For a moment, there was only rain.
The weight of Brock's corpse still pressed against Jagger's legs. The gurgling in the brute's throat faded into a wet rattle and then into nothing at all. Steam rose faintly from the blood pooling beneath them, black-red in the cold streetlight glow.
Jagger shoved the body aside and forced himself upright.
His arms trembled as he pushed. His muscles screamed. Blood coated him from collar to boots, some of it his, most of it not. Rain washed thin trails down his face, cutting clean lines through the crimson smeared across his skin. His jaw throbbed where the elbow had struck. His knuckles burned from impact. His lungs dragged in air like rusted machinery grinding back to life.
He felt alive.
Too alive.
"You said you could predict them," he whispered, voice hoarse, annoyance cutting through the lingering adrenaline.
Ophilia's response slid into his mind, colder than the rain soaking his spine.
