Ezra's elbow slammed into Mark's jaw, followed by a sharp kick to the chest that sent him crashing back into the mud. The gun skidded out of reach.
A blur cut through the corner of his vision—Liz, again.
Ezra turned just in time to catch her blade on his dagger. Sparks scattered.
She vanished.
Reappeared. Another strike.
Then again.
Ezra's chains lashed out in response, moving faster, tighter—predicting her steps, adjusting to the pattern of her flickering resonance.
"You're fast," he muttered through gritted teeth. "But I can be faster."
He pulsed Dawnstride—just for a moment.
Enough.
As Liz reappeared, their weapons met in midair.
This time, he was waiting for her.
Ezra caught her arm mid-strike, twisted hard, and slammed her into the ground with the full force of her momentum. She hit the mud with a choked gasp. Before she could vanish again, his chains whipped out, coiling around her limbs, pinning her in place like a trap sprung shut.
Ezra turned.
Mark was crawling toward his weapon.
One last flick of the wrist.
A chain snapped out, coiled around Mark's ankle, and yanked him off the ground. He hung suspended, upside down, flailing helplessly.
Ezra pivoted back toward Liz, crouching to meet her stunned gaze—then froze as a sickening crack echoed behind him.
He glanced over his shoulder.
Mark lay in the dirt, groaning, the chain having vanished. His arm and ankle twisted at angles that weren't natural.
Ezra winced.
"Ouch… forgot the chains don't hold forever."
Liz was stirring.
He didn't give her the chance.
A swift, clean strike to the side of the head dropped her instantly.
Silence fell.
Ezra stood among the wreckage—mud, broken branches, groaning bodies.
He exhaled.
"That… wasn't exactly how I planned it."
After dragging the bodies into a loose pile, Ezra started rummaging through their gear. His hands moved fast—pockets, belts, pouches. He took anything useful: food, ammo, ropes, gadgets. No hesitation.
He'd already gone through the boys.
Only the girls were left.
Ezra eyed them warily. They looked better supplied. Not that he had bad intentions—he just needed to survive.
Still, he hesitated.
Scratching his chin, he weighed the awkwardness of what came next.
'I mean… it's not like I'm doing anything wrong. Just supplies. That's all.'
He crouched beside Ann, fingers moving through her jacket. Nothing useful.
Next—her jeans. Another quick pat-down, careful, impersonal.
Just as he was about to give up, something caught his eye—a folded slip of paper tucked beneath the hem of her tank top, near the collarbone. Almost hidden.
Ezra groaned internally.
'Seriously? Out of all places?'
He scanned the woods.
Still alone. The rain had grown heavier, a curtain of noise and mist.
He knelt lower, double-checked that she was out cold, then reached—quick and clean.
His fingers brushed the paper—just as her body slumped forward under the weight of the others.
His hand landed squarely on her chest.
Ezra froze.
And then—
Whrrr.
A sharp, mechanical click echoed through the trees.
A small bird-like machine buzzed past his ear. Its wings clicked with unnatural precision. It hovered in midair, glowing red eyes narrowing as it circled him like a hawk.
Ezra's blood ran cold.
'No… no, no, no. Don't tell me—'
It wasn't just a scout.
It was a Watcher. A surveillance drone.
Live feed.
Broadcasting everything.
And right now, it was staring directly at him.
Still crouched.
Still frozen.
Still with his hand—
He recoiled like he'd touched fire, scrambling back and tripping over himself, landing flat in the mud.
"Listen! It's not what it looks like!" he shouted at the drone, arms raised in a panic.
The bird continued to hover, whirring coldly, its red lens narrowing with mechanical judgment.
Ezra groaned, dragging a hand down his face.
"Perfect. Just perfect."