A Soul Too Broken to Hate

The finger whitened on the trigger. The bullet dreamed of flight.

Then—

A shadow moved faster than conscience.

Jazz's claw flashed.

Snick.

The pistol came apart like a dissected thought—clean halves tumbling from Chrono's hands, gears spilling like silver guts.

"Holy shit," Chrono breathed.

Rider just stared at their ruined weapon. "Well. That happened."

Violet fire erupted around Misha's shoulders—not flames but presence, licking the air with foxfire intensity. His voice dropped to an ember-glow:

"After everything I've told you... you came here to kill him?"

Chrono's throat worked. "We thought—"

"—we had no choice," Rider finished, their shared voice fraying at the edges. "You don't know what his name does to us."

The fire dimmed. The room exhaled.

Misha's smile was a scalpel. "Then enlighten me."

Rider kicked the gun halves. "First: chaos. Then—"