Off in the distance, a plank crashed to the ground. Footsteps followed—fast, frantic, and heavy with terror.
Hound's hand slipped into his pant's pocket, pulling out a metallic syringe. Inside, a bright purple fluid fizzled violently, light dancing through the glass. Without hesitation, he jammed the needle into his forearm. The reaction was immediate. Black veins crawled across his skin, spreading like ink in water. Every hair on his body stood on end.
His pupils turned silver, glowing against the darkness. He tilted his head, staring through the shadows. The world shifted under his gaze—what others saw as blackness revealed its truth to him.
There, stumbling through the mist, was a boy. Dark hair, thin frame, sweat dripping down his pale face. He looked back constantly, his wide eyes screaming fear. But Hound wasn't fooled. The boy's soul flickered faintly in the dark, and at its center was a brand—clear, unmistakable.
A gust of wind swept through the alley, carrying the shadows with it. The darkness on Hound's skin peeled away, disappearing into the air, as his silver eyes began to burn. He winced. Blood seeped from his tear ducts, sizzling as it streamed down his cheeks. Smoke curled off his skin as his body shuddered, flickering like a glitch in reality.
Through the pain, he whispered, "What's your name?"
The woman froze. Her voice trembled. "E-Emily, sir"
"Sir?" Hound let out a bitter laugh. "Get up."
They walked in silence toward the checkpoint, Emily trailing close behind. Her bare feet scraped against the gravel, and every few steps, she glanced at Hound, her nerves growing louder than her silence.
"Why are you doing this?" she blurted finally. "If it's money you want, I'm worth more as ransom. You don't have to take me to him."
Hound didn't respond.
"Why are you called Hound?"
Nothing.
"I know where you're taking me," she tried again, her voice lowering. "Binge. He won't pay you. He'll betray you—he's done it before. I'll do anything. Anything. Just listen to me."
Still, he said nothing.
The checkpoint loomed ahead—a crumbling warehouse, its roof swallowed by the night sky. From the shadows emerged Binge. Tall and gaunt, he grinned wide enough to show all his teeth.
"Well, well, if it ain't the stray dog," he said. "Long time no see, Hound."
Hound didn't answer.
Binge's eyes flicked to Emily, then back. "Where's Puck? Thought you two were inseparable."
"We had an argument," Hound replied.
"And?"
"He died."
For a moment, Binge's grin faltered. Sweat broke on his forehead, though he quickly wiped it away. He turned his attention to Emily, his expression twisting into a snarl.
"She's naked. What did you do?" he barked.
"Dead or alive," Hound said evenly. "Like you asked."
"Dead or alive with her purity intact, you idiot!" Binge shoved him back, rage shaking his voice. "You just couldn't keep your hands to yourself, could you? You've ruined it! The sacrifice is worthless now!"
"You think that's something you should've mentioned when you handed me the job?" Hound growled, steadying himself.
Binge stepped closer, his voice cold and low. "You dare raise your voice at me, child?"
From behind Binge, two figures emerged—towering men built like machines, their forearms gleaming with unnatural precision. These weren't just mechanical replacements; they were monstrosities forged for violence.
The man on the left bore a hulking metal arm, its surface rusted and streaked with crimson stains—blood or paint, it was impossible to tell. The intricate gears and pistons that made up his forearm hissed with every subtle movement, tubes of glowing red fluid snaking through the steel like veins. The hand itself was grotesquely oversized, a jagged blend of metal plates and claws that looked capable of crushing bone with a flick of his wrist.
The man on the right mirrored his companion but with an arm of sleeker, polished design. His forearm gleamed in the moonlight, its blackened steel reflecting faint sparks as its mechanisms whirred. At his elbow joint, vents split open, releasing a quiet hiss of steam, and embedded ports glowed like embers—faint hints of the flame-powered engine within. The joints clicked as he flexed his fingers, each movement unnervingly precise, as though the arm were more weapon than limb.
Together, they stood like sentinels, their arms humming with a latent, destructive energy. Hound knew better than to underestimate them—those limbs weren't just for show. They were designed to hit harder, faster, and deadlier than any human could manage.
Hound instinctively tensed at their approach but quickly masked it. He could feel their eyes on him, the weight of their presence heavy enough to make most men falter. Swallowing his pride, he took a step back, his hands open and palms slightly raised in a reluctant show of surrender.
"I apologize if I've offended you, Binge," Hound said evenly, his tone measured. "But this wasn't something you made clear when you gave me the job. That kind of detail matters."
Binge's face twisted into something between a sneer and a snarl, his gaze never softening. Hound watched as his words only made the tension worse. The enforcer on the left shifted closer, his heavy footsteps like anvils against the ground.
"Details? You dare lecture me about details?" Binge spat, his voice rising.
"I'm just saying," Hound interjected carefully, taking another step back, "if we'd talked this through, I could've—"
He didn't get to finish.
The man on the left lunged first, his massive metal arm sweeping through the air with terrifying speed. Hound ducked, the air cracking as the jagged claw narrowly missed his face. He twisted to dodge—but he'd forgotten about the other one. The right-hand enforcer was already moving. Before Hound could react, a solid punch connected with his ribs, shattering bone on impact.
Hound staggered back, choking on a gasp. His chest was concave where the blow had landed, ribs broken and screaming in pain. But they weren't done.
The right-hand man's arm whirred ominously as he stepped forward, the ports along his elbow glowing brighter. Shafts opened, and a jet of flame roared to life, fueling the velocity of his next attack. The punch landed like a cannon shot, slamming into Hound's hastily raised arms. The impact sent shockwaves through his bones, snapping them like twigs and forcing him to his knees.
He barely had time to brace as the left-hand enforcer followed up, his metal arm swinging in an arc. The strike connected with Hound's face, sending him spinning. Blood spattered the ground as he crumpled into a puddle, vision flickering in and out.
In the haze, he saw Emily bolting—her silhouette shrinking into the darkness as she ran.
His broken body refused to move. His vision went black, the sounds of Binge's men still ringing in his ears as he hit the ground.