They didn't attack us.
That was the mistake everyone made when they first learned about the Saints. They expected noise. Blood spilled in public. A declaration so obvious it couldn't be ignored.
The Saints didn't need spectacle.
They preferred implication.
I found out just after dawn, when the air was still cold enough to make breathing feel deliberate. Faye came to get me without saying my name, just stood in the doorway and tilted her head once. Her mouth was set in a line I hadn't seen before.
"Get your boots," she said. "And don't talk."
We moved fast. Not rushed. Controlled. That was the difference. Rushed meant panic. This was preparation.
The alley sat just beyond the boundary we pretended not to guard. Narrow, forgotten, the kind of place the city swallowed whole without complaint. The walls were damp, brick flaking under layers of old posters and newer graffiti. Someone had painted over a Saint symbol once, long ago. It showed through anyway, like a scar that refused to fade.
The body lay against the far wall.
Male. Mid-thirties, maybe. Clothing nondescript. Clean hands. No defensive wounds.
He hadn't fought.
That was the first thing that registered.
The second was the mark.
It was carved into the inside of his forearm, shallow but precise. Not rushed. Not angry. A symbol made of intersecting lines, sharp angles cut cleanly through skin. Whoever had done it had taken their time.
My stomach tightened.
I didn't ask what it meant.
I didn't have to.
Cager stood a few steps away, her posture rigid in a way I hadn't seen before. Not alert. Not ready. Locked.
Her eyes were on the mark.
Everyone else watched her.
No one spoke.
Finally, Grim broke the silence. "It's old," he said quietly. "They haven't used that sign in years."
Cager didn't respond.
Mako crouched, examining the body more closely. "He was placed," he added. "Not dumped. They wanted us to see him."
Still nothing.
I shifted my weight, the movement barely perceptible. I didn't look at the body again. I watched Cager instead.
Her jaw was tight, teeth clenched so hard I wondered if they hurt. One of her hands flexed at her side, fingers curling as if around something invisible.
A memory, maybe.
Faye leaned closer to me, her voice barely audible. "Don't say anything," she murmured. "Not yet."
As if I would.
Cager stepped forward then, slow and deliberate. She knelt beside the body, close enough that her shadow fell across the mark. For a moment, I thought she might touch it.
She didn't.
"Clear this," she said finally, her voice even but stripped of warmth. "Quietly. No rumors. No witnesses."
"And the message?" Grim asked.
Her gaze lifted, sharp enough to cut. "The message is received."
That was it.
We dispersed quickly after that. No ceremony. No discussion. The body would vanish by nightfall, swallowed by systems designed to erase mistakes. Or warnings.
Back at the lair, the atmosphere shifted.
It wasn't fear. The Creepers didn't do fear the way other people did. It was tension, coiled and watchful. Conversations lowered. Weapons were checked more carefully. Positions adjusted.
Cager issued orders with ruthless efficiency. Patrols reassigned. Routes altered. Meetings canceled or moved. She didn't explain why.
No one asked.
I caught fragments of whispers as I passed through corridors.
"They haven't marked someone like that since—"
"Thought that was done."
"It's personal."
That word again.
I didn't know the details, but I felt the weight of it settle into the walls around us.
I found Cager later in the weapons room, standing alone. The lights were dimmer here, the air cooler. Rows of blades lined the walls, each one meticulously maintained.
She didn't turn when I entered.
"You shouldn't be here," she said.
"I was told to check inventory," I replied.
A beat.
"By who?"
"Grim," I lied smoothly.
Another pause. Then, "Do it quickly."
I moved between the racks, hands busy, mind elsewhere. I could feel her presence behind me, heavy and tense, like a storm refusing to break.
"You know what that mark means," I said quietly.
"Yes."
"You didn't want us to hear it."
"No."
"Why?"
Silence stretched.
I turned, slowly, not challenging, just present. "You don't have to tell me," I added. "But pretending it doesn't matter won't make it less dangerous."
Her eyes snapped to mine.
For a moment, I thought she might snap at me. Order me out. Shut me down completely.
Instead, she exhaled through her nose, sharp and controlled.
"That mark," she said, "is a reminder."
"Of what?"
"Of what happens when you confuse loyalty with ownership."
The words landed hard.
I absorbed them carefully. "Were you loyal to them," I asked, "or did they think they owned you?"
Her gaze darkened. "Those two things look very similar from the outside."
That was the most she'd ever said about her past.
It felt like standing at the edge of something deep and cold.
I nodded once. "They're testing you."
"Yes."
"And us."
"Yes."
She stepped closer, stopping just short of my space. "This is where people get sloppy," she said. "They panic. They overreact. Or they freeze."
"I won't," I said.
"I know."
The certainty in her voice startled me.
She seemed to realize it too.
Her expression tightened, walls snapping back into place. "That confidence will get you killed if you don't earn it."
"I'm trying to," I replied.
Her eyes flicked to my hands. "You are."
Another silence. This one felt different. Charged. Unstable.
"Why didn't you come on the run yesterday?" I asked, changing direction.
She stiffened. "Because you didn't need me."
"That's not what I meant."
She looked at me again, really looked this time, like she was weighing whether to answer honestly or not at all.
"Because watching you from a distance is safer," she said finally.
"For who?"
Her jaw clenched. "For both of us."
That answer stayed with me long after I left the room.
That night, I dreamed of the mark.
Not the symbol itself, but the act of carving it. The patience. The intention. The way someone had taken the time to make sure it would be understood.
I woke before dawn, heart steady, mind alert.
The Saints had made their move.
Not with violence.
With memory.
And whatever history Cager shared with them, it wasn't finished demanding its due.
Neither, I realized, was my place in it.