(Sky Progress) Rohkard Against Justice

The air in Dawson-11 hung heavy, thick with the brute's lingering stench and the faint buzz of the store's fluorescent lights. I knelt before Sky, her small frame trembling against the shattered counter, tears carving tracks down her pale cheeks.

"Do you have anything to tie his arms and hands with, Sky?" I asked, voice low and steady, anchoring her amidst the chaos.

Her gray eyes flicked to her unconscious husband, then up to me, brimming with fear. "T-there's nylon ropes and paracord loops… aisle 10," she whispered, pointing shakily.

The aisle was a dozen steps away, but leaving her near that four-hundred-pound filth, even knocked out, felt wrong. I offered my hand, a lifeline. She hesitated, then grasped it, her fingers cold and quivering as she rose, leaning against the counter for support.

"T-thank you, Jona… I…" Her voice broke, her gaze darting past me to the sprawled orc, unease coiling tighter with each second. I hurried to aisle 10, snatching two bundles each of nylon rope and paracord, my pulse racing.

The longer he lay unrestrained, the greater the threat if he stirred. Kneeling by the brute, I bound his wrists with a knot half-remembered from a survival video, pulling it tight enough to chafe his sweaty skin. The second bundle reinforced it, a double layer to thwart even his orcish strength. His bulk sagged, a defeated heap, blood trickling from his broken nose.

"Whew… now we wait for the police," I said, guiding Sky to a chair behind the counter. I pressed a water bottle into her shaking hands, and she took it without question, her breath shallow. Being near him, even unconscious, kept her on edge.

The police, bolstered by this era's blend of tech and magic, would arrive in minutes, their suppression skills far beyond my own. "Do you want to wait outside for the police?" I asked, voice soft, drawing on somber scenes from media for guidance. I'd never navigated trauma like this—more nerve-wracking than sketching a new art style.

She nodded faintly, and I led her out, the store's chime fading as warm morning air kissed our skin. I settled her at an outdoor table, the city's hum a stark contrast to the store's tension.

Sitting across from her, I took her hand gently, like cradling a fragile bird, and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "It's okay, Sky. You're safe now," I whispered, my eyes searching hers for a spark of her quiet strength.

"J-Jona… you don't understand," she choked out, gulping water to steady herself. Her voice trembled with a deeper fear, her body curling inward as if shielding a wound. "H-he'll come back… worse…" Her whisper was wary, as if speaking his name could rouse him.

"What, is he immortal or something?" I asked, half-joking. Orcs, even in this post-Age of Bloodshed era, where dwarven tech and magic wove modern wonders, had short lifespans—fifty years on average, seventy at most, their bodies burning out fast. But Sky's fear hinted at something more.

"A descendant of Rohkard… a barbarian orc king," she murmured, the name floating like a dark omen. Rohkard. A name from a brutal age, paired with a temper like a ticking bomb and strength to match. His earlier blow, splintering the counter, wasn't just rage—it was lineage.

It didn't change the fact that it was completely unreadable in this day and age. Orcs are salacious beings, and having a name that literally sounded out "rock hard" was enough to make me exhale. Ridiculous.

"I kicked him pretty hard down there," I said, trying to lighten her dread. "I'd be shocked if he's still functional." Severe trauma to the groin could kill and ridding her of that filth would free her from his chains. Yet, her eyes stayed haunted. "What's he done to you, Sky?" I asked softly, seeking her gaze.

She swallowed, clutching the bottle, and spoke deliberately, as if each word risked death. "Freeloading, abuse… all kinds—physical, emotional. Stalking. He made me his income source, bleeding me dry to live in this world." Her voice quavered, cautious, like a prisoner fearing discovery.

Fury erupted within me, shattering another of the mind's chains. A vision flared—a dragon's gaze, fierce and ancient, its primordial force surging through my veins, a heavenly beast's power answering her pain.

The seven-eyed shadow from Lorette's night stirred, its dominance now a vow to crush Rohkard's legacy. "I can't let that slide," I growled, my body humming with a mysterious strength, ready to face whatever threat he posed.

Rage boiled in my veins, a dragon's fire threatening to consume me, when the wail of police sirens sliced through the morning air. Seconds later, two cruisers screeched to a halt in front of Dawson-11, their flashing lights painting the storefront in red and blue. Built male cops spilled out, their boots heavy on the pavement, exuding a calm authority that cooled my fury just enough to focus.

