blood soaking through the shirt. Warren hit him again, lower this time, aiming to puncture. The man gasped. Warren drove the pipe into his leg, deep enough that it tore something vital. The scream ripped free. High. Ugly. Real.
High. Ugly. Real.
"Scream pretty," Warren said.
Then shattered his jaw with the butt of the pipe.
The alley went still.
Except for The Moan. Still crawling. Still leaking.
Warren walked back to him. Crouched low.
"You wanted to see it," he whispered. "You wanted to watch her break."
He pressed two fingers into the man's eyes and pushed.
The scream that followed was wet and gurgled.
He let the body twitch. Let the silence fall.
Wren hadn't moved.
She didn't need to.
He'd shown her the cost.
And now the alley held nothing but the dead.
Exactly as it should.
Wren stepped into the alley slowly, each step deliberate. Her boots clicked softly against the blood-washed stone, and her eyes flicked from body to body with something almost like admiration. Not at the violence itself, but at the precision of it. The message.
She had been watching. Not just what he did, but how he did it. The rhythm. The patience. The cruelty shaped into something clean. There was poetry in it. A kind of choreography no one taught and no one else could follow.
She clapped once. A sharp note in the silence. Then again. Slower. Letting it echo off the walls as if applauding a masterpiece painted in red and ruin.
"What a show," she said, voice touched with amusement. Her smile was half-sin, half-awe. She walked a slow circle around the nearest corpse, toe nudging a limp arm aside.
"What a show," she said again, quieter now. "Was that all for me?"
She met his eyes again, smile deepening. "You always know how to make a girl feel seen."
Warren gave a slight bow, pipe still red in one hand. "And I couldn't have done it without Pipe here," he said, deadpan, lifting the weapon like a stage prop.
Wren laughed, genuine and warm. "It's called Stick, remember?"
He grinned.
She smiled.
"I didn't like doing this," she said flatly, glancing at the bodies around them. "But getting scum like this off the streets? I don't mind so much."
Warren didn't answer. He was already scanning the area for any more threats.
Styll hadn't returned yet.
The night wasn't over.
Just as Warren saw her hiding in a crate a new threat emerged. The Broken, Runners this time. They were faster, quicker, and more deadly than the standard Broken.
Warren barely had time to react before they charged. He motioned for Wren to hide, his voice firm. "Stay out of sight," he told her. "I'll deal with them."
She hesitated, but then ducked into the shadows, her curiosity evident. She didn't know what Warren was about to do, but she could sense his confidence.
Warren led the Broken into a wide, overgrown courtyard that lay half-buried in the ruin of old stone and tangled roots. Ivy crawled up shattered walls, broken pillars marked the edges, and wild grass swallowed cracked tile. He had walked this ground hours before, memorized every rise and rut, every uneven slab. It was perfect: a place where speed didn't matter, only control.
He didn't run flat-out. He let them see flashes of his coat, kept just ahead of them, never too fast, never too far. He became the spark in their rotted minds, the thing to chase. He zigged through gaps, vaulted debris, always visible, always bait. But when they lunged toward Wren's last position, he whistled sharply, once. Their heads snapped to him.
He wanted them focused on him. He wanted their hunger redirected.
He dragged them with movement, with timing, forcing them into the open.
He could feel their bloodlust rising as they entered the clearing. They surged after him, snarling, teeth clicking. But Warren was already moving toward the far edge, drawing them into the heart of the kill zone. He could see it now: the way they funneled into the tightest spots, the way their legs stumbled on loose tile, the way the walls would keep them boxed once they committed.
No fear in his eyes.
This was what he lived for.
The battle was chaos.
The first one caught a pipe to the face, but another slammed into his ribs a second later, knocking the breath from him. He doubled over, swung blindly. The pipe hit something solid. A scream, maybe his. He didn't know.
The courtyard was slick. Wet tile, loose vines, shattered bricks. He slipped more than once. A runner tackled him, and they went down hard. He rolled, teeth clenched, pipe lost.
Fists now. Blows thudded against meat. Nails raked his cheek. A mouth snapped at his throat. He slammed his elbow down into a neck until the gurgling stopped. No time to rise. Another one leapt. He caught it, slammed his forehead into its face. Something cracked.
He got to his feet just in time to be thrown into a broken bench. Wood splintered. His shoulder went numb. He swung wide with the pipe, he hadn't realized he'd picked it back up, and took a runner in the ribs.
They weren't attacking with any plan. Just need. Just hunger.
