Page 105 of Property of Scar

They aren’t scattered.

They are arranged.

The first line reveals itself in the space directly ahead of us, bodies spaced with deliberate gaps that draw the eye and anchor attention exactly where it’s meant to go. Above them, along the platform edges, there’s movement, subtle but controlled, figures shifting into position just beyond the reach of what little light filters down here, spreading outward in a pattern that closes the sides before we can test them.

And the stairwells, the darkness isn’t empty.

It’s occupied.

The formation locks into place in my head all at once, a structure built for containment rather than chaos.

“Formation,” Raze states, low, already moving before the word is fully out, because this isn’t the kind of thing that waits for confirmation.

The brothers move on the same beat.

Not charging or breaking ranks.

Engaging.

The first line of rogues steps forward in unison, closing distance just enough to force commitment, while the second line peels outward along the platform edges, cutting off lateral movement with a speed that feels just slightly off, just slightly too sharp to be natural.

The third line comes down from the stairwells at the exact same moment, dropping with controlled precision, landing hard enough to crack tile and seal the exit behind us in the same breath; the front line advances.

The station closes in on all sides, fast. Too damn fast to breathe room into it. There’s something unnatural in the way they move, their bodies carrying a twitch of excess energy, a chemical edge that pushes them beyond what they should be capable of. It sits under their movements like a second current, making them quicker to react, harder to predict, impossible to read in the clean, instinctive way rogues usually are.

All Mordain’s work.

The realization lands just as the first rogue breaks from formation.

He doesn’t come straight at me. Instead, he cuts across from the side, movement snapping through my peripheral vision in a blur that closes the distance faster than anything human could track. I turn into it on instinct, bringing my arm up just as he hits.

The impact lands hard—hard enough to drive me half a step back, his weight slamming into mine with all the force of something that doesn’t understand restraint. His momentum tries to take ground, break balance, and own the space, and fails.

His hand immediately comes for my throat, fingers already closing in the exact place they have been trained to land.

I catch his wrist before it makes contact. My grip slams shut around bone, stopping him cold, the force of it grinding through the joint with a sharp crack that nearly breaks it. For a fraction of a second, we lock there, his strength driving forward, mine holding it in place like it doesn’t get a say in what happens next.

Then I move.

I don’t give ground.

I take it.

I twist his arm and drive forward, ripping him off his line and slamming his body sideways into the nearest pillar with enough force to make the structure give.

Concrete fractures on impact.

A deep crack splits through the column when his body hits, dust exploding outward in a thick cloud, debris raining down in sharp fragments that scatter across the floor. The pillar shudders under the strain, like it’s deciding whether it wants to stay standing.

I hit him again.

Harder.

This time, I feel something in him give before the concrete does. His body buckles under the impact, whatever structure was holding him together starting to fail, but I don’t let it end there.

Because these things don’t stay down, not unless you make sure.

My hand releases his wrist and drives forward in the same motion, punching straight through his chest with enough force to tear through muscle and bone like it isn’t there. There’s resistance, there is always resistance, but I wrap my fingers around his heart. It gives fast, splitting open under the pressure as my hand closes around something that still beats too hard, too fast, too alive.