Father once said, "Peace only ever attracts one thing—to feel relevant: trouble."
With the crisp morning air filling my lungs, I'd hoped this would be a simple mission. Small town, small problems. Missing people—find out why, report back, done.
Yet here I was, standing in a room that stank of blood and herbs. Damn it.
I wiped the blade clean with a square of cloth, watching the sunlight catch on the steel. "Nice craftsmanship," I murmured. "Balanced. Just serrated enough at the edge to dig out a heart—and tear muscle cleanly, if you twist."
The Mayor "Mosteely" winced. The two town security men behind him—one middle-aged and the other early 20s—were already pale, shifting uneasily at the sight. All they offered the Mayor and this town was just numbers. 2 Stars? How weak.
"Not exactly the thing I enjoy seeing before breakfast," the mayor muttered. Was he trying to lighten the mood?
