"Jon, the rotbloods are closing in," Shashka stated, voice as cold and calm as someone just doing small talk about how "there might be rain soon", despite the ever-enclosing circle of rotbloods spewing around my APC.

  I didn't answer. I couldn't. Instead, I stayed locked in the same posture I’d held for the last thirty seconds since killing the APC’s engine: arms crossed over the steering wheel, head slumped low. Five minutes. Just five damned minutes without a catastrophe cracking open over my head. Aforementioned head which now pulsed and throbbed with a migraine that should've split it ten times over.

  Was this some kind of cosmic payback? Karmic reckoning? I knew I wasn’t fully clean. Not even when I was still mortal. Shoplifted sometimes, swiped food from markets when the staff weren't watching, pilfered the odd bit of scrap from construction sites to pawn off. Small-time stuff. Survival stuff. And always only because the alternative was to starve. Surely that didn't warrant the universe dumping this endless cascade of crap on my head, right?

  Surely.

  Then again, good luck had never been a word I'd use to describe my life. Why would the Apocalypse, or the world going sideways, or whatever the hell this was, suddenly change that? Why would being a vampire change that? If nothing else, this felt almost comforting in its routine. Just another day up shit's creek without a paddle.

  Didn’t make it any less gut-wrenching.

  "Jon?"

  "Yeah?" I mumbled, forehead still pressed against my arms.

  "Shashka does not understand what is happening. But Guardian Grandfather's blessing of instinct whispers that blood will spill soon. Something is wrong."

  "Yeah," I managed.

  "Can Jon explain…" Shashka began, only to be cut off by Andreas’s voice spitting from the walkie-talkie.

  "I really hope you got my damn vehicles, gopher. Gonna need an answer right quick, 'cause you see, I'm a little pissed right now!"

  The rhythmic tap-tap-tapping of my finger against the device's hard plastic did nothing to drown out that voice.

  That cursed voice.

  I could almost see the sneer plastered across his face. The smugness. The arrogance that oozed from every syllable.

  For three years, that voice had been both precursor and soundtrack to my own personal hell. The prelude to every snide remark, every kick in the teeth, every stolen scrap. The background noise as I was shoved down and stomped into the dirt by boots and fists and whatever blunt object happened to be handy. To the point where just the sound of it could freeze me solid. A cold hand gripping my spine. Muscles locking up. Mind going blank under a thick blanket of fear.

  The herald of every wave of self-loathing, every surge of disgust at my own spinelessness.

  And now?

  Nothing. No fear. No flinch. No panic clawing at my throat. And all I could do was tap my finger against the walkie-talkie, in an attempt to ignore the growing urge to ram this metal beast straight through the cargo doors and make it the last goddamn thing Andreas ever saw.

  What had shifted? Why was it different now?

  "Why am I pissed? Well, thanks for asking, gopher. See, I'm pissed because a couple of little birds told me you think one of those armored rides belongs to you. Now, see, that got me real pissed, gopher. Real damn pissed.

  To think they'd insult you like that, call you so stupid you'd actually try to steal my shit, gopher? Nah, nah, can't have that. Gotta rough those little snitches up something fierce for disrespecting my loyal gopher like that."

  That voice. That damn voice that scraped against my growing headache like nails on a chalkboard. And it just. Kept. Going.

  "See, 'cause I know you know better than to try and pull a fast one on me, gopher. Filthy little liar, calling this a trap and all. You're just delivering my armored vehicles, right, gopher?"

  All that voice stirred in me now, was a raw, white-hot hate. A furnace roaring in my chest, so loud I wanted to scream. Who the hell was this little bag of shit to talk to me like this? When I've faced trial after trial, and won, over and over again. When I've killed monsters that can quite literally wear him like a condom? I couldn't even say this was the Animal. It had gone strangely quiet the moment my headache had started, right after I'd killed the Minotaur. No this was me and me alone. And all I could fathom right now, was hate. Raw and red like an open wound.

  The tapping had morphed into my fingernails digging into the plastic casing, each word he spat, a fresh gouge carving into its surface.

  "In fact, I'm so damn riled up right now, I might just splatter little miss pigtails' brains all over the floor. That's how pissed I am, gopher. And with every goddamn second you ain't bringing me MY SHIT, my trigger finger's getting itchier. Might just slip by accident. We don't want that, do we, gopher?"

  This was on me. That's why I was so angry right now. That's why my insides felt like they were on fire.

  The realization hit like a punch to the gut. All of this. I wasn't pissed at his voice, I was projecting. The reality of it, was that I was angry at myself. My weakness, my half-measure, my damn near idiotic refusal to just see things through. Fight or flight and up until two days ago, I had always chosen flight.

  I'd never actually fought back. Not really. Not like I had against the Minotaur. That had been real. That had been the first goddamn time in my pathetic, shifty, worthless life that I’d made my own call, instead of just letting life kick me around.

