The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood and the acrid tang of burnt flesh.
Dexter's boots crunched over broken stone as he carried Stacy's body through the ruins, her weight heavy in his arms, her blood soaking into his sleeves. Her head lolled against his chest, her dark hair streaked with crimson, and her face—pale, lifeless—was a stark contrast to the vibrant, sharp-tongued woman she had been. He didn't look down. He couldn't. If he did, he might break, and breaking wasn't an option. Not yet.
Behind him, Trevor dragged Elijah and Ragnar, their bodies limp and battered. The sound of their boots scraping against the ground was the only noise between them. No words. No curses. Just the weight of what had happened pressing down on their shoulders, heavier than the bodies they carried.