"What the—?" Henrik's voice cracked mid-stride as Rhett's body erupted from the blood staining his cloak. The gaunt boy stumbled but kept running, his eyes wide with disbelief. "You actually planned this?"
His eyes dimmed with realization as he processed what he'd witnessed. Rhett had to envy how quickly Henrik connected the dots—seeing the Iron Knight tear him apart, watching him regenerate from scattered pieces, understanding how he'd reformed even from inhaled blood particles.
"Effective teleportation," Henrik concluded, half-awed, half-terrified. His analytical mind was already calculating possibilities Rhett couldn't even dream of. "That means you can regenerate from any part of your body, including your blood, even if the pieces are miles apart. Have you tested distance limits? You developed this technique yourself?"
"Don't sound so surprised." Rhett scoffed as the last of his body materialized. Only then did he realize he was naked—his shirt abandoned with his previous corpse. A shame, really. He'd liked how the sleeves drooped over his hands.
Then it hit him. The rings. He'd left them back there—the simple wedding bands he'd found in the hotel, meant for Lucille. Artillery would shred anyone who got close to that warzone now.
But were they necessary? He cared about Lucille, sure, but the rings were just ordinary metal—remnants from some previous couple who'd either died or fled. He could find others, raid an unlooted jewelry shop. If those still existed Right now, survival took priority.
"So what? You somehow managed to stop Velez?" Henrik asked, his breathing ragged.
"Bought us time," Rhett corrected. "Jammed his bike, but we both know that's temporary. That machine was built for war—he'll have it operational in minutes. We need distance. You know the layout here?"
"Not well enough." Henrik's confession came through gritted teeth, his pace never slowing despite the injury. "Never planned to be this deep in the city. We're running blind. Think we can hide?"
Rhett scanned their surroundings. Low-rise buildings, one or two stories max. Henrik's blood trail marked their path like breadcrumbs, and Rhett instinctively knew Velez was too smart to ignore such obvious tracking. The man might even call for backup—'The Immortal' was apparently worth the effort.
"Velez can track us down. We need to somehow widen the gap between us and—"
Rhett's gaze locked onto salvation—a beat-up sedan slouched beside a collapsed storefront. Stripped, sure, but maybe still functional. "There," he pointed. "Our way out."
Henrik followed his stare. "What are you thinking?"
"Let's hotwire that car."
"And you called me crazy when I suggested raiding that mercenary base," Henrik muttered as they reached the vehicle. The windows were spider-webbed with cracks, the body decorated with rust and graffiti. "How the hell do you even know how to hotwire a car?"
Rhett was already working on the ignition, fingers moving with nervous precision. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool air. "My brother Ryoji taught me a thing or two about getting into cars."
"Part of your rescue list? I thought those people were supposed to be good influences."
Rhett remembered Ryoji prowling the low-income streets in similar vehicles, handling business Rhett had been too young to understand. "He wasn't always the 'best' person, but he didn't exactly teach me this. I learned from watching—overhearing conversations I probably shouldn't have."
His fingers fumbled with the wires—brown, blue, red, white—using a shard of broken glass that left haphazard cuts on his hands. What did Ryoji always say? Red's the juice, white's the ground? Strike them together, and we blow this town?
He expected sparks, some sign of life from the electrical system. Hell, he'd even welcome electrocution—at least that would mean the car had power. But nothing happened. He struck the red and white wires again and again, like a caveman trying to coax fire from flint.
"Ah, shit." Henrik's groan made Rhett's blood run cold. The motorcycle's engine was getting closer—maybe fifty feet now.
"I don't get it. Why isn't this working?" Rhett struck the wires one last time. "I'm sure this is how he did it."
"Maybe it's because it's an old car." Henrik forced open the rusted driver's door, which groaned on its hinges before collapsing entirely to the pavement, proving his point. He rounded to the hood, lifted it, and his voice dropped several octaves in frustration. "Maybe it's because the damn thing doesn't have an engine to begin with."
"What?!" Rhett scrambled out to confirm Henrik's assessment.
The engine bay was a hollow shell. Anything valuable had been stripped away, leaving only dangling wires and empty mounting points.
"The engine's been looted," Rhett said, his voice flat with disbelief. "Of course it has. Of course."
Velez was forty feet away now, his motorcycle devouring the distance between them. Rhett could see the man's finger tightening on the trigger, could read the cold fury in his weathered face.
With their head start wasted, they kicked up dust and debris as they rounded a corner just as Velez squeezed off another shot.
The bullet ricocheted off the building's wall, but instead of flying wild, its trajectory bent impossibly—curving directly toward Henrik.
Metal plating materialized at the base of Henrik's neck, no doubt fused protection, deflecting the projectile, which had already lost most of its momentum from the ricochet.
"Did you see that?" Rhett shouted as he caught up. "That bullet missed you but still managed to—"
Henrik's face went pale. "Honing," he breathed. "The bullet can even bend trajectory—but only if he's got line of sight when he fires. That ricochet worked because he saw me first." His dislocated arm hung uselessly, but his mind raced. "We break visual contact; we break the lock."
"What the hell are we supposed to do about that? We can't dodge something that'll hit us even when we dodge!"
"Every quirk has limits," Henrik said, ever the pragmatist. His breathing was getting worse, but his tactical mind stayed sharp. "The fact that I'm not dead means he needs to see his target initially. Once he enters this alley, we're finished. Move now!"
As Henrik barked the final word, Velez's motorbike swerved into the alley just as they were turning onto another street. That didn't stop him from unleashing torrents from the machine guns mounted on either side of his bike.
The rounds chewed up brick roads and plaster walls, shrapnel nicking at their skin. This wasn't sustainable. Their car plan had failed spectacularly, but they weren't going to outrun a motorcycle on foot. Henrik was already breathing in harsh, ragged gasps, his limp worsening with each step. He looked ready to collapse.
Automobiles were out. Hiding was impossible with their blood trail. But they needed speed, something like—
"Bikes!" Rhett shouted, pointing to two battered bicycles lying beneath a lamp post twenty feet ahead.
"Would they even work?" Henrik rasped, somehow finding the energy to speed up as they approached. The bikes looked beaten to hell, barely functional and stained with what appeared to be dried blood flakes.
"Only one way to find out." Rhett hauled his bike upright and swung his leg over. It was too tall for him, and his hands fumbled with the handles—it had been years since he'd ridden a bike. But muscle memory kicked in quickly.
Henrik struggled more, his dislocated shoulder screaming in protest, but he managed to mount up and was already turning away before Velez came into direct view, motorcycle engine roaring.
"I won't let you get away this time, Immortal." Velez's voice carried over the engine noise as he raised his weapon.
As the gun came up, Rhett knew exactly where the shot was going. Velez wouldn't waste ammunition on him—the man knew about the regeneration. So, he'd target Henrik, and when the boy was dead, that would serve as the perfect distraction for capturing 'The Immortal'—probably with blunt trauma or sedatives.
"Not today." Rhett's jaw clenched as he swerved hard left, positioning himself between Henrik and death. The bullet punched through his chest like a sledgehammer, but he'd felt worse. At least this death had purpose.
The impact knocked him from the bike, blood spraying in a crimson arc as his body hit the asphalt and rolled. Henrik's anguished shout echoed behind him as darkness claimed his vision.
But even as consciousness faded, Rhett smiled. Sometimes the best strategy was the simplest one—die for the people worth saving.