Making Aron one of Max’s most trusted individuals had been one of the best decisions he could have made.
It kept replaying in Max’s head as if it were a small, steady drumbeat under everything else , the simple logic of it. Aron moved without fuss, acted without asking, and carried weight in a way that didn’t call attention to itself. Max thought of the White Tigers, of old allies he had relied on in the past, and a bitter little comparison formed in the back of his mind. Those other people had always wanted something in return. They complained. They counted favors like receipts. They took weight and measured what they would lend back.
Not Aron. Aron never asked. If anything, he seemed to try quietly to take as much weight off Max’s shoulders as he thought fit. To show up without negotiation, without ledger or claim , that was something Max found hard to get used to. It felt, secretly, like a gift he didn’t deserve.
He couldn’t help the thought that followed, though. It was the thin, dangerous little thought he pushed away when he could. I wonder though , he’s doing all of this because I’m a Stern. If Aron knew the truth , that this Max wasn’t the real Max Stern, that someone else had borrowed the Stern name and the face , would Aron still act the same way? Would his loyalty hold if he knew the lie?
It was a question Max did not want to answer, and for now he shoved it away. Aron was valuable. He had proven that. He was bound by duty, by something older and firmer than petty deals. The cubs in the White Tiger , once friends, once brothers in training , had betrayed him, or at least one of them had. If Aron ever learned the truth, "no reason to go on" flickered through Max’s mind like a dangerous suggestion. But it was a far-off worry, the kind you tuck into a locked box and hope never to open.
The thoughts were strange company, but they were constant as Max moved through the docks, ducking between containers and listening. He kept them at the edges of his focus and kept looking for Sheri.
"SHERI!" Max started to shout, voice carrying across the metal canyon like an urgent bell. He let the call roll until it stung his lungs and echoed back at him. The allies he had brought were holding off the Black Hounds around him, buying him the space to search. They were keeping the enemies busy, trading blows and blocking lanes, and for that Max was grateful.
"WHERE ARE YOU, SHERI!" he shouted again, louder, because in a place like this small chances hid behind huge walls and every second counted.
Inside a container, the sound reached Sheri in a muffled, wavering way. She thought she might have imagined it at first , a trick of echoing metal and hope , but the syllables sneaked through the thin seam of the door, and something in her chest tightened with the certainty that it might be real.
Around them, the group kept fighting individually, but the eyes of many were fixed on one of the most important clashes on the dock , the fight between Jett and Darno. It wasn’t just another scuffle. Everyone felt it: when those two met, it was something the rest of them had to watch. For most of the rangers in the Billion group, neither combatant’s real strength was fully known. They were finding out in the raw, dangerous way that truths are learned, by watching someone’s limits poke out like splinters.
At least for now, there was one hope on their side. The rangers who’d come with Max were holding formation. They were experienced enough to give the pair the space they needed, and they knew when to support and when to fall back. It mattered. The dock was full of eyes and hands, of men who would take risks if they thought they could change the outcome; Max’s people kept the risk contained.
Jett sneered and went for Darno with that ugly, confident grin of his. "What, do you think that useless stance is going to help you!" he shouted as he tried to grab some part of Darno’s arm.
It almost looked as if Jett aimed for the neck , a dangerous, deliberate move. Darno, however, timed a perfect upward swing and hit Jett’s wrist first. The impact sounded like a sharp slap that shook the metal air around them. The noise drew a dozen heads.
Immediately after blocking Jett’s grab, Darno countered with a solid punch, driving his knuckles into Jett’s stomach. But Jett didn’t step back like he had before. This time he pushed forward, angling to hit Darno from a different side.
The pattern became clear: Jett attacked hard and fast, trying to chain strikes, but Darno’s hands and feet found the rhythm of the defense that stopped everything short. Each attempt Jett made to latch onto him was met with a sharp, timed hit , a slap that jarred arms away and slowed momentum. Darno’s strikes weren’t wild; they were placed between Jett’s moves, the quick counters that unmade an attack’s promise.
They traded blows in a kind of mechanical dance. Every block Darno made turned into a return hit in the same breath. He aimed at Jett’s bicep, at the places where leverage was gained, and each strike landed with the kind of focus that comes from repeating the same motion until it becomes whole. His concentration held like a tight rope under pressure.
Wolf watched and took notes without meaning to. He’s fast, Wolf thought, the word forming like a physical push in his chest. A lot faster than when he went up against me. He can throw out attacks as quickly as his defense. It’s almost unbreakable to get to him as he blocks and hits everything.
The pattern did not change. Blocks were exchanged, hits came back. Each movement was its own sentence in a long, ugly paragraph of violence. Darno relied on memory and training. He had been taught to stand still like a mountain and move like a rippling tide when necessary; both lessons were being tested here.
Concentration took an incredible toll. Darno felt it , the strain that lived in the cavities of the body, the slow wear that accumulates like tiny cuts after too many repetitions. He remembered his teacher’s voice in the back of his head, the reason he’d been selected: temperament as much as talent. He had never been a person who could focus easily. That had been the rub. Now the art he used demanded the opposite: it required relentless, unblinking attention, and Darno found himself doing something he had never done before, sustained focus.
His knuckles began to throb. Years of training had hardened his skin. He had punched tree trunks in practice until the skin tore; he had worked his hands until the pain became a familiar instrument. Now, after hitting Jett so many times, the old injuries flared and the new ones formed. The ache threaded through his arms and into his shoulders. Fatigue crept up the back of his neck.
No one knows, he thought, because these were things he kept inside. I can only fight like this for a total of fifteen minutes... but I’ve never had to beat someone for longer than that either.
He wondered how much longer he had to keep striking and holding the line before the effort finally broke him. The more he thought about it the more the doubt nibbled at the edges of his resolve.
Still, he kept striking. Jett kept smiling even after the countless punches. The grin on Jett’s face did not fade, and that bothered Darno more than the blows themselves.