Chapter 195: A Noble Reason Not to Die
Julius pushed the door open without ceremony, as if returning from an overly long smoke break. Not a glance behind him. Dylan followed, half a beat behind, still naked but a little less shaky, his body streaked with dried blood and sweat forming a grotesque kind of armor.
The room smelled of cold stew, stale sweat, and resignation. A yellow light hung from the ceiling, swinging lazily like a tongue suspended in a silent mouth. Three men in rumpled uniforms sat around a wobbly table, playing a card game so old the faces looked ready to kill themselves.
They looked up. No jump, no shock. Just that slight shrug people give when they’ve seen too much to be surprised by a naked man entering their hideout.
"Hey guys," Julius said, running a hand through his dust-caked hair.
"Shouldn’t you be decapitated tomorrow morning, Chief?" asked one—gaunt, puffy-eyed, with an ironic smile lodged at the corner of his mouth.
"What’d you think? That I’d just let it happen while there’s still good pussy left on this earth?" Julius replied, arms wide like he was embracing the universe through his navel.
Dylan stayed by the door, arms crossed over his thin chest. His ribs jutted out like the keys of a badly tuned piano. He watched. Silent. Tense.
"They call you ’chief’?" he finally asked, tone neutral, almost polite. But with that something in his voice... like a needle in honey.
"Oh shit, forgot the introductions," Julius chuckled. "Julius—ex-mercenary, cap—well, former captain of the Pilaf Guard, pack leader, certified brothel navigator, and unofficial protector of unstable-stigma freaks. A pleasure."
He nodded toward Dylan with his chin.
"And this guy’s my new roommate. Doesn’t talk much, but seems alright. My gut’s never wrong. Make some room for him—he won’t bite. Not that he’d have the time anyway."
One of the soldiers handed Dylan a tattered blanket, like giving a one-way ticket to an exile.