Azra dragged the corpse through the rubble. The weight of it tore at his arms, but it was the broken ribs that screamed the loudest. Every step sent a fresh jolt of pain through his chest like knives twisting in slow motion. He didn't care. Not now.
The city was a graveyard of twisted steel and shattered glass. Shadows clung to every broken corner, leaking into the cracked streets like ink spilled on parchment. The silence was thick but fragile. Somewhere in the distance, a low growl echoed. A reminder. He wasn't alone.
Blood dripped from the dead man's shattered skull, slick and dark, mixing with Azra's own sweat and grime. It pooled on the cracked concrete, soaking into the dust beneath his boots. The scent of iron and rot clung to the air, sharp enough to make his stomach churn.
Azra's breath rattled in his chest. "Worth it," he muttered through cracked lips. "Has to be."
The tag on the corpse's neck glowed faint blue. Not his kill. Someone else's. Someone faster. Someone dead, probably. Azra's fingers grazed the cold metal. Finders keepers, he thought bitterly.
He had no choice.
The pain was endless. Every broken bone, every torn muscle screamed in protest. But he kept moving. Because if he didn't, the things that hunted would find him. And this time, there was no coming back.
His legs trembled. The fractured ankle throbbed. His ragged breaths turned shallow, sharp. The city around him felt like it was closing in, the shadows stretching longer, darker.
"Five more steps," he told himself. "Then rest."
The distant growl grew louder. Something was following.
Azra glanced over his shoulder, heart hammering. The street was empty. Too empty. But the air shifted heavy and cold.
Then a figure dropped from the shadows ahead, landing like a hunter ready to kill.
Okan Stober.
Azra froze.
Okan didn't say a word. He never did.
Two sleek prosthetic arms gleamed in the dim light, humming softly with power Azra couldn't name. His eyes were cold steel, focused like a predator locking onto its prey.
Azra wanted to run but couldn't. The pain was too much, the body he dragged too heavy. And deep down, he knew the fight was already over.
Okan took a step forward, calm and certain.
Azra spat blood, trying to keep his voice steady. "You're late."
Okan's arms moved before Azra could blink. A knife Azra had dropped seconds ago flew back through the air, stabbing into his leg with brutal precision.
Azra screamed, stumbling.
Okan closed the distance in a blur, fists crashing into Azra's ribs. Each punch was a hammer blow, crushing and relentless. The world spun, sounds muffled beneath the roar of pain.
Azra tried to strike back, but his body betrayed him. His fist barely grazed Okan's chest before a wave of force slammed him into the wall.
Pain exploded in his shoulder. He fell hard, coughing blood.
Okan didn't hesitate.
With a devastating punch from his prosthetic arm, he shattered Azra's chest. The impact drove him to his knees, breath leaving his lungs in a ragged gasp.
Azra collapsed, face pressed to the cracked concrete. His vision blurred, but he was still conscious. The curse kept him alive, but the pain never faded.
Okan knelt beside the corpse Azra had stolen, scanning the glowing tag.
Without a word, he picked it up and vanished back into the shadows.
Azra lay there, broken and bleeding, every nerve screaming in agony. The sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the ruined city.
He let out a bitter laugh, voice raw. "Next time, maybe I'll actually get my own kill."
The city swallowed his words as darkness crept closer.