  It was my own half-assing of everything involving Andreas that had brought this down on us. That had made the bastard so sure of his grip that he could just expect to take whatever he wanted, no pushback. That had turned the last three years into a living hell. That had locked me into a lifetime of getting kicked around, scraping by, even before this. Before the world went to shit.

  "It is what it is." "Just suck it up today, make it to tomorrow." The damn adage I'd used my entire life, locking myself into a world of passivity.

  Pathetic. Weak. How dare I whine? How dare I call it unfair? When I was the one who’d chosen to just endure, to accept the garbage status quo. When I was the one who’d given up before even really trying to change a damn thing. No. There was only one person to blame for this moment, and he’d be staring me down if I bothered to look in a mirror.

  My grip tightened on the walkie-talkie, picturing the protesting squeals as Andreas’s death rattle. Every tiny pop and crack of splintering plastic a small, vicious fantasy of his windpipe collapsing in my hand. Yeah, I was projecting. And I didn't care. Because when you find the cause, you got to focus on the symptoms too. And he was a symptom of my own idiocy.

  It was vivid. Real. And it was only Shashka’s voice that dragged me back before I crushed the damn thing.

  "Jon. Are the two Soft-Skins you spoke of, in trouble?"

  "Yeah," I choked out.

  She nodded silently, her hand settling on the hilt of her flamberge. "Shashka intends to help them. Her code demands it. Will Jon also join?"

  I shoved myself off the steering wheel, sucking in a deep breath I didn’t need. Do or die. Time to grow a goddamn spine or shut my mouth. Time for things to change. Because realizing something doesn't mean a thing unless you start taking actions to change it.

  "Yeah, I intend to fix my screw-up" I said, slamming the APC into first gear and flooring the gas.

  The sickening sounds of tearing flesh and snapping bone roared all around as the APC’s monstrous engine hauled the metal behemoth over the horde of undead that had swarmed it. Skulls, torsos, limbs – all pulped beneath the massive tires. The machine carved a brutal path through the dead, crushing everything in its path like a landslide swallowing pebbles.

  As soon as we punched through the mass, I slammed it into second, then third, speed building as we circled the parking lot again, one more time, heading for the back of the mall.

  "Twenty seconds, I'll be at the back gate. Open it," I snarled into the miraculously still-working walkie-talkie.

  "Well, lookie-loo who finally decided to ans…" Andreas’s snide voice started, but I was done playing his damn games.

  "Fifteen seconds. Open it, or I'm ramming through and letting the dead in," I deadpanned, and flicked off the device, revving the engine, sending the APC roaring forward, flicking parked cars aside like a pissed-off rhino clearing brush.

  The gate in front began to groan upwards, and I hammered the gas even harder.

  "They probably got guns. Unless you're looking to get shot, stay inside," I told Shashka quickly.

  "What are guns?" she asked, her hands gripping the console, eyes locked on the rapidly approaching cargo door.

  "Think crossbows, but the bolts hit harder and faster."

  From the corner of my eye, I saw her face morph, that predatory baring of teeth. "Pfah. Shashka can handle such toys."

  "Suit yourself," I shrugged, as we roared into the opened warehouse and I slammed my foot on the brakes.

  With a final, echoing THUNK, the folding door sealed shut behind the second APC, securing the inside from the herd of rotbloods that had been left in the dust.

  Floodlights blazed, cutting through the settling dust and exhaust fumes from my reckless entry. A knot of thirty-odd people staggered out from behind towering storage racks, a chorus of curses and angry shouts directed my way.

  Couldn't exactly blame them.

  I'd driven in like a bat out of hell, and the towed APC had slammed into our rear the moment I’d hit the brakes, shoving us forward a good few feet further.

  Then again, "concerned about their comfort" wasn't exactly my default setting at the moment. Especially not with the tableau illuminated before me, a twisted parody of a stage show under the harsh glare of the floodlights. The Miller sisters, Samantha Evans, and, surprisingly, Lizzie Landon, all knelt in a line, hands bound behind their backs with zip ties. Their faces were screwed up against the blinding light, Andreas and his goons circling them like vultures, guns held ready.

  I took it all in a heartbeat.

  The girls were hostages, that much was clear. Andreas’s leverage. The rest of the students… what were they? Props? Accomplices? Or just the same spineless crowd they’d always been, grateful it wasn't them on their knees?

  But why four? The Miller sisters, maybe. But Samantha and Lizzie? A lot must've happened in the single night I'd been away. One thing was crystal clear. For whatever twisted reason, Andreas was convinced that threatening Mina Miller was enough to force my hand and steer me right into his little ambush.

  A miscalculation he was about to regret.

  Saving the Miller sisters was an objective. Not the objective. Just something to come to terms with my own code of not being an outright scumbag. I had driven into this trap, eyes wide open, with one singular purpose: to rip control of my own damn life back. And that meant dealing with Andreas. One way or another.