A lead officer approached, as tall as my six-foot frame, his broad shoulders filling out his navy uniform. "Officer Zora Varkos, reporting," he said, voice deep and slick, all business as he removed his shades, revealing sharp green eyes. He flashed his badge, the metal glinting under the sun, and fixed me steadily. "What's the emergency?"

"Sky's husband tried to kill her," I said, cutting straight to it, my eyes flicking to Sky. She sat at the outdoor table, trembling like a leaf in a storm, her gray eyes glassy, hands clutching the water bottle like a lifeline.

"He smashed her counter, raging about food. I came to buy groceries, support her business—I'm an acquaintance of hers." I extended my hand, grounding myself. "Jonathan, nice to meet you, officer."

"Likewise, sir," Varkos replied, his grip firm but brief, his focus unwavering.

"I got here just before he could hit her," I continued, voice steady despite the ember of rage still burning. "Pushed his wrist aside, and his fist wrecked the counter instead." I pulled out my phone, the screen still warm from my pocket, and played the recorded video—every snarl, every threat, the brute's fist shattering wood.

Varkos watched intently, his jaw tightening, then nodded, signaling his squad with a sharp gesture.

"Restraint wires and tranquilizers," he ordered, his tone clipped. "Orcs are resilient." He handed my phone back, slipping his shades on with a practiced flick. "I'll need you and Miss Sky at the station for statements. Is that okay, ma'am?"

Sky flinched at her name, her gaze darting to the store where her husband lay bound, then back to Varkos. She nodded faintly, her voice lost in the tremor of her body, the weight of Rohkard's treatment still chaining her fear. 

"He's four hundred pounds at roughly seven feet and beyond, by the way," I added quickly, my voice low but urgent as I glanced at Officer Varkos. "Huge. I doubt any of your cars can fit him." Sky shivered beside me, her small frame still trembling at the outdoor table, the water bottle clutched tightly in her pale hands.

Varkos gave a curt nod, his green eyes narrowing behind his shades as he muttered into his earpiece, coordinating with his team. The red and blue cruiser lights flashed across Dawson-11's facade, their rhythmic pulse a stark contrast to the morning's warmth.

Two more officers approached—a woman with a tight bun and a man with a boxer's build—motioning us toward one of three police cars parked in formation. "This way, please," the woman said, her tone firm yet kind, guiding us with practiced ease. "You'll head to the station first, get comfortable, and wait." Sky hesitated, her gray eyes flickering toward the store where her husband lay bound, but she followed, her steps shaky.

I stayed close, my hand hovering near her shoulder, ready to steady her if she faltered. The mark of her husband's attempted abuse hung over us, but the cops' presence grounded the moment, a lifeline in the chaos.

We slid into the backseat of the cruiser, the leather cool against my sweats. The car's interior smelled of polished vinyl and faint coffee, a mundane anchor as the engine hummed to life, carrying us toward the station to rest and recount the nightmare.

The cruiser's leather seats creaked softly as Sky shifted closer, her small frame still trembling but beginning to ease, as if the steady presence of Officer Varkos and his team—or maybe my hand in hers—offered a fragile anchor. Her fingers, cold and delicate, intertwined with mine, resting atop her lap, her grip tightening with a quiet desperation.

She leaned her head against my shoulder, her chestnut hair brushing my neck, its faint scent of lavender shampoo cutting through the cruiser's sterile mix of polished vinyl and stale coffee. The red and blue lights from the cruisers outside pulsed through the tinted windows, casting fleeting shadows across her pale, tear-streaked face.

"It'll be okay," I whispered, my voice barely above the engine's low hum, each word measured to soothe her. Her gray eyes, still glassy with fear, flickered up to meet mine, searching for certainty.

"You should call your friends. They might help more than I can." The suggestion hung in the air, and she shook her head vigorously, her lips pressing into a thin line. I recognized that stubbornness—Sky's quiet strength, the kind that saw her running Dawson-11 alone despite her husband's shadow. She wasn't one to lean on others, not out of pride but fear of burdening them, her problems a weight she carried in silence.

I squeezed her hand, feeling the tremor in her fingers, and pulled out my phone with my free hand, the screen's glow sharp against the dim interior.

My thumb hovered over the keyboard, a flicker of uncertainty stirring. Yulia's tenderness, her ethereal care during our late-night talks came to mind. If anyone knew how to comfort Sky, it was her. Tapping on nice_ice_bby's chat, I quietly formulate my inquiry.

[ Yulia, hi, it's been a few days… I have this weird question, please don't take it the wrong way: how do you comfort women? ]