Zephyr stared at Cealsen through a small hole in the counter's broken paneling. His breathing was slow, measured. Every muscle was primed—yet still.
Cealsen, unaware, was lifting a shattered cabinet nearby. His hands were steady, movements cautious, careful not to make a sound.
'Is he already infested?'
The thought coiled like a snake in Zephyr's chest. It was the only reason he wasn't already on top of Cealsen—fists or blade in hand. That uncertainty held him back. Cealsen still had his back turned.
Zephyr gritted his teeth. 'When have I always started thinking about killing?'
The question struck harder than expected.
He thought back to those boys he'd killed—the ones fighting. There had been no guilt. No hesitation. No trembling hands after. Only a grim, quiet sense of purpose.
Like he'd done the world a favour by taking out the abominations.
Even if they hadn't been infested… he doubted he would've spared them.
