Chapter 104: We aren’t the saints
Smoke curled around them in heavy coils, thick with grit and gunmetal ash. The checkpoint hall was torn down the spine—tables shattered, roof caved, old walls peeling with scorch marks. At the far end, Maverick held his stance, shirt torn, knuckles raw. His blade rested low, not out of mercy, but calculation.
Across from him, the villager stood with one arm bleeding, dirt smeared across his jaw. His eyes burned—not just with fury, but desperation.
"Return her," the man said. His voice cracked with smoke. "Bring our princess back, and this ends now. No more bodies. No more fire."
Maverick blinked slow. Tilted his head just slightly.
"She’s not your princess anymore," he said, calm as gravel. "She’s our reason to eat. The roof over our heads. The only reason some of us aren’t dead in alleys right now."
The man flinched—not at the words, but the ease with which they came.
Maverick stepped forward.
"Trade her back? No. We trade her to stay warm. To stay fed. The Dragunovs pay well for leverage, and your royalty prints currency."
Then—from the left.
Boots hit wood, quick and silent.
Amari flew into view, coat trailing, mask half-charred. No words. Just motion.
His leg snapped forward in a straight arc aimed for the villager’s jaw.