Stronges.
My master. Everyone's master. The woman whose abs probably have their own religion. She was going towards the front door of her house.
For five straight years, we'd always used the back door of her house.
The front door was practically a myth—like honest politicians or good customer service.
But today, after half a decade of sweat, screams, and trauma disguised as "training," we were finally leaving through the front door.
And we all knew exactly what that meant.
On the other side of that door were Malthus' guards.
And Stronges wasn't going out there to exchange pleasantries or borrow sugar—she was going out to commit violence with artistic flair.
Her left arm jingled as she loosened the metal chain, like death itself doing warm-up stretches.
Carnage was coming, and the chain knew it.
All of us took a deep breath, the kind you take right before doing something irreversible and profoundly stupid.
Weapons ready. Nerves on fire. Morality temporarily offline.
