The cool evening air did little to soothe the sudden, violent spike of killing intent that erupted in Ethan's chest the moment he rounded the corner of the residential path.
Before he even reached the wooden fence of the cottage, the quiet of the slums was shattered by a chaotic barrage of coarse shouting, mocking laughter, and the sharp, violent crash of shattering glass. A figure came bursting through the front window of the house, rolling heavily across the dirt yard in a shower of sharp shards.
It was Roy.
The boy was in a horrific, near-fatal state. His face was unrecognizable, a swollen mass of deep purple bruises and lacerations. Thick, dark blood poured continuously from his broken nose and the corners of his mouth, staining his torn tunic. His breath came in ragged, wet wheezes. Yet, the moment his blurry, swelling eyes caught sight of Ethan's sleek new midnight-black combat suit, a spark of absolute desperation ignited in his gaze.
