The funny thing about surviving a fight to the death is that nobody ever tells you what to do next.
There’s no instruction manual, no kindly voice from the heavens going, congratulations, you didn’t die, please proceed to your nearest designated exit for snacks and applause.
No, you just stagger down a blood-slick hall, still buzzing with adrenaline and smelling like a butcher’s worst nightmare, only to find your so-called friends gawking at you like you crawled out of a coffin mid-party.
That’s exactly the reception I got when I stumbled out of the shadows, shotgun slung across my shoulder, knife still dripping a lazy little stream of blood.
Brutus, Freya, Atticus, and Dregan—they were all there, huddled in a knot at the far end like kids who’d been caught playing cards in church. Their faces froze when they saw me, wide-eyed, hollowed out by disbelief, the air between us so tense you could’ve cut it with one of those silly little prison spoons.
I wiped my hands on my thighs, smearing blood down the tattered fabric like it was no big deal, then forced a grin.
"Miss me?" I said, batting my lashes with an air of innocence.
Freya blinked first. Her molten eyes, still ragged with fury, darted over the red stains crawling up my arms. Her lips parted, but no words came out. Which was remarkable, considering she usually had at least six insults loaded and ready at any given moment.
Atticus, of course, was the one to break the silence. He staggered forward, his glasses slipping down his nose, his bony frame shaking slightly at the sight of me.
"How," he hissed, his voice cracking like a whip. "How in the gods’ miserable names are you still alive?!"
I tilted my head, pretending to think it over. "Good skincare," I said finally. "And a bit of luck."
Brutus groaned, the kind of groan that comes from deep within the stomach of a man who’s spent far too much of his life dealing with idiots like me.
Dregan, however, let out a wheezy chuckle, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "By the saints, Loona, you’re like a cockroach."
"Aw," I cooed, pressing the blood-slicked knife to my chest. "Flatter me more, why don’t you."
In all seriousness, they weren’t wrong. I shouldn’t be alive. Not after that little dance with the Warden’s lap dogs. Not after staring down death with steel, teeth, and black mist that wanted to swallow me whole. Yet here I was, smiling through the blood, still standing, still breathing, still impossibly me.
Brutus stepped forward then, his shadow blotting out what little light trickled in from the prison beyond. His face was set in stone, dark and grim, but his eyes—oh, those betrayed him.
They flickered over me as if he were counting limbs, silently trying to piece together how his scrawny little headache had walked away from a massacre.
"By the gods, not only are you alive but you’re...unharmed," he said, voice low and suspicious.
"Darling," I replied, tossing the knife aside with a clatter. "Unharmed is my natural state. The blood’s just an accessory. A fashion statement, really. Everyone’s going to be wearing it next season."
Freya muttered something about strangling me with my own intestines.
I gave her a wink.
It was Atticus who finally reeled the conversation back to reality. "Enough," he snapped, pushing his glasses higher on his nose with fingers that wouldn’t stop trembling. "We don’t have time for idle chit chat. Reinforcements will come. The High Warden’s escorts will be missed, their absence noted. If we linger here, we die."
"Love the optimism," I said sweetly, but even I could hear the thread of truth in his words.
He pressed on, each syllable sharp as a knife. "The best course of action now is to blend back into the herd. Return to our cells. Pretend nothing has happened. From there, we resume our plan once the heat has cooled. It’s the only rational option."
Rational. Gods, what a terrible word. But the others nodded all the same. Freya with a grunt, Brutus with a grimace, even Dregan with a reluctant sigh. Rational was boring, but rational kept you alive.
So that was that.
We slipped back into formation, cloaks drawn tight, heads bowed low. Once we broke through into the heart of the prison, the others trailed off toward their own section opposite to us, Freya hauling Dregan by the scruff like a drunken mutt, Atticus muttering complexities under his breath as though equations might shield him from suspicion.
They vanished around a corner, swallowed by the endless throat of the prison, leaving me and Brutus to stand alone on the balcony walkway, glancing down at the lower levels of the great chamber.
For a long, heavy moment, we just stood there in silence. Him, towering, shoulders bristling with stolen contraband. Me, small and sticky, grinning like a giddy child.
Finally, Brutus spoke.
"How should we go about sneaking that back?" He hissed, jabbing a sausage-thick finger at the shotgun dangling from my shoulder like the world’s most incriminating handbag.
His gaze swept over it, then over the suspicious bulges poking from his own cloak crammed full with stolen supplies and vials of Erosin. "We’re out in the open now and you can’t use that disappearing trick of your’s for long now can you?"
I pursed my lips, considering, then shrugged. "Easy," I said. "I’ll just hide under your coat."
