The horn was still echoing when Alexei reached the lower fence.
Dust hung in the air like ash.
Through it, the yard pulsed—boots striking metal, engines turning, orders shouted and lost. The Saints were reforming, but chaos had rhythm, and Alexei knew how to hear it.
He crouched in the shade of a tanker, breathing slow. Each inhale came colder than the last. Frost spidered faintly from his knuckles to the metal beneath them.
Psycho purred. You feel it too.
Alexei didn't answer. He didn't need to. It was impossible to miss if you knew what you were looking for.
Beyond the yard, the stage rose like an altar built from scavenged sheet iron and truck parts.
Marrow stood on it, tall and bare-armed, a black skull painted over his face.
The man had the posture of someone who thought pain could be trained into holiness. His voice carried without effort—steady, practiced, dangerous.
