The bar was still drowning in silence. Everyone had seen it. The way Mad Tiger stormed in, the way he manhandled Tristan like a sack of garbage, and the way he called him out in front of every lowlife in the room.But it wasn’t over.Mad Tiger stopped mid-stride, his broad shoulders still heaving from the fury bubbling under his skin. The lights overhead flickered as if the very room could sense something more violent was about to come.He turned around.Slowly.Deliberately.Tristan, still crumpled on the sticky bar floor, flinched when Mad Tiger’s eyes met his again. His mouth opened to speak, but no words came out. Just a dry, pathetic squeak.“Not so fast,” Mad Tiger growled, his voice dark and dangerous. He cracked his knuckles as he walked back toward the crowd of onlookers, who all stepped away like a curtain parting for a monster.Tristan tried to scramble to his feet, but he slipped on a puddle of spilled beer and fell on his butt again. “P-please, I didn’t mean anything—!”B

The night sky was cloudy, like even the moon didn’t want to see what was coming. Rain threatened but never fell, and everything in the city felt like it was holding its breath.Davion sat stiffly on the worn couch in Beverly’s small apartment, one arm slung around her shoulders more for balance than affection. He was still injured, his ribs screaming every time he shifted. Beverly had wrapped them herself, but she still watched him like he might collapse at any second.“You should be in bed,” she muttered.“Bed's boring,” Davion replied, his tone flat. “And too soft.”She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, she leaned her head against his shoulder and flipped through the TV channels, even though neither of them was really watching.There was a knock at the door. Sharp. Quick. Familiar.Davion tensed.Beverly got up first, crossing the room and checking the peephole.“It’s my dad,” she said, frowning.She opened the door, and there he was: Wesley, coat wet from the misty air, ey