Dogs Bite the Drowning Tiger
The stairwell still trembled with the aftermath of violence.
Dust drifted lazily through the dim yellow light overhead, shaken loose by the earlier struggle. One of the wall lamps flickered, buzzing faintly, casting broken shadows across cracked concrete.
Lucas stood breathing hard, chest heaving violently, blond hair fallen into wild disorder, blood dark at the corner of his lips.
His knuckles were skinned.
His suit was torn at the shoulder.
Pain pulsed through his ribs every time he inhaled.
Before him, Hemil and the other three abruptly halted their assault.
As though some unseen command had struck them all at once.
Their faces changed instantly—ferocity vanishing, replaced by exaggerated horror so dramatic it would have been laughable under any other circumstance.
All four dropped to one knee.
"We deserve to die!" they shouted together.
"We thought it was Julian coming down!"
Lucas nearly coughed blood from rage.
His face twitched.
