Page 84 of The Mercenary's Hidden Heir
We move.
Fast.
Quiet.
Praying to whatever gods still bother listening to broken souls like us.
The neon smears the street in sick colors—blood reds, toxic greens, drowning blues.
Garbage piles steam in the gutters.
Old hovercar husks loom like rusted-out monsters.
Traz lifts two fingers—pause.
We press back into the broken frame of a building.
I cradle Joren tighter.
My heart pounds so loud I’m sure it’s echoing off the walls.
A gang patrol slinks by, heavy boots stomping.
Their blasters gleam wet under the flickering signs.
One of them spits in our direction, missing us by a hair.
We hold our breath.
Frozen.
Waiting.
They move on.
Traz glances back at me.
I nod.
I'm good.
I'm ready.
We slip out and run.
Silpha guides us through a rat maze of alleys.
Twisting.
Turning.
Ducking under hanging wires and collapsed scaffoldings.
We climb over a burnt-out market stall, shards of melted plastic crunching under our boots.
Traz boosts me up first, Joren dangling from my arms as I scramble to the other side.
I reach down for Aria next.
