Let it hit me.
Let them see that I don't break.
Let them know that their cruelty only makes me stronger.
The thought is defiant.
Vicious.
The kind of thing that probably qualifies as sadistic, in its own way—finding satisfaction in the idea of bleeding in front of people who want to hurt me, of refusing to give them the reaction they're looking for.
The ball is a foot from my face.
Six inches.
Three.
A hand appears.
Large, pale, moving with impossible speed—intercepting the ball in a grip so tight the leather audibly compresses. The impact makes a sound like a thunderclap, and the force should have destroyed a normal person's fingers.
But the hand doesn't buckle.
Doesn't flinch.
Just... catches.
The ball falls to the ground, bouncing once before rolling to a stop at my feet.
It looks useless now.
Harmless.
Like it wasn't just seconds away from breaking my nose and painting my face red.
I follow the arm connected to the hand—up, up, up—to find its owner.
Storm-grey eyes meet mine.
Cold.
Assessing.
The fourth member of the pack—the one I haven't formally met yet, the one Blaze called Jett. The aerialist assassin. Thesilent shadow who moves through violence like water through cracks.
He's tall.
Taller than I expected, somehow, even though I saw him that night at the theater. His teal-blue hair falls across his forehead in disheveled strands, and his features have an angular quality that makes him look almost otherworldly. Like something carved from ice and moonlight.
His scent reaches me a moment later.
Cold rain.
Metal.
Eucalyptus.
It's sharp, clean, completely different from the warmth of Sage or the heat of Blaze. This scent speaks of distance, of precision, of someone who observes rather than engages.
