Chapter 53: A world of Opportunists
Winter’s knuckles throbbed, a dull ache radiating through his hand as he tightened his grip on the man’s torn collar. Blood—warm and sticky—ran down his bruised fist, painting the edges of his sleeve and the snow below his feet.
The man dangling from his grasp barely resembled a person anymore. His face was swollen, one eye completely shut, lips split and smeared with blood, and his nose bent at an unnatural angle.
"Did you think this was smart?" Winter growled, shaking the man roughly. His voice was low and filled with frustration. "Attacking a lone traveler? Hmm? What part of that seemed like a good idea to you?"
The man groaned, a wet sound that barely passed for a response. His head lolled, and when he tried to form words, they came out as unintelligible slurs.
Winter scoffed, disgusted. "Pathetic." With a swift motion, he threw the man to the side, like tossing a rag doll into the dirt.
The man landed with a grunt, his body colliding painfully with another one of his beaten comrades, both of them groaning in unison. Winter stood still for a moment, flexing his hand, his knuckles cracking audibly as he ignored the burning sting of his injuries.
He let out a slow exhale, his sharp gray eyes scanning the carnage around him. Four bodies lay strewn across the cracked pavement, moaning, beaten senseless. Their weapons—makeshift blades and crude pipes—lay discarded, useless now.
Idiots. Winter shook his head. He’d come across dozens of scum like them in City B—desperate and opportunistic, but too stupid to realize that not every traveler was helpless prey. His blood boiled at the thought.
His lips pressed into a tight line as he crouched down, rifling through one of the men’s bags. The stench of unwashed bodies and stale alcohol hit his nose, and he grimaced. The bag contained nothing but a few empty cans, some crumpled paper, and a broken flashlight.
"Useless," Winter muttered under his breath, tossing it aside and moving to the next.
Who the hell kept empty cans in his bag?