The streets were empty.

  Jarek walked alone.

  His breath came in ragged bursts, every inhale scraping against his ribs like knives. Blood clung to him, warm and sticky, seeping into the torn fabric of his coat. His limbs felt like stone. His body screamed for rest.

  But rest was a luxury.

  And he couldn’t afford luxuries.

  Cyrille was gone.

  He had watched her leave. Had seen her disappear into the mist without looking back. That should’ve made it easier to hate her.

  It didn’t.

  Jarek clenched his jaw, pushing the thought aside. Hate wouldn’t stop him from bleeding out in the street.

  The assassin’s corpse was already cooling behind him. The blood soaking his coat was growing colder too. He had to keep moving.

  His vision blurred at the edges as he stumbled forward, one hand pressed against his ribs. He was still losing too much blood.

  But there was a place nearby.

  Somewhere he could sit.

  Somewhere he could breathe.

  Somewhere he could plan his next move.

  Jarek moved toward the tavern, steps uneven, the weight of exhaustion settling into his bones.

  His ribs ached. His head swam. His limbs felt heavier with every step.

  But he kept moving.

  Because stopping wasn’t an option.

  The tavern loomed ahead, its wooden beams worn smooth from time and weather. The soft glow of lantern light bled through the windows, spilling onto the stone street.

  Jarek moved slow, hood drawn low, one hand pressed against his ribs to keep himself steady. His fingers came away sticky with blood.

  The door creaked as he pushed it open.

  Warm air hit him, thick with the scent of old ale and damp wood. The place was quieter than usual. A few scattered patrons huddled at their tables, speaking in low voices. The barkeep glanced up, then away—either too tired or too smart to ask questions.

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  But at the far end of the room, a familiar pair of eyes locked onto him.

  