The air pulsed with the sharp tang of ozone, thick and electric, as if the sky itself were holding its breath. Storm signs curled around the edges of the alley—not thunder, not lightning, but something more personal, more volatile. Another ambush, another test. The metallic snap of a rifle’s mechanism sliced through the silence a heartbeat before the weapon came into view, and instinct took over. Wings tore through shadow, carving arcs of motion too fast for the eye to follow. Figures crumpled mid-step, mid-breath, mid-intent. No time to count the fallen. No time to mourn or marvel. Movement drew the eye—a shape crouched low behind rusted metal, blood painting the mouth in a vivid smear, gaze locked and unyielding. No scream. No flinch. Just raw defiance, like fire refusing to be extinguished. That kind of silence meant survival. That kind of silence deserved protection.

“Keep low. This ends when I say it does. I’ve got your back.”