Alan drove the blade deeper. "No!" Her scream bubbled through the crimson line trickling down her neck. The mocking grin crumbled into quivering terror. "It's Connor!" she cried, her words broken and desperate. "We were just… distracting Clark while he…"
"And?" Alan twisted the sword, eliciting a gasping choke as the girl collapsed to her knees.
Her lips fluttered, the defiance in her expression flickering like a dying flame. "And…"
Before she could finish, cards streaked from her cuffs—too slow. Blood splashed across the floor as three of her fingers spun through the air and smacked against the stone, falling lifeless to the ground. The severed digits twitched slightly, releasing a small, blood-smeared orb that tumbled forward.
Time seemed to stretch. The orb rolled sluggishly through the blood splash, each click echoing like a heartbeat.
Click… Click… Click… BOOM!
The explosion scattered metal razor cards in all directions. Alan leaped back, his blade sweeping in protective arcs—ting-ting-ting-THUNK. The cards embedded themselves into the stone walls with sharp, ringing impacts.
The girl seized the fleeting opportunity to escape, though her chaotic, out-of-control cards betrayed her intentions, slicing through the air with no mercy to save her a retreat path. Heart pounding, she eyed the nearest tunnel and tiptoed cautiously toward it, dodging the deadly cards scattered around her.
A sudden sting jolted her as a card struck her ankle, sending her tumbling to the ground. Her cry of pain was muffled by the shambles; she instinctively shielded her face with trembling arms as more cards flew toward her.
Dust swirled in the dim light, obscuring her vision, but she forced herself onward. Crawling desperately, etching slowly to the tunnel's promise of safety.
Then, the chaos subsided. The dust settled, and the metallic clinking ceased, leaving an unforgotten silence in its wake. Relief coursed through her for a fleeting moment—until her hand collided with something solid. A boot.
Dread poured in as she slowly raised her gaze, her wide, terrified eyes locking onto Alan's. His cold stare mirrored the steel of his sword; its tip hovered mere hairsbreadths from her face.
"Last chance."
The girl's face twisted. "Fuck! Do you know how much that cost?!" she spat, blood dribbling from the corner of her mouth as she moved her eyes slowly away from the blade's tip.
Alan smiled. "How much? More than your head?"
The girl sniffed, dark tears streaking down her cheeks, smudging her eyeshadow. Her defiance shattered into loud, uncontrollable wails.
—
The frail boy knelt next to the girl, nervously scrubbing at her tear-streaked face with a dirty cloth. His hands shook, causing the cloth to slip into the water repeatedly. Beside him, the young man worked clumsily to bind the girl's severed fingers, blood staining his knuckles as the wound refused to stop oozing.
"Connor used the Dawn's name to contact the guild," the girl hissed, wincing as the boy accidentally jabbed her eye. "Target: Clark. For only 100 gold. If not for the credit, why bother? I even had to drag these rotting meatbags along." She jerked her chin toward her companions. "Tracker died before we arrived. Chaser here"—she flicked her hand at the boy, making him flinch—"wet himself and ran."
The boy's gaze shifted to the ground as the girl's words cut through him, but he didn't speak.
She sneered and continued, "Clark gutted this deadbeat in three moves. So, we ran. How did he die? Not. My. Problem."
Alan's blade's tip lifted her chin upward, forcing her to meet his hard gaze. "He was killed by Connor."
The girl's composure cracked, and she thrust forward, her growl more animalistic than before. "You tricked me!" she snarled. The blade pressed against her skin, drawing a thin line of blood that halted her.
"And now, you will track down Connor."
Her lips curled with scorn, though her eyes darted nervously between Alan's sword and Gerral, who stepped closer. "Are you deaf? Or just stupid?" she spat. "The Tracker is dead. No scent, no trail."
Gerral stepped into her space. "You got to have a way, or do assassins leave empty-handed?"
"Oh, you dummy. Contracts are paid upfront—gold first, blood after." She climbed onto Gerrla's face, leaned in until her breath grazed Gerral's cheek, and whispered: "win or die."
Gerral's jaw tightened, his anger simmering beneath the surface. The tension in the space thickened; every sound amplified—the rhythmic drip of water hitting the pool, the faint shuffle of movement behind him. The air electrified, charged with unspoken rage.
The girl smiled, adoring the rage filling Gerral's eyes.
"I can track him," the frail boy whispered in a shaky voice, breaking the tension.
The girl whirled; her ponytail snapped through the air like a whip. "Huh?"
All heads turned toward the frail boy, whose shoulders were still hunched but maintained a steady gaze. There was a fire in his eyes that had not been there before. "I'm not a Chaser—I'm a Tracker."
"What?" the girl demanded, moving toward him.
"I'm not a Chaser."
"For the love of the gods," she growled, grabbing his collar and shaking him roughly. "Your name is Chase! That's literally all you are!"
"That doesn't mean I'm a cha—"
SLAP!
The slap cracked like a splitting stone. His head snapped sideways, a crimson handprint blooming on his face. The girl seized his jaw, her nails drawing out blood. "What. Did. You. Say."
"I AM. NOT. A. CHASER!" he roared, tore free from her grip, and hurled the filthy cloth straight into her snarling face. The black ink splattered across her eyes and down her throat—a jumbled smear of rage. He stumbled backward, tripping over rubble before scrambling behind Alan like a hunted thing. "I'll track your Connor," he panted, clutching Alan's sleeve, "but kill this bitch first."
The girl ripped the cloth from her face, smearing the dark kohl into a twisted, messy mask. "You worm!" she hissed, fingers twitching for hidden cards—until Alan's sword pierced her throat.
Peaceful silence.
Drip… Drip… Drip… Drip…
The girl slumped forward, her body collapsing in a heap. Across from her, the young man's corpse lay motionless, his lifeless eyes staring upward. Sylas wiped his axe. Chase's breath hitched, raw and desperate, as the cavern waited.
Drip... Drip… Drip…