  "Shashka, those four kneeling on the floor. Can you get to them?"

  She nodded sharply.

  "In dog form?"

  "Aye. Shashka can. And once Shashka does, she can help Jon with…" she started.

  "No. No helping me. I'm doing this alone. But I'll do it better if I don't have to worry about a couple of hostages," I cut in.

  "Why does Jon insist on doing it alone?"

  "Because those bastards with guns in their hands? They owe me a blood debt," I said, locking my gaze on hers, hoping the specific words would convey just how personal this was to the dog-girl. The same words I'd heard her use before.

  It did. The term carried weight to her kind, apparently.

  The woman's demeanor shifted instantly. Any question and burgeoning protest vanished, replaced by a look of sharp understanding and conviction. "A matter of honor then. Understood! Shashka needs to be outside of carriage and relatively close to them to keep them protected. Give signal, and Shashka will ensure prisoners cannot be touched. Jon can collect what he is owed without worry."

  I almost snorted. Honor? Nothing so noble. Not honor, not justice, hell, not even vengeance, depending on how this played out. But there was going to be an end to this. One way or another. Still, at least I'd secured the hostages' safety. My messed-up "code" had been satisfied, for all the damn good it had ever done me.

  Before anything else could be said, Andreas’s voice blared through the walkie-talkie.

  "Woo-hoo, DAMN man. Goddamn. I AM IMPRESSED. Y’know, gopher, for a second there I really thought you were gonna run us all through. Me, my boys, and aaalll these little cupcakes over here," Andreas drawled, his voice echoing from the device as he theatrically paced, gesturing at the line of hostages with his gun.

  "I still could," I muttered into the microphone, deliberately keeping my voice flat and devoid of emotion.

  "Ahaha–ahaha–aaa. No, no, gopher. See, that lie don't work," Andreas said, still pacing, the gun wagging in place of a finger. "A few hours ago, I might have bought that. Buuuut…." He snapped the revolver down, the barrel thudding against the top of Mina's skull. Tina reacted instantly, lunging towards Andreas with a scream, only to double over as one of his goons kneed her in the gut.

  But not fast enough for me to miss the dark stain spreading on her thigh, the telltale sign of a gunshot wound. That's how they'd managed to subdue someone of Tina's level.

  "These two, they told me how you helped them. Saved them. Helped them clear out the warehouse…"

  "Jon's ten times the man you are, you fuc—" Mina started, only to be cut off violently.

  "I. AM. TALKING," he bellowed, loud enough to hear even through the APC's thick hull, each word punctuated by a sickening thud against her head and shoulders.

  A deep, guttural rumble vibrated from my right. I glanced over to see Shashka practically vibrating in her seat, her knuckles white as she gripped the hilt of her flamberge.

  "Hold for my signal. Or they die," I ground out through clenched teeth.

  Mina had done that for a reason. She wasn't stupid enough to let her temper fly. But why? Despite the thin trickle of blood snaking from her forehead down her cheek, she tilted her head up just enough for me to see her face, and smiled.

  Of course.

  The words she'd used. "Ten times the man you are." It was likely her way of telling me that Andreas still had no clue about my vampirism. I still had some element of surprise.

  "Ahhh, sorry about that. Still a bit on edge," Andreas began again, raking a hand through his messy blond hair, smoothing it back. "Point is, gopher. You're a decent guy. Sorry, but it's the truth. Otherwise, you wouldn't have helped those two. And that's why…"

  He gestured towards the line of kneeling figures. "...I know you're not gonna run me over. 'Cause you'd have to flatten them first. Tough break, gopher, but you know what they say about nice guys."

  I scoffed.

  Nice guy? Wrong. I was an asshole with rules. Nothing more, nothing less. But it was a good thing for me that he still thought that.

  "But you see, goph— no. No, no, you know what? Nah. You EARNED this. Not gopher. Jon…" Andreas launched into another theatrical performance, pausing dramatically after saying my name. For the first time in three years, the manipulative bastard had actually used it. "...you proved yourself, Jonny-boy. YES, you did. I mean, scoring two APCs for us? Clearing this place out? Nah. You EARNED a spot at the big boys' table now," he continued, circling the hostages and moving towards the APC.

  "Why are you here, Andreas?" I spoke into the device, still keeping my voice even.

  Andreas froze mid-stride, and I caught the subtle shift in his features. The almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his upturned mouth. The faint furrowing of his brow. The barely visible pulse of a vein in his temple. The man didn't like being interrupted, but he needed to keep me talking. Despite his whole "nice guy" spiel, it was clear he wasn't entirely convinced. The possibility of me just hitting the gas and trying to flatten him was still hanging in the air. Especially since I'd made damn sure to keep the engine running and the floodlights blazing.

