More shadows moved.
But these didn't stumble or howl. They glided.
Tall. Composed. Smiling with something too calm for a battlefield.
Ruka shifted slightly. His blade hovered just above the ground, gleaming faintly. The feathers around him drifted slow, like snow in warm wind.
And then—he saw him.
One figure stood out.
Leaning lazily against the crumbling wall of a broken liquor store. One leg crossed over the other. Suit flicking with the wind. Long hair tied back. Pale skin that shimmered under the cracked streetlights.
Drax.
Ruka narrowed his eyes.
Drax pushed off the wall, slow and smooth, brushing dust off his coat like it mattered. He stepped forward. Each boot landed with barely a sound, yet every creature around him—vamps, wolves, even corpses—seemed to shrink under the weight of his presence.
"Now, that was pretty," Drax said, smiling. "The little creature can dance. Not bad."
Ruka didn't answer. Didn't move.
