The Stray Moon
She gathers my bowl, wipes the table, and pauses just long enough to whisper: “Don’t let them see you flinch.”
She’s gone before I can reply, swallowed by the swing of the kitchen door.
The guards are on me a second later, hands on my shoulders, steering me up and out. As I pass the main table, Scarface leans in again and says, not softly, “See you at training, Stray.”
I give him nothing, not even a blink.
The hall outside is colder than before. The cuffs burn like a brand. My hands shake, but only a little.
This is how it starts, I think.
Bab Populer