  That was probably why he was trying this new angle. Me joining his "inner circle." His crew.

  The shift lasted only a fraction of a second before Andreas regained his practiced composure. "Yeah, unfortunately, shit went south real quick. The group we sent for food got damn near wiped out, and the ones for Aether Stones ran into a bit of a snag with the dead. All in all, we took some losses. And people were already starting to prune up. Dehydration's a bitch. So, I had to make a call and guide everyone towards the mall. Only option we had, while we still had the strength to march, y'know?

  Your group was the only one that didn't come back, so either you all got chewed up, or you found something worthwhile. Glad to see it was the latter."

  As he spoke, my gaze drifted over the twenty-five or so people huddled in the back. Most clutched makeshift weapons, barely more than sharpened chair legs and odd lengths of pipe. But more telling were the wounds almost all of them sported. Scratches, bite marks, blood-crusted bandages, and lacerations of all shapes and sizes. And every single one of them wore that same haunted look I knew all too well. Eyes downcast and skittish. Like broken dogs. The same one I'd used to see leering back at me when I'd stare into a mirror.

  The corners of my mouth twitched upwards, a low, staccato growl rumbling in my chest.

  "You forced them to march, didn't you? That's why half of them are missing," I asked through the walkie-talkie, fighting to keep the emerging chuckle from escaping my throat. Karmic justice, huh? They'd thought they were safe as long as they kept their heads down. But they didn't know Andreas like I did.

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  The man shrugged, feigning nonchalance.

  "It was either march or starve. Like I said, I had to make an executive decision." He scratched the side of his head with the gun, shrugging again. "Needed a little… convincing. A little heavy-handedness. But oh well. C'est la vie, as they say. Someone had to see it done, so I stepped up to the plate."

  "Right, right. Greater good of the group and all that, right?" I sneered into the device. "But I do have another question, Andreas, before I hand over your armored trucks. Humor me, alright? 'Cause it's a pretty important one. Why are there four women hogtied on the floor? 'Cause I don't think you went through all this trouble just to get me to bring the APCs in. I'm hardly worth this much effort."

  Andreas paused, letting the silence hang in the air, considering his words. Finally, with another exaggerated shrug, he spoke into the device, his voice loud enough to carry across the entire warehouse. This wasn't just for me; it was for everyone. A warning, rather than a justification.

  "You're right, this happened before you got back. Greater good of the group, Jonny-boy. Some people, well, they don't get it. Miss Evans kept yammering on about how marching was too dangerous, so she'd been hogtied for a while now. And when we got here, Tina and Mina told me that they were going to give YOU one of OUR armored vehicles. Something about a deal. Now, that's just RUDE, you know? Taking it upon themselves to make such a selfish decision. To be so callous to the group's wellbeing."

  He turned towards the huddled mass of people, arms spread wide. "Right? Rude, right?"

  The students offered weak nods and murmured their agreement, none daring to meet Andreas’s gaze. Cowed cattle, down to the last one. Nothing more self-destructive than panicked people.

  With a decisive nod, he turned back towards the APC. "Exactly. Fucking RUDE. I told them otherwise and they started complaining. So I had to put a bullet in Tina's leg to make a point. As for Lizzie over here, she started screaming and hollering at me, and honestly, it was a whole damn thing, I won't bore you with the details. The important thing, Jon, is that a lesson had to be learned here today. A lesson about perspective, commitment, and dedication."

  With a flourish, he half-turned, gesturing with his pistol at the four women, while keeping one arm loosely pointed towards the APC.

  "A lesson they failed, and you're about to ace."

  "What's the lesson?"

  Andreas sneered. "The world as we're used to is done and buried. It's back to the old ways. Tribes. Hunter-gatherers. The strong got to keep the tribe safe, fed, protected. We've all got responsibilities now. And all you got to do is step out of the car, hand over the keys, and that's it. You'll have proven yourself a hunter, not a gatherer. With all the bells and whistles. All the responsibilities and..." his eyes shifted to leer at the prone women.

  "... advantages."

  "And, let me guess, if I don't, you'll kill them, right?" I muttered back into the microphone. Shashka’s head snapped towards me, her gaze sharp enough to bore through steel. I held out a hand beneath the console, a silent command for her to stay put.

  "Jon, if you don't, I'll be real damn disappointed. But kill them? No. In the world as it is now, every asset matters, and only idiots kill useful assets. This ain't some comic book. But see, I don't think you're dumb enough to spurn my offer, Jonny-boy. Sure, my original plan WAS to dangle their lives over your head, a little bit of blackmailing, but after seeing all this…?"

  He spread both arms wide, encompassing the APCs. "You honestly think I want to lose out an asset like you? Someone who can bring all THIS to the group? That'd make me the idiot, Jonny-boy. And we both know I ain't stupid."

  "Then what's going to happen to them?"

