Claimed by the Mafia Biker
The shadow hissed, recoiled—but it didn’t fall.
“It’s adapting,” Cruz muttered, spinning, firing again. “It’s learning from every strike.”
“Then we force it to learn,” Blade said, his voice cutting through the night. “One mistake, one slip, and it’s ours. We just need to make it take the wrong step.”
The shadow lunged once more, claws slashing. Cruz fired, bullets tearing the air. Blade swung, knife connecting. The figure recoiled, but it wasn’t finished. It circled, unseen, waiting, patient, calculating.