He blinked. Then blinked again. Then let out a laugh so rough and booming it echoed loud enough for the others across the chamber to hear. "You’re kidding right? That won’t work."
"Of course it’ll work," I shot back. "You’re massive, Brutus. A walking wardrobe. I’ll tuck myself right in there, nice and cozy, like a scandalous little secret between your thighs."
He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "That’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard."
"And yet," I said, wagging a finger, "you’re still considering it."
Before he could retort, the sound reached us. Footsteps. Heavy, measured, drawing closer from further down the walkway. Brutus stiffened, his jaw locking tight, a curse grumbling low in his throat.
And me? Well, I didn’t think. I just moved. One second I was standing there, smug as sin, the next I’d ducked beneath his cloak, squeezing myself between his tree-trunk legs with all the grace of a drunken ferret.
It was a tight fit. Saints, was it tight. My face pressed into the heat of his thigh, my ass stuck out awkwardly behind me, the shotgun jammed uncomfortably between us. I peered through the narrow slit of the cloak, heart hammering, breath hot against the inside of his leg.
And there he was.
A guard. Not some trembling lantern-bearer this time, no. This one reeked of rank, of importance.
Instead of wearing a cloak, he was decked in dark armor etched with shifting runes that pulsed like living veins. His mask was carved with sigils that twisted and writhed as though trying to escape his face.
My stomach lurched. Brutus tensed.
But then, to my utter shock, the man greeted him warmly. "Ah, it’s you!" he said, voice muffled but surprisingly kind. "Saints above, it’s been far too long."
Brutus froze. For a terrifying heartbeat, I thought he’d choke. But then, slowly, he forced a grunt. "Y-yeah. Been a while, hasn’t it."
The man chuckled, patting his shoulder like they were old coworkers bumping into each other at the market. "I was sent down by the High Warden himself. Distress call from the courtyard. Nasty business, I hear. But seeing you here puts my mind at ease. You always do keep things tidy round this district."
I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly sprained something. Tidy? Brutus? The man could barely tie his boots without making it look like a hostage negotiation.
Still, Brutus played along. He muttered, stumbled over half-formed sentences, scratched the back of his neck like an ox trying to remember its own name. "Yeah, uh... real mess. But, uh, you know me. Always tidy."
Saints preserve me. His acting was worse than Dregan’s drunken staggers.
The guard didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he didn’t care. They exchanged a few more pleasantries, the man laughing at his own jokes while Brutus grunted and nodded like a man praying to be struck dead.
Then, from down the hall, another voice called out. "Oi! We’re moving! Quit your gossiping!"
The guard sighed, gave Brutus one last pat on the back, and turned away. "Duty calls. Stay sharp my friend."
And then he was gone, vanishing into the gloom with the rest of his squad.
Brutus and I didn’t move. Not for several long, agonizing seconds. We just stood there, me crouched beneath his cloak, him stiff as a statue, until finally the last echo of boots faded into silence.
Then, as one, we exhaled.
"See?" I whispered from between his legs, grinning even as sweat trickled down my spine. "Told you it would work."
He didn’t bother to reply. Instead, we began to move.
It was awkward. Too awkward. Brutus waddled forward like he was hauling a cart full of bricks, each step deliberate, heavy, his body rigid and wracked with nerves.
Meanwhile, I shuffled beneath his cloak, my knees brushing the backs of his legs, my hands clutching the folds of fabric for dear life. Every motion was clumsy. Every step a risk. The shotgun pressed to my back like an accusing finger, the heat of his body searing into me until I felt half-baked.
And gods, the scent.
I don’t know when I noticed it—maybe the third shuffle, maybe the tenth—but it hit me all at once, like walking face-first into a wall of musk.
Brutus smelled like iron and earth, like sweat that had soaked too deep to ever be washed clean. And underneath it, faint but sharp, something more dangerous, more private. The kind of scent you don’t name aloud in polite company because it’s only ever birthed in the dark.
I inhaled, deeply, far too deeply for someone in my situation. Then I exhaled slowly, fanning myself with one hand. "Saints," I muttered, just loud enough for him to hear. "It’s boiling under here. Brutus, darling, do you mind letting in some air?"
"Shut up," he growled, voice low and tight, his massive hand twitching as though he wanted to swat at me from under his cloak like an insect.
"Mm, I’d love to," I said, pressing closer just to be a nuisance. "But unfortunately, the atmosphere under here is rather thick with your... essence. It’s making me lightheaded. I might faint if I stop speaking. Imagine it—Loona, beautiful, talented, tragically dead from Brutus’s musk. A story for the ages."
He snorted, the kind of snort that said he was seconds away from throttling me. "Stay quiet."
