They moved without hurry.
Boots crossed, shattered stone and ash at an even rhythm, the taller figure in black armor walking beside the shorter woman with the sheathed katana. Smoke slid past their legs in low sheets. Somewhere ahead, metal scraped. A shout began to form.
It never finished.
Black Fang's hand moved once. The blade left its sheath just far enough. Steel flashed. A head rolled. She never broke stride.
Quinlan did not look at the body. His fingers flicked instead. Wind compressed into a thin line and snapped forward. Two shapes at the end of the street folded against a wall, armor crushed inward, breath driven out of them in a single dry sound.
They kept walking.
No coordination was discussed. When movement stirred too close, she cut it down before it registered danger. When threats lingered farther out, his elements reached them first.
A black-armored man and a silent blade, side by side, erasing resistance at a measured pace.
Then Quinlan spoke.
