Before we moved out, I turned sharply toward Elias and Alicia. "You two, stay here. Wait for us to come back."
Elias blinked, his face shifting from confusion to something closer to disbelief. He'd expected to go—of course he had. But I couldn't afford that.
"W-what? But I thought—"
"No buts." My voice came out firm, leaving no room for argument. He flinched slightly at the edge in my tone, his mouth snapping shut. A muscle in his jaw twitched, and for a second, I thought he might push back. But after a moment, he exhaled and nodded, slow and reluctant.
Good. The last thing I needed was to worry about him out there.
I took a final glance at my crew, counting them off in my head. Six of us against four of them—maybe more if luck decided to spit in our faces tonight. But I liked the odds.
As we moved through the streets, the weight of what we were about to do settled over me. Each step forward sent my pulse hammering harder against my ribs. The Slum's streets were quiet, the air thick with something heavy, something electric. It was now or never.
As we slipped into the narrow clearing behind the pub, my fingers curled tighter around the worn handle of my baton. The space was empty except for them—no bystanders, no prying eyes. Good.
The four Angels lounged on makeshift stools, their laughter ringing out, unaware of the storm about to crash down on them. They were deep in conversation, voices carrying in the still night air, oblivious. Arrogant.
I raised my hand, three fingers up. My crew's eyes locked onto them, muscles tensing like coiled springs. A sharp breath filled my lungs as I started the countdown.
Three.
Two.
One.
The last finger dropped.
We moved as one, cutting through the night like silent wraiths. The Angels barely had a second to react before chaos slammed into them.
"Yo! What the fuck—?!" one of them shouted, scrambling to process what was happening.
Too late.
I was already there. My baton swung fast and brutal, a blur in the dim light. The first hit connected with a sickening thud against the side of his head. His body crumpled instantly, folding like a rag doll before he even had the chance to register the pain.
My gaze flickered across the chaos, sharp and calculating. Finn moved with fluid precision, his foot snapping up in a high kick before he followed through with a left hook that sent his target stumbling. He was good—really good.
Nearby, Talia's mana-infused fist slammed into the skull of another Angel with a sickening crunch, sending the bastard sprawling. The last one tried to fight back, fists swinging wild, but he was drowning in numbers—three against one. A losing battle. They toyed with him, breaking him down piece by piece.
But my attention snapped back to the man at my feet.
The one I dropped was stirring, a groan slipping from his lips as he tried to push himself up. The nerve.
My teeth clenched. My vision tunneled.
I brought my boot down on his chest—hard. The force rattled through my leg, through my bones, but it wasn't enough. Again. And again. Each stomp landed with a dull, meaty impact, forcing the breath from his lungs in ragged, gasping wheezes. His body convulsed under the assault, ribs bowing beneath the relentless weight of my fury.
"Please," he croaked, voice barely more than a whisper.
Pathetic.
"Fuck you, bitch." My words came low and venomous, burning hot on my tongue as I halted, if only for a second.
Then I dropped my baton, mounting him.
I straddled his battered frame, my knees digging into his sides as my fist came down like a hammer. Bone met bone. My knuckles split open from the impact, but I barely felt it through the rage thrumming in my veins. The Angel's head snapped back with the first hit, but I didn't stop. I wouldn't stop.
Blood spattered across my face, warm and slick, but I didn't care.
The pain in my side flared, something tearing open, the warmth of fresh blood soaking into my clothes. But the agony barely registered over the rush, the violent rhythm of my fists against his flesh.
I just kept swinging. Just fucking die.
A sudden force yanked at my arms, breaking the rhythm of my knuckles against his face. Hands gripping tight, pulling me back. My breath came ragged, hot with adrenaline, my body coiled tight like a wound spring. I jerked instinctively, ready to lash out again—until I caught sight of the face behind me.
Tobias.
"Hey man, what the hell are you doing?! We gotta dip!" His voice cut through the haze, urgent, demanding.
For a second, I just sat there, fists still clenched, the weight of my body pressing into the broken mess beneath me. My chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, heart hammering against my ribs. The rush was still there, still burning, but reality started to creep in, pressing against the edges of my mind.
Fuck. I lost control. Again.
I pushed myself up fast, maybe too fast—sharp pain exploded in my side, white-hot and searing. My breath hitched, but I gritted my teeth and shoved it down. No time for that now.
"We're pulling out!" My voice rang out, hard and steady, even as my pulse pounded in my ears. My feet were already moving, Tobias right beside me. The others didn't need to be told twice. The scuffle of boots on dirt filled the air as we melted back into the night, shadows slipping between shadows.
But something made me glance over my shoulder.
Four broken figures sprawled across the clearing, twisted and heaving. Three of them were stirring, groaning as they struggled to lift themselves from the dirt. But the fourth—the one who had been under me—barely moved at all.
We moved through the streets like ghosts, our breaths ragged, footsteps uneven against the worn pavement. The night wrapped around us, cool air biting at sweat-damp skin, but I barely felt it. My thoughts churned, sharp and cutting.
I need to do better.
The blood on my hands wasn't even the right blood. Some random guy, someone who had nothing to do with my revenge, nothing to do with the pain festering inside me. And yet, I lost myself in the violence. Again. What happens when it's Victor? When I'm standing face to face with the bastard who tore my mother's life apart? If I can't keep control now, what the hell am I going to do then?
The weight of my thoughts pressed down, but I kept moving. We all did, slipping through alleyways, weaving between shadows, until the familiar sight of the meeting spot came into view.
Elias and Alicia were already there, waiting. Safe. At least something hadn't gone to shit tonight.
But the second they saw me, their expressions twisted—shock flashing across their faces, wide eyes scanning me. I could guess what they saw. The blood. My clothes soaked in it, sticky and dark beneath the streetlights.
"Rowan, your side!" Alicia's voice was tight, heavy with worry.
I followed her gaze, looking down for the first time. My shirt clung to me, stained deep red, the wound at my side leaking fresh warmth. The pain had dulled beneath the rush, but now, with the fight over, it clawed its way back, throbbing, pulsing.
I clenched my jaw. No time for this.
"Not now. We move." My voice was sharp, final. No room for argument.
We moved fast, cutting through the streets, sticking to the back alleys like shadows slipping through the cracks. My breath came shallow, each step jarring the wound at my side, sending sharp jolts of pain up my ribs. The adrenaline was wearing off now, and I could feel it—how much blood I was losing, how light my limbs were starting to feel. But I kept pushing forward. We had to get back. No stopping. Not yet.
I threw a glance at Finn and Cade, the newcomers keeping pace with us, their expressions unreadable in the dim light. Good. They didn't need to talk, just needed to keep up.
"Finn. Cade," I rasped, my voice rough but firm. "Come with us to the hideout. I want a word with you."
They didn't hesitate. Just nodded and fell in step beside me.
Minutes stretched, but eventually, we reached home. The hideout—our sanctuary, our battleground, our grave, if we weren't careful. The moment my boots hit the familiar worn floor, I let my gaze sweep over the group, reading them. Tense, but not shaken. Breathing hard, but steady. No one had died tonight. That was a win.
I exhaled, my voice coming out steadier than I expected. "We did good. Nothing got fucked up."
But then the ground swayed beneath me. My vision flickered at the edges, dark spots creeping in.
Shit.
A hand grabbed my arm before I could stumble.
"Rowan, ya stitches are open again," Handy's voice snapped through the haze, laced with urgency. He was already moving toward me, already reaching.
I clenched my jaw, tasting copper. Not now. Not fucking now.