He matched them.
Another came. He threw it into a low wall, then tripped over a corpse and fell. Hard. A hand grabbed his coat. He kicked. Connected. Scrambled. Got to his knees and drove the pipe into the thing's face.
They weren't stopping. Two more came together. He turned and slammed one into the other. They collapsed in a mess of limbs. He stomped a throat before it could rise. The other scratched at his leg, screeching. He dragged it up by the arm and bashed it into a wall until it went limp.
Blood everywhere. Some of it his. Maybe a lot.
He breathed ragged. Saw one trying to crawl away. No.
He grabbed its leg and spun, swung it into a crumbled stone planter. Bones cracked. A scream that didn't sound human.
Another jumped on his back. Clawed into his neck. He dropped backward, crushed it beneath his weight. Elbowed until it stopped moving.
His vision blurred. His grip on the pipe slick.
Still more. Always more.
He bit one that got too close. Sank his teeth into its shoulder. It screamed. He tore free and drove the pipe into its sternum.
Then it was down to the last two. He didn't think. He just moved. One charge. He sidestepped, slammed it with a two-handed swing that sent it spinning.
The other went for his throat.
He took it with him as they fell.
Rolled.
Got the pipe.
And ended it.
Then it was over.
Silence fell hard.
He stood in a broken ring of bodies, blood coating every limb. His chest rose and fell in stuttering gasps. He was bruised, bitten, bleeding.
But he was still standing.
And they weren't.
Wren, despite her earlier orders, couldn't stay out of sight. Not with what was unfolding in front of her. She had front row seats to the carnage, crouched behind half-collapsed crates at the edge of the courtyard, heart in her throat as the storm broke loose.
She watched as Warren moved, not like a man, but like inevitability. There was nothing clean about it. He slipped. He slammed into walls. He lost the pipe and got it back with blood-slick fingers. At one point, she saw him bite into a Runner's shoulder, feral and wild, just to gain the upper hand. Another time, he took a blow that made him stumble into a planter, shoving himself back to his feet like something unfinished.
And still, he kept going.
Every time she thought he might fall, he surged. Every moment of confusion was followed by something brutal and final. There was no rhythm, only violence. No strategy, just refusal. He didn't fight for form, he fought to erase.
And she saw it all.
Every broken movement. Every wince. Every moment of raw, ugly survival. It wasn't beautiful.
But it was his.
And somehow, it still left her breathless.
The last of the Broken crumpled to the ground, and Warren stood tall, breathing hard, covered in blood, mostly not his own. Out of the shadow Wren approached, but just as she did, Warren's pipe was raised, only a mere inch from her skull.
Wren froze. Warren froze. For a moment, she saw the raw violence in his eyes: not the chaos of the fight, but the precision of a predator still on edge. His gaze swept her, pupils tight, breath shallow. It took him a second too long to see her, not as a threat, but as Wren. Her heart pounded. Not from fear. From knowing just how close the blade of him ran.
But then, without warning, she moved, fast, fluid, like instinct. She threw herself into him, not with fear, but with certainty. Her arms wrapped tight around his blood-slick coat, pressing her entire body against his. She didn't flinch at the mess. Didn't recoil from the heat or scent of violence. She held on like she'd been waiting to. Like this was the only safe place left.
Warren remained frozen, pipe still gripped in one hand, the other half-raised as if unsure whether to drop it or use it. Her breath hit his neck. Her cheek pressed to his collarbone. His heart was hammering again, but not from the fight.
She'd chosen him.
That's what this was.
Claim.
She didn't pull away. Her arms locked around him with more urgency, like if she let go now, he might vanish or collapse. She buried her face into the crook of his neck, inhaling sharply, not caring that his coat was soaked with blood. Her hands gripped tighter, not in fear, but in confirmation. She wasn't just holding him, she was anchoring him.
Something shifted in Warren, something deep and cellular, like a circuit quietly rerouting in the dark. She wasn't a tool. Not a resource to be protected. Not a passenger he'd agreed to keep alive. She had become a constant. An axis. The only point on the map that hadn't betrayed its meaning. Something he couldn't discard, even if he tried. Not just something else. Something necessary.
Wren had just crossed the line, and Warren knew it. Not with words. Not even with touch. But with presence. With the way she had watched him tear through the Broken, unflinching. With the way she had chosen to walk toward him afterward, rather than away. She wasn't just curiosity anymore.
She was his. And he was something more than he had been before her.