  Andreas’s smirk widened into a full-blown grin as he bellowed again, loud enough for the entire warehouse to hear. The answer wasn't for me. He was orating again, deepening his claws of control into the minds of those too scared to fight back. "Told you, Jon. You'll be in the big boys' club once you step out. That means you, me, my boys, we'll be responsible for the group's survival. Resources, food, Aether Stones. We'll be the ones making sure this crew thrives, buddy."

  The hunched shoulders of the students in the back relaxed, grimaces of pain and fear softening as a collective sigh of relief rippled through them at Andreas’s pronouncement. The clever bastard had forced them on that brutal march through the infested woods for a reason: to instill fear, to show them the raw ugliness of the world. And now, he was offering them sanctuary, a return to the perceived safety of the warehouse and passing the torch of responsibility to someone else. In one smooth move, he was shifting from tyrant to benevolent protector in their perception. Let it not be said that he didn't use every leverage he had. It was impressive.

  Scared people. Stupid, scared, easily controllable people. And I couldn't even hate them for it, because I'd been the same way.

  In stark contrast to his booming declaration, Andreas leaned close to the walkie-talkie, his whisper, barely audible over the static, dripping with barely contained desire. "And hunters need some R&R too, right? These four ladies are gonna be real useful for that. Some comfort for us weary heroes, whenever we get back from helping the group. Beds need warming after all." This statement had been for me to hear. A "sign-in bonus", as it were, something to sweeten the deal. For me, himself, his goons and their leering eyes, a stark contrast to the horrified expressions of their captive women.

  "So what'll it be Jonny-boy?"

  "Alright, Andreas, I'm coming out," I muttered into the walkie-talkie.

  "Attaboy, Jon. Smart move. Just, as a sign of our future friendship and all, leave the door open and don't bring any of those assault rifles with you, yeah? I assume that thing's loaded with them."

  "Oh? Aren't I part of the group though?"

  Andreas laughed and shook his finger.

  "Yes you are, my guy. You've more than proven your usefulness. But this is about trust. You got to trust me, for me to trust you."

  I sneered, grateful for the one-way windshield that had hidden my expression. Because I seriously doubted he’d be so confident if he’d seen the barely restrained violence etched on my face. Whether Andreas was telling the truth or this was just a ploy to get me out in the open, it didn't matter. I'd already sized up their pathetic arsenal. Aside from his Desert Eagle, his goons only had small-caliber pistols and revolvers. Nothing my enhanced physiology couldn't handle. Especially now that I had the ballistic armor on, they may as well had been armed with airsoft guns.

  And I'd already decided that the treasure trove of rifles weren't going to be part of this. My hands and my knives. Once they brought it on themselves, I had every intention to make it up close and personal.

  I was owed that much. Even if I wasn't owed it, I selfishly demanded it.

  "Shift to dog form and follow me. Act like a loyal pet. Once we're close enough, do whatever it is that you can to keep the girls protected," I whispered to Shashka and unlocked my door.

  "Finally. Shashka does not like all the talking," she said, rising from the passenger seat and following me out, since there was no actual passenger-side door on this APC model.

  I jumped out of the armored vehicle, machete swinging from its belt sheath, and began walking towards Andreas, who was waiting with open arms and a wide, welcoming grin. Grin which vanished the instant he heard the soft patter of four paws hitting the concrete behind me.

  "Woah, woah, Jonny-boy. Who's your friend?" Andreas asked, one arm still extended in a gesture of welcome, the other subtly signaling his goons to hold their fire.

  I stopped, waiting until the snow-white Husky trotted to my side and nudged my thigh. "This is Shashka. I saved her from a couple of the dead. Think she might've been one of the K-9 units from the army base? Had a harness on when I found her. Either way, she hasn't left my side since."

  Andreas’s relaxed grin returned, arm dropping slowly. "Got yourself a doggy, huh? She friendly?"

  I shrugged, lightly slapping her on the flank a few times as I started walking towards the group again. "She's been friendly enough to me," I added, slipping a hand into my pocket and jingling a ring of small, compact bolt-style screwdrivers. "Keys are right here."

  Whatever Andreas’s plan had been – genuine invitation or lethal ambush – my bluff had worked. He held out a hand, his eyes gleaming with undisguised greed as he waited for the "keys."

  "Welcome to the big leagues, Jonny-bo…"

  "Is close enough," Shashka growled, her head tilting towards me, interrupting Andreas.

  "Did… that dog just…." Andreas stammered.

  "Do it," I hissed.

  "Bardaga H?ll!" The words ripped from her throat, a raw, echoing bellow that felt dredged from some prehistoric cave, slamming into the space, a shockwave solid enough to almost knock me off my feet. The air itself twisted, a shimmering heat haze laced with violent, spitting arcs of energy. My head snapped back, ears ringing like a bell, vision dissolving into a fractured kaleidoscope of color and half-seen shapes that lasted a singular, brutal second.

