The first rule of scheming: you never leave a trail.
And yet there I was, standing in the heart of the undercity, leaving more breadcrumbs than I could stomach. The stale air of the brothel clung to my skin like a second layer, sweet with perfume and sweat, sour with desperation. It was a place that swallowed people whole, and tonight, I was no exception.
All I cared about was the fact that the legions would try to kill Killion. That they'd leave scars, even if they didn't succeed.
Because if there's one thing I've learned from my life in the uppercity—and my survival in the undercity—it's this: men like Killion don't bleed easily. And when they do, you have to make it count.
The plan wasn't perfect. Hell, it was not.
"And I need you to be very distracting," I said to Jeremy.
