Propaganda (1)

Max's fingers twitched. She was too fast. Too composed. One second, she was at gunpoint; the next, she had flipped the whole situation on its head. And the worst part? She wasn't even fazed. As if this was just another Tuesday for her.

His grip tightened around the dagger in his pocket. "Why didn't you kill me?"

In one swift motion, he pulled out the blade, ready to launch it—

"Bear, grow," Medeia said lazily.

The black wolf growled. Then, right before his eyes, it started to grow. Its body expanded in seconds, towering over them until its massive head nearly touched the ceiling. 

Max froze.

"If you try anything funny," Medeia murmured, her tone light and teasing, "my little wolf will tear you apart."

She tilted her head, flashing him a playful smile.

"But don't worry, I won't let you die that easily." Her voice dropped, turning cold. "Suffering suits you better."

Max clenched his jaw.