  Then, silence. Just like that, ending as quick as it had started. I shook the ringing out of my skull and pinned my gaze back on Shashka. The Husky just sat there on her haunches, cool as ice, licking at a paw like nothing had happened. She was grooming herself.

  "Done," she purred, the word a low growl around the paw clamped in her teeth, as she worried at a nail, chewing on it.

  I scanned the warehouse. Looked the same, except everyone else was sprawled on the concrete, moaning and twitching from the invisible gut punch. Should've asked her what she was going to do. Maybe I still could?

  "YOU! WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO?" Andreas's roar tore through the stunned quiet, killing that thought dead. Gotta give the bastard credit, he was already hauling his bulk back to his feet, gun locked on Shashka, while his crew were still trying to find their legs.

  The dog stopped grooming herself long enough to give Andreas a flat, cold stare. Her nose twitched, and canid features shifted into a grimace, as if she'd smelled something particularly nasty. “Weak-meat smells like rot. Shashka has nothing to say to weak-meat. He will not address Shashka again.”

  "The hell you say, you damn freak?" Andreas bellowed, veins bulging in his temples like fat blue worms, eyes bloodshot with pure rage.

  Shashka didn't even twitch. Just went back to cleaning her claws, slow and deliberate, like she had all the time in the world, complete indifference etched in every motion.

  "Jon should make certain to end this quickly," she muttered, her gaze flicking my way. "Shashka can only maintain the Skill for ten minutes. No more. It is difficult skill."

  "DON'T YOU FUCKING IGNORE ME!" Andreas's fury echoed uselessly. I took a page from the dog's book and just cut him out.

  "Hostages okay?" I asked, my voice low and calm. Shashka tilted her head, a weird canine gesture that felt almost mocking.

  “Shashka said she would do that, did she not? Why does Jon ask question that he already knows answer to…”

  BANG! The gunshot cracked the air, a brutal full stop to everything.

  "Right. My bad. Seemed like we had a little… communication breakdown there," Andreas drawled, tone ice cold and razor sharp, gun pointed at the ceiling, a thin curl of smoke snaking from the barrel. He looked calm on the surface, but I knew that look. Wide eyes, pupils like pinpricks, skin gone chalky. That was Andreas past boiling point. That was Andreas ready to kill. Livid with rage. A look that before would have frozen me in my tracks, now only made me want to tear his face off.

  Slowly, he lowered the gun, black muzzle settling back on Shashka. "Now. What the hell did you do?"

  She just huffed. "Shashka already told rotten meat not to address her…"

  BANG! BANG! BANG! Three quick shots ripped through the air, followed by three violent bursts of sparks erupting inches from the Husky's face. The bullets screamed out a metallic symphony as they hit something invisible, shattering against a shimmering halo of gold. She hadn't even blinked. Hadn't even shifted from grooming herself, as if she was a tired adult having to deal with a toddler's tantrum.

  “Skill fifth of the Warrior Class. ?gishjálmr. As long as Shashka's feet feel the Earth’s embrace and she does not move, no arrow, bolt or slingstone may touch her” she said, her voice flat, deadpan.

  Four more rounds ripped from Andreas's gun, each shot a desperate plea that met the same impossible end. Sparks showered the air, a glittering halo around the pristine white fur of the unblemished hound.

  "So that's the power of a Class," I thought, gaze flicking back to Andreas. His hands were shaking as he fumbled with the spent magazine, trying to jam a fresh one home. Slow as a creeping shadow, I eased my machete from its sheath.

  "Gopher! You doing this? This your damn doing? Fix it. Fix it now or… THEY DIE!" The bastard's voice cracked, fresh magazine clicking home. The gun swung, black muzzle now aimed at Mina's pale face. "You hear me? Call off your freakshow dog right now. Don't play me, you little shit. I'll kill them…"

  "Oh, so we ARE doing the comic book villain nonsense, then? Cute. But no, Andreas, you won't," I hissed, the machete sliding free, the cold steel resting against my shoulder. "That chance is done."

  Silence slammed down on the warehouse, thick and suffocating, as Andreas and I locked eyes. Slowly, the man started to nod, each movement jerky, bordering on frantic.

  "Yeah, yeah, sure man. Sure," Andreas mumbled, his jacket sleeve wiping a thin line of bubbly spittle from the corner of his mouth. Being told 'no', being shown such blatant disrespect, it chewed at him, taking him from the border of rage to histrionic. The man had always had anger management issues.

  "Sure, sure, yeah, sure," he kept repeating, the words spitting out in time with his manic nods. Then he snapped his head towards one of his goons. "Blow her brains out."

  Rick, a six-foot-two slab of blond, roided-up muscle who'd been looming over Mina, just gave a curt nod. In one smooth, brutal motion, he leveled his compact revolver at the small woman and pulled the trigger.

