As the days passed, Claggor found himself stopping by The Rusty Wrench more often than he wanted to admit. At first, he told himself it was for the company—dragging Milo along with the excuse of grabbing something to drink, even if it was just some watered-down juice or cheap tea. But deep down, he knew the real reason. His eyes would wander to the girl in the pink dress, moving through the crowded tables with that same weary determination. She never looked anyone in the eye, her gaze always fixed on the tray in her hands or the mess she was cleaning up. It didn’t take much to see how much she hated it.

Her job wasn’t just hard—it was humiliating. Claggor would catch the way men leered at her as she walked past, their hands brushing against her thighs like they “accidentally” bumped into her. Sometimes they’d spill their drinks on purpose, the liquid soaking through her dress, clinging to her skin. The way they laughed when she had to clean herself up made Claggor’s stomach churn. She was young—his age, maybe a year older—and yet those men, grown men, treated her like some kind of toy. How could they just—?!

His knuckles turned white every time he saw it happen. Once, when a man grabbed her wrist and whispered something in her ear, Claggor almost bolted from his seat. Milo had to grab his arm to stop him. “What’re you gonna do, Clag?” Milo hissed under his breath. “Get yourself killed? She ain’t the only girl dealing with this crap.”

Claggor knew Milo was right. This was Zaun, after all. People like them didn’t get to fight back without consequences. But it didn’t make it any easier to watch. Each time he left the bar, his frustration followed him, a knot in his chest that refused to untangle. He’d punch the wall at their hideout or pour all his energy into tinkering, but nothing seemed to shake the image of her—her forced smile, her quick steps away from the tables, and the way she clung to her dignity even when they tried to strip it away.

He didn’t know why he cared so much.