"Oh, fine," I sighed dramatically, resting my cheek against his thigh like it was a pillow. "But if I die, you’ll have to carry the guilt forever. And my body. And my clothes. Honestly, you’d never get rid of me."
He hissed through his teeth, and gods, it was delicious.
We shuffled on, down the walkway, past torches sputtering in iron brackets. Guards loomed at intervals, some armored, some slouching, most too tired or too stupid to do more than glance our way.
Prisoners milled too, hooded and collared, eyes darting with suspicion and hunger. And oh, the looks we got. Curious, puzzled, downright baffled.
"Stop wriggling," Brutus hissed under his breath.
"I can’t help it," I whispered back, "your legs are too damn long, it’s like trying to march behind a horse."
"You’re gonna give us away."
"Oh relax," I cooed, peeking through the slit of the cloak as a pair of guards strolled past. "Nobody suspects a thing."
And then—oh saints above, fate gave me a gift. One of the guards, a lazy sort with jingling keys at his hip, ambled close enough that the sound rung like bells in my ears.
I slid a hand out, swift and subtle, and with a practiced tug, the keys slipped from his belt and into my palm. He didn’t even flinch. Didn’t even notice. He just walked on, chatting with his partner about soup, women, or whatever it is guards talk about when they’re not murdering their prisoners.
I clutched the keys tighter in my palm, grinning like the devil himself.
Perfect.
The walkway sloped downward, melding into stairs and twisting deeper into the prison’s belly. The air thickened, cooler now but damp, the stones slick with condensation.
The torches flickered weaker here, their light stretching long shadows that turned Brutus into a lumbering specter. My legs ached from crouching, from shuffling, from holding my tongue when all I wanted to do was mock his every breath.
Finally, after what felt like a lifetime of sweaty claustrophobia, we reached the lower floors. The cells yawned before us, iron bars glinting, prisoners groaning, coughing, spitting curses into the dark.
Brutus paused before ours, his back to the chamber beyond while I reached up and pressed the stolen keys into his massive palm.
He slid one into the lock, the mechanism groaning before clicking open. And then, with all the grace of a birthing calf, I sprang out from beneath the cloak.
Air. Sweet, blessed air. I panted, stumbling into the center of the room, the fabric of my blouse clinging damply to my chest, my hair plastered to my cheeks. My legs trembled from crouching too long, but gods, I was free.
I smirked up at Brutus, still looming in the doorway. "You fucking reek of semen, you know that?" I teased, wiping my brow.
His jaw flexed, his eyes narrowing until he muttered back, "You’re welcome, you ungrateful little brat."
I laughed, collapsing against the wall. Brutus shrugged off his cloak, the heavy fabric slumping to the floor in a heap, and then collapsed on the opposite end, his massive frame slouched like a statue crumbling at last.
For a long moment, we just breathed. The silence hung heavy, but then—it broke. First a chuckle, low in my chest. Then a rumble from him. Then, like floodgates, we erupted.
Laughter poured out of us, wild and unrestrained, echoing against the walls. I laughed until my ribs hurt, until my cheeks ached, until tears blurred my vision.
Brutus bellowed, clutching his stomach, shaking the bars with every wheeze. It wasn’t just laughter—it was relief. Relief that we weren’t dead, that we hadn’t been caught, that the gods had let us crawl through another test of willpower.
When the laughter finally ebbed, we both sagged, spent and grinning. Brutus reached into his discarded cloak and began pulling out his stash. Vials of Erosin, various powders, bundles of dried herbs, a few spare bullets for the shotgun, and the stash of lesser drugs gifted to us by the Boss. Supplies, precious and rare.
I snorted, standing up and stretching my arms high above my head until my spine cracked before dropping the shotgun beside me. My body hummed with exhaustion.
My eyelids wanted to slam shut so badly I thought they’d mutiny, and the weight of days without proper sleep pressed upon me like a stone coffin. In truth, I was one wobble away from collapsing in a heap and letting the rats chew my corpse into jerky.
But that’s the thing about me—I don’t get to collapse. I don’t get to rest. Every time exhaustion drags me down, some piss-soaked mutt named Resolve sinks its teeth into my ankle and drags me forward anyway. And damned if I’m not too stubborn to shake it off.
So I stayed upright. Shaky, aching, half-dead—but upright nonetheless.
Then, very slowly, I peeled off my ruined blouse, tossing it aside with a wet slap. The cool air licked at my bare skin, goosebumps prickling in its wake.
Brutus’s head tilted, his eyes narrowing in the dim light. "What the hell are you doing?"
I smiled, coy and sharp, as I tugged at the laces of my skirt. "What does it look like? It’s time to attract our first customers."