iker z.

Ringing in his ears. Rust. Gunpowder. His breathing feels mechanical—regulated only because he remembers that his lungs need to rise and fall because he'd pass out otherwise. Smoke rises from... somewhere. He smells it. Everything happened so fast, too fast, the axe in his hand

more dangerous) chasing after him by asking nicely so that leaves Iker to look for other, unconventional ways to glean some form of the truth. In this case, getting that blood-soaked and ugly sweatshirt off of Ciarán. In the back, a voice crackles through one of their comms

the sweatshirt from bottom-up, practically trying to yank it off the boy's scrawny frame. It's a ratty thing anyway. "Get this off," he grumbles. "We're burning this ugly thing with the rest of the cabin." He can't believe he just said that—burning the cabin. He'd loved this

big, but something is keeping it limp and docile at his side instead. Iker, despite who he was and who he insists he is: a good man, can only think if he'd ever see Ciarán smile at him again. "Pack up and what?" No fight left in his voice. "Leave? Just like that? Kid, I have—I