  Tina shrieked. Samantha screamed, a raw, tearing sound. Lizzie Landon squeezed her eyes shut, trying to unsee what was coming.

  But I didn't even flinch. Not when the muzzle flashed. Not when I saw the bullet burst from the barrel. And definitely not when it slammed into nothing, shattering in mid-air a good foot away from Mina's horrified face. Ripples spread outward, like the silent disturbance of a stone dropped into still water. They radiated from the bullet's impact point, each invisible wave revealing a spherical boundary around her and the other three tied-up women.

  And the ripples kept going. It wasn't just the girls. An invisible dome, maybe thirty meters across, shimmered into existence around us, with Shashka sitting calmly at its dead center.

  "Skill seventh of the Warrior Class," Shashka declared, her voice a strange mix of reverence and fierce pride. "Bardaga H?ll. The Hall of Duels, where only warriors may fight. And Shashka decides who is warrior in this sacred arena. Soft-skins tied down, not warriors. Untouchable. Soft-skins on their feet, warriors. Jon, warrior. Nobody comes in. Nobody goes out. Until the Hall opens or the duels are done."

  Andreas and his goons launched a fusillade of blows against the bound women, fists, feet and gun handles slamming and bouncing off harmlessly against the force fields that shimmered around them. Untouchable just like she had said. Those closest to the shimmering edge of the dome were pawing at the empty air, trying to find a way out. Pointless. Their hands strained against nothing, an invisible wall holding them captive where the ripples had defined this "arena".

  "And there we have it, no hostages, no leverage, just me against the five of you," I said, the words echoing a little in the sudden stillness, tapping the flat of the machete against my shoulder, each dull thud a punctuation mark. Faces and guns shifted back to me.

  "Bastard. Piece of shit," Andreas spat, his face contorted with rage. "Always knew you were a worthless gopher, but using one of the monsters against us?"

  "Weak-meat has wax in ears," Shashka rumbled, already back to meticulously cleaning a paw. "This is Jon's fight. Shashka only sets the stage."

  I gave her a slow nod, a silent thank you, and she dipped her head in return.

  His face cycled through hate, disbelief, then back to that sneering contempt. But this time, a mocking grin stretched across his lips. He probably thought he had a winning angle again. He was smart enough to read between the lines, to realize that, as a "combatant," I wasn't shielded by Shashka's magic. So the guns were still a factor in his advantage. After all, what human, even one decked in ballistic protection, could win against five guns?

  "Oh? His fight? Seriously?" Andreas sneered, his eyes raking over me with contempt. "See, I'm having a real hard time swallowing that. 'Cause, don't get me wrong, I knew you're a dumbass, gopher, but I didn't know if you're the kind of dumbass who'd go up against five armed guys with a knife…"

  "There's a lot of things you don't know about me, Andreas. Even that whole spiel about me being a nice guy? Wrong. I'm just a bastard with some rules."

  "Thank you for that information, gopher" he began, a subtle flick of his wrist signaling his crew. Five dark pistol and revolver barrels swung to bear, ready to punch holes in me. "So now what? 'Cause if your big plan was suicide, you could've saved me the trouble and just offed yourself. Honestly, I'm still surprised you haven't done it before this."

  His grin widened, revealing teeth. "I mean, me and the boys had a running bet a while back on how far we'd have to push you until you, y'know…" He stuck a thumb in his mouth and pulled it out with a loud pop. "...bit on a bullet."

  I held his gaze, silent and cold. He was trying to goad me, for a reason I couldn't even fathom. Maybe to wrest back some semblance of control? My indifference slowly chipped away at his smirk, until only a hard, ugly grimace remained.

  "Action and consequence, Andreas."

  "The hell you talking abou—"

  "Action and consequence," I repeated, cutting him off. "That's life, stripped bare. Under all the bullshit, the philosophy, whatever, it's just cause and effect. You pull the trigger, something happens."

  Andreas quirked an eyebrow, scratching at his temple with the muzzle of his pistol. "Oh right, now I get it. You finally cracked, didn't you? This is just a madman's last hurrah? Suicide by proxy."

  "Nah, didn't lose a damn thing, Andreas. On the contrary, I GET it now. I finally understand. Thing is, you've never actually had to eat the shit sandwich of your own making. Never choked down the consequences of your own damn actions. But I have. Oh yeah, I've had to swallow the bitter pill of not putting my hands around your throat that first day you rearranged my face. Because you see, if I HAD, if I'd at least thrown down, tried to fight back, I think things would've gone down a whole different road."

  To my surprise, Andreas let his gun hand drop, his arm hanging loose. He even gave a slow nod. "You ain't wrong. Sure, my old man would've sicked a couple of his buddies on you, probably put you in a wheelchair. But yeah. Wouldn't have messed with you after that, not really, if you'd actually tried to throw down. Just on principle, if nothing else."

