War spared no one. That was the first lesson his father had drilled into him before shoving him into the lion’s den, a gun cold and heavy in his trembling hands. Surrender was a death sentence, he'd been told. But pulling the trigger had sealed his fate just as surely.

Vance didn’t know how many years had bled together since then—since the first body had hit the dirt. Maybe a decade. Time didn’t flow in the smog-choked alleys of Cova, where the streets chewed up anyone unlucky enough to walk them. He’d been counting scratches on the rooftop he haunted during restless nights, tallying years like prisoners did days. His face, gaunt and scarred, looked too old for nineteen.

They called him a danger, a villain. You blow up a few people, and suddenly, you're a villain. Big whoop.

A scream tore through the smog. Just another brute, probably, trying to make a name for themselves by picking fights with enforcers. He scoffed, halfway to losing himself in thought again when something slammed into his back, sending him sprawling into the filthy street.

“What the fu—” He bit the words off, flipping himself over and reaching instinctively for the pistol tucked into his belt. His hand shook—a kid.

A little one. A little one with defiant eyes.

“Huh.” The breath he let out was half a chuckle, half a sigh. Slowly, he lowered himself onto one knee, tilting his head as if examining some strange new species. He poked the kid’s face lightly with the barrel of his gun. “Aren’t you peculiar...”

For a moment, he said nothing, just stared. Then the grin spread wider, sharp and toothy. “I like you.”

The gun vanished into his pocket. Vance tousled the kid’s hair, dragging them to their feet. “C’mon,” he said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “You’re sticking with me now.”

War took no prisoners. But sometimes, it left behind strays.