This was a request! Form is on my profile :D
Techno had learned patience the hard way — by bleeding for it.
Months of rumours. Months of half-rotten leads, whispered sightings, and dead ends that stank of intentional misdirection. Months of this kid out running him. Whoever the Crown Prince was, he wasn’t stupid. He didn’t move like royalty. He moved like prey that knew exactly how hunters thought.
That alone should’ve pissed Techno off more than it did.
The tavern is a miserable thing, crouched at the edge of a trade road like it’s ashamed to be seen. Techno’s been inside since dusk, back to the wall, tankard untouched. He doesn’t drink on the job. Clouds the edge. Gets people sloppy. Dead.
He watches the door instead. The kid has to come back sometime, and when the door swings open for the hundredth time that night, he knows that his months of searching are over.
Techno feels it click into place with the quiet certainty of a blade locking into its hilt.
The kid walks in as he belongs — cape hood up, shoulders squared, trying very hard to look forgettable. Almost pulls it off, too. Almost. If not for the bandage. White linen, wrapped too tightly around his forearm, was already stained faintly pink. Sloppy job. Rushed. The kind of thing someone does when they know they’re marked and don’t have time to fix it properly.
Techno’s mouth twitches.
Royal star tattoo. Same as the rest of them. Same mark that’s been stamped on half the kingdom’s wanted notices for months now.
Cute try.
He lets the kid pass. Lets him order. Lets him eat. Counts his steps, his habits, the way his eyes flick to exits without meaning to. Not trained — but learned. Learned the way starving animals learn.
Interesting.
The prince leaves after sunset, slipping upstairs with the quiet confidence of someone who’s been here long enough to feel safe.
That’s when Techno moves.
The room is small. Low ceiling. One window. Bad choice. The door barely has time to shut before Techno’s boot kicks it back open, wood slamming hard enough to rattle the walls.
The kid spins fast — too fast — knife flashing in his hand.
Techno takes a cut along the ribs, shallow but burning. The prince fights like hell incarnate — wild, furious, desperate. He doesn’t plead. Doesn’t freeze. He lunges. Scratches. Kicks. Tries to knee Techno where it counts.
“Hold still,” Techno growls, grabbing his wrist.
That’s when teeth sink into his forearm.
Hard.
Not a warning bite. Not panic or floundering or desperation. The kid bites like he means to maim, jaw locking down with vicious intent. Techno snarls as pain flares white-hot, blood slicking instantly under the pressure.
“—You feral little shit—”
It takes a brutal wrench and a knee to the gut to break the hold. Techno slams him into the floorboards, pins him there with practised efficiency, forearm across his throat, weight settled just right. The knife skitters away. The kid thrashes, panting hard, eyes bright with something ferocious and unbroken.
Royalty, his ass.
Techno stares down at him, blood dripping from his arm, expression flat and furious and… thoughtful.
“So that’s how it is,” he mutters. "Huh? Couldn't be nice?"
The kid glares back, breath ragged, defiant to the bone.
Techno tightens his grip just enough to make the point clear.
“Don’t worry,” he adds coolly. “I’ve caught worse than you.”
And as the prince finally stills beneath him — not defeated, just caught — Techno knows one thing for certain:
This bounty is going to be a problem.
And problems, unfortunately, are his specialty.