  "Exactly!" I snapped, jabbing the machete in his direction. "Action. I ate it. Consequence. You kept on going. Simple as dirt, right? That's why you think you can still d this without repercussion. And I can't blame anyone other than myself for all the crap I'd had to endure."

  Andreas nodded again, a small, almost amused smirk creeping back onto his face. He shrugged, throwing his arms wide in a gesture of mock surrender. "True enough. But we've talked enough, I think. Got shit to do, y'know. So, you ready to die?"

  "Almost man, almost. Just one more loose end to tie up. See, I got rules, Andreas. Personal, deeply held, integral beliefs and rules." I said, my voice flat and hard. "And even with all my screw-ups, one of those rules is I don't get to be a complete and utter piece of shit. I don't just get to off you like you damn well deserve, not without giving you what I've never been offered. An alternative."

  A cold fell over my mind like mist, cutting even through the splitting headache that had adamantly refused to cease. Methodical. Calculating. It was time. My conscience would be clear. I'd give them an out. A chance to avoid what would follow.

  "So, in that spirit – believe it or not – I'm throwing you a bone. An out. Just walk away. You, your boys, anyone else dumb enough to follow you." I turned and gestured towards the warehouse doors with the tip of my machete. "Drop your guns and just walk away. With a little luck on both our sides, you'll manage to outrun the herd outside and we'll never have to cross paths again."

  "And if I don't?"

  "Then I'll carve my way through every last one of you. Actions, Andreas. Actions..."

  He sighed, a theatrical puff of air, and flicked his arm out, the heavy barrel of his Desert Eagle settling on my chest. "Goodbye, Jon."

  I threw up my armored forearms, covering my head and face as the warehouse erupted in a brutal symphony of gunfire and the barrage of bullets slammed into me. They dinged and thunked into my armor, small caliber fire unable to pierce it. But the sheer volume of it was also a factor. My armor covered shins, forearms and chest. Everything else? Flesh tore, black blood geysered across the grimy concrete, and bone fractured as the storm of hot lead ripped into my unprotected shoulders, my thighs, every inch of exposed flesh. The impacts drove me back a step, in a brutal, staggering dance. The roar of the guns was punctuated by the shrill screams of the Miller sisters and, surprisingly, the deeper, more resonant cry of Samantha Evans.

  And yet, I laughed. A manic, mad laugh. Because none of it mattered. My heart and brain were shielded, and as long as that was the reality, all their bullets were just pot-shots. Meaningless. Wasp stings.

  No human, no matter how armored, can win against so many guns. Good thing I wasn't a human no more. Good thing their bullets meant less than nothing against me.

  "ACTIONS, ANDREAS!!! ACTIONS AND...." I bellowed, my roar carrying even over the din of gunfire.

  The fusillade sputtered, staccato bursts slowing to a ragged cough before finally dying, replaced with the click of empty magazines. The silence that followed was thick, heavy, amplifying the ragged breaths of the five men staring at me, guns dry.

  Because I was still standing. Riddled with what felt like a hundred holes, black blood oozing, but upright. And their brains couldn't process it.

  "...and consequences," I rasped, my voice a grotesque blend of a bull's bellow, a guttural snarl, and something vaguely human.

  Slowly, I lowered my arms.

  Skin tightened, a painful pull across shifting bone as my jaw stretched, lips peeling back over blackened gums. My tongue lolled out between teeth that were too long, too sharp, too damn wrong to be human. My heartbeat slammed in my ears like a war drum, sluggish pulse of blood through my veins roaring like a waterfall as the Minotaur blood in my gut surged up, flowing through me, not to empower, but to heal. Wounds closed, bullets clattering to the concrete as they were pushed out of my flesh.

  The men in front of me shimmered, no longer solid flesh, but fragile networks of veins and capillaries. I'd given them an out and they'd spurned it. Action and Consequence. Life and death. And just like with the Minotaur, I was going to see this through.

  I lunged.

  Not like a man, but a beast. My free hand slammed against the concrete as much as my feet, propelling me forward in a blur of motion, quick and fluid as a tiger's pounce. The machete rose above me, ready to fall.

  In the blink of an eye, I closed the fifteen feet separating me from the nearest goon – a skinny kid with a trendy haircut parted down the middle, sides shaved close. Almond-shaped eyes, bloodshot and wide with terror, tracked my advance. He stumbled backward, tripping over his own feet, fumbling with his pistol, trying to bring it to bear. The dull click of an empty chamber was the last sound he heard as he squeezed the trigger and my blade crashed down, splitting his scalp where his hair parted, the force of the blow driving blade through skull, brain, and spine, until it finally lodged, halfway down his stomach.

  The bisected corpse crumpled to the ground, and I snapped my head towards the next one.