She raised a single, blood-stained hand, her fingers flexing as the skin stitched shut.
"I'm perfectly fine," Az muttered.
Her voice was entirely calm. Cold. Her silver mask was cracked down the middle, but her dark eyes still gleamed intensely through it—highly focused. Sharp.
Dozens of emergency responders swarmed the chaotic scene. Blood-stained stretchers moved rapidly. Hot flames hissed from the broken, overturned engine. Police roughly marked the area, barking loud orders into their radios.
But Az said absolutely nothing.
She stepped cleanly over mangled corpses, past twisted rail lines and blood-smudged gravel, then casually sat on the warm bonnet of a nearby police car like it was just another routine Tuesday.
The dark call was already being made.
She had been highly cautious from the very start.
Cruxius was incredibly clever—twisted, layered, and unpredictable.
