Marked For Drop

A female figure stood motionless—drenched in blood. It coated her like a second skin, seeping into her hair, clinging to her limbs, hiding any boundary between flesh and fabric. Shanazer froze, her breath caught like a fist in her chest. Her heart didn't just skip—it sprinted into a blind panic.

"Dear God… what happened to her?"

Her feet itched to flee. Every instinct screamed to obey Tairen's old warning: Stay clear of trouble. Always. But what if this wasn't just violence? What if whoever did this was watching from the shadows—waiting? They laid a trap?

No. She shook her head. This isn't Gandaska city. Veena city had been peaceful. Two whole years of quiet routine. She did not experience bloodshed. She didn't scream and wasn't running anymore. And now this.

"I have to help her." The thought formed like stone in her chest. 

Her stomach churned as she turned away from the scene. Olivia's voice tugged her back to a sense of now. "I have to go. See you later," she said, slipping out the door.

"Bye," Shanazer replied softly.

The door clicked shut. Shanazer's body buzzed—an ache of adrenaline and something else. Something bright. A pulse of hope surged through her, sudden and inexplicable, the way that portal had once given her another life. Could this be another turning point?

She collapsed onto her bed, the sensation still crawling beneath her skin. Sleep stole her away.

She woke an hour and a half later, every muscle humming with new energy.

What now? Her gaze shifted to the clock—4:30 p.m.

How about a walk? Yes. Clear your mind. Then prepare for Syntenthicus... or maybe dive into the texts?

The decision made itself. Soon, her steps were echoing softly down Magaven Street. The day bowed into evening—the light retreating from gold into washed-out crimson and ash-gray. Clouds stretched thin like smoke trails. The air was dry but forgiving, a soft breeze cooling her skin. Shadows stretched longer, looser. Most homes were already sealed behind iron gates. A few stragglers hurried toward night shifts. The quiet was eerie—too complete.

I needed this walk, she thought.

She looked skyward as the sun sank into the clouds—a smear of burnt orange and soot. That's when the figure hit her, hard and deliberate.

She staggered back, eyes wide. A towering man stood before her, all muscle and silent.

"What's wrong with you?" she snapped, voice sharp.

Her body backed away instinctively—and thudded into another figure behind her.

Her heart stopped.

This is a setup.

Panic erupted in her chest like wildfire.

Before she could scream, coarse fabric smothered her sight. A sack over her head. And everything else turned into darkness.

"Help! Help!" she cried, voice ragged with terror.

"Cover her mouth, Fernandez!" barked the man.

Rough hands clamped over her face.

So this is it, she thought. The peace was a lull. The storm was always coming.

Five days ago in Miniosky town. Miniosky reeked of rust and regret. Metal roofs sagged like drunks on curbs, and paint peeled from every wall like old promises. A dying town clutching its last secrets.

The bar hunched between two burned-out warehouses, its crooked sign flickering half-heartedly in the dusk. Inside, the air was thick—choked with sweat, bitter whiskey fumes, and a clingy haze of cigarette smoke that curled like fingers around every throat. Each breath felt like sipping ash.

Fernandez and Cavendan loomed at the counter like statues of muscle and menace. The glow from the overhead bulbs carved deep shadows across their stubbled faces. They weren't drinking—they were fueling a ritual.

Shots slammed like clockwork. One. Two. Three.

The bartender—lashes dusted with glitter, smile as practiced as a poker face—glided toward them, hips swaying in time with the low thrum of jazz oozing from a grimy speaker.

"Well, well," she purred, setting down a fresh bottle with a clink that cut through the bar chatter. "Still wrestling over me?"

Cavendan cracked his neck and stretched like a lion before a kill. "Legends don't choose. We get chosen."

She grinned, leaning closer, breath laced with peppermint and smoke. "Buy the bottle, maybe I choose tonight."

Fernandez smirked, gaze hard. "Or we remind you who runs Miniosky."

That chill—the kind that comes right before a bar brawl—started slithering beneath the chatter.

Then it happened.

CRACK.

A hand in a black glove slammed a silver card onto the bar. The impact silenced the room. Glasses rattled. The lightbulb over the bar flickered once, twice.

Rashad stood like a ghost dragged from the underworld—eyes unreadable, coat dripping with rain and silent warning. His voice came low and rough, like stones grinding beneath a boot.

"I'll take that bottle."

Fernandez's chair scraped back, fury pulsing in his jaw. "Who the hell are you?"

Before the last word dropped—THWACK.

Rashad's fist met his jaw with surgical violence. Fernandez spun midair, crashing through a table behind him. Wood split. A breathless gasp swept the bar. Blood streaked his chin, the steam from his body curling into the smoke like sacrificial incense.

Cavendan froze. Not from fear. From calculation. He glanced at the bartender. Her wide eyes said: Don't.

He didn't make a move.

Then from the doorway came the taller one—Pithos. He exuded calmness. But the cruelness in him could be seen and felt. The kind of man who didn't need to speak to be obeyed. He approached the bar, boots echoing, and unfurled a canvas like a priest unveiling an icon.

A girl. Shadows in her eyes. Name carved across the back like a prayer: Shanazer Athens.

"We're looking for her," Pithos said, his words sharpened by the edge of purpose.

On the Magaven street. They dragged her—limbs thrashing, heels scraping the concrete—but she was a ghost of resistance in the grip of giants.

"Let me go!" Shanazer screamed, raw desperation splitting her throat. Her voice ricocheted down the narrow corridor of buildings, but it was met only with silence.

The street, once alive with food vendors and tinkering radios, had folded into eerie stillness. Even the birds had vanished. Only the faint stench of engine oil and dried piss lingered in the air.

Her hands clawed uselessly at the burlap hood. Her wrists burned from the zip ties. She was being erased, dragged into the cracks of the city.

"Are you certain it's her?" Fernandez barked, the words sharper than he'd intended.

His boots thudded behind Cavendan's as they rounded the alley curve. His heart thrummed faster than footsteps.

He wasn't scared for her. He was scared of who wanted her. Of the look in Rashad's eyes back at the bar—like a man who carried death not as a burden, but as a language.

A chill spiraled down his spine. That punch—that goddamn punch—had sent him flying like a toy, and Rashad hadn't even blinked. Cavendan had called him a devil in a man's coat, and Fernandez hadn't disagreed.

"This better be the girl," he muttered, sweat beading his brow despite the cooling air. "I'm not crossing paths with those two again over a mistake."

Cavendan grunted. "It's her. Same eyes. Same burn mark on the wrist. Let's just get to the drop point."

Behind them, Shanazer's scream cracked the fading light. "SOMEONE HELP ME! PLEASE!"

But the street swallowed her voice like dusk swallowing the sun.

Has the thing I fear most come to claim me?