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Shen Lu crouched on the sturdy branch of a towering tree, picking bright red wild fruit nestled between the leaves. Sunlight filtered through the canopy, casting dappled patterns across his shoulders.
Then—his hair trembled, just slightly.
His movements paused. He scanned his surroundings, making sure everyone else was busy before slipping into the dense foliage. Hidden within the leaves, he reached up, fingers brushing through his hair, pulling free a tiny black communicator—no bigger than a fingernail.
He inhaled deeply, connected the battery, and flipped the switch.
"Who?" His voice was low, sharp with caution.
A calm voice filtered through the device."Young Master Shen? Your brother is worried about you."
Shen Lu's eyes flickered—then dulled. He had already guessed his brother's intentions. His fingers clenched around the communicator, nearly crushing the battery.
"Who are you?"
"You don't recognize my voice already?"
"Lee…" Shen Lu's teeth clenched."Of course it's you. What do you want? How do I get you to leave me alone?"
"Your brother has been mentioning you a lot lately. Seems like you're finally starting to'care' about family."
"Hah." Shen Lu let out a cold laugh, sharp as a blade."So I'm useful again, huh?"
He thought back to his childhood—how he had followed his brother everywhere, believing in their bond, in the warmth of family. But as he grew, he began to see clearly. Every act of kindness from his brother had been calculated. When he wasn't meeting expectations, he was disposable. When he succeeded, he became the favored younger sibling again. He was never anything but a tool—treasured only when needed.
First, resistance. Then, distance. Now—complete severance.
Lee fell silent for a moment before speaking in a neutral tone."That's just human nature. No right or wrong in it."
"Spare me the nonsense. I just want to be left alone."
"Don't be childish." Lee's voice sharpened, laced with impatience."You're part of the family. You think you can just walk away?"
Shen Lu said nothing, but his fingers tightened, nails pressing deep into his palm.
He'd heard these words a thousand times—at family meetings, in casual chats, in his father's scoldings._"You only matter if you're valuable."_ They had drilled it into him, tightening around his throat like a rope.
"So that's all I am to them? Just another object?" The words burst out before he could stop himself, loud and angry—then he immediately glanced around, checking for eavesdroppers.
Lee's voice came again, cold and familiar."For the family's success, individual needs can be sacrificed."
Shen Lu leaned back against the tree trunk, fingers absentmindedly curling around a branch. His voice was steady but laced with exhaustion.
"And if I refuse?"
Silence.
Then, Lee's answer came, clipped and chilling.
"Then you're nothing but an obstacle."
Shen Lu's eyes shut briefly, his chest heavy.
He exhaled slowly, then spoke again—his voice now emotionless."And my father? Is that how he sees me too?"
"How else would I have gotten your emergency contact?" Lee let out a faint chuckle, his tone amused."Your brother said if you agreed to help, a mayor's seat would be yours."
Shen Lu's pupils contracted. He understood immediately.
Their real game was control.
His grip tightened around the communicator—then, without hesitation, he snapped it in two.
He dropped the pieces to the ground, jumped down, grabbed a stone, and smashed them again. And again. Until there was nothing left.
"Damn it… They're buying time. Tracking me!" His thoughts raced, heart pounding.
"Hey, Shen Lu, what are you doing?" A voice called out from nearby.
"Oh, saw a venomous spider. Took care of it." His reply came quick, casual—but sweat had already soaked through his shirt.
He picked up the fruit and strode back toward camp.
"You're leaving already?"
A voice behind him asked, but he didn't stop, didn't answer—until he reached the secluded mountain cave, one of the camp's hidden entrances, complete with escape routes.
Slipping inside unnoticed, he walked past a narrow passage when faint murmurs caught his ear.
Two Skinner soldiers stood beside a barrel of spring water, huddled in close whispers.
"...He was alone for ten minutes. Suspicious behavior."
"Should we report him?"
"Already informed the leader. Orders are to observe—don't alert him yet."
Shen Lu froze.
He didn't step closer, simply melted into the shadows. His fingers curled tighter around the fruit.
The wind outside had gone still. The leaves no longer rustled.
The net around him was slowly tightening.
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For a moment, Maverick's world just... stopped.
Gunfire thundered in his ears, but his mind felt disconnected—stripped away, like a radio tuned to static. Silence swallowed everything.
Am I dead?
The thought struck like a hammer. His heart clenched, as if seized by some invisible hand. His fingers were gripping onto something—hard—but there was no sensation, no warmth. His blood felt frozen, even his breath sluggish, as if time itself had gone thick.
Was this the end? After everything they'd done, every desperate move, was this it—a cold, silent curtain call?
"Maverick is dead!"
Dr. Chan's voice cracked with panic, trembling as he stumbled to Maverick's side. He tore open his shirt—then froze.
No blood. No gaping wound. Just the still-bleeding graze on his arm.
That was it.
Maverick lay heavy, unmoving, like a sack of wet lumber. And yet, Chan had no time to mourn.
Tap… Tap—!
The sharp rhythm of sniper fire cracked through the air, splintering rotting planks and rusted metal like dry twigs. Foam chunks and paper scraps exploded mid-air. Sparks burst as bullets struck metal, flaring like fireworks from hell.
Dr. Chan hit the ground face-first with a grunt, not caring what sticky, sour-smelling muck smeared his face. He stayed frozen, heart galloping in terror.
Then, from behind a battered refrigerator—a makeshift shield—came a dry, familiar voice:
"You two dead yet?"
"I am dead," Maverick answered dreamily, like someone mid-nap.
"I'm working on it," Chan groaned, wiping slime from his face and instantly regretting it.
"Perfect."
Fred grabbed them both—one under each arm, just like old times—and took off like a man late for the last train to anywhere.
Behind him, sniper bullets poured down like rain. The dump heap turned into a snow globe of flying foam and shrapnel, each bulletstrike a tiny starburst.
The Skinsnatcher leapt, zigzagged, veered left, then right, like some giant locust with caffeine issues, until they vanished into the thicket.
Only then did he drop the pair like sacks of rice.
"Ow—ugh," they moaned in unison, like poorly rehearsed actors.
Skinsnatcher finally gave them a proper look. Maverick's injury? Just blunt trauma—lucky hit on the interference rifle strapped to his chest. There was a blackened dent where the bullet struck, proof death had missed him by inches.
Chan? Clean bullet hole in the shoulder, already scabbed. A dramatic flesh wound at best.
Skinsnatcher scoffed. Not even worth a band-aid.
"Can you walk?"
They both shook their heads like two sulking toddlers.
He sighed. These soft humans. Not physically broken, just emotionally squashed. He considered kicking each of them for good measure… but relented. With another grumble, he hoisted them up and marched back to camp like a disgruntled parent dragging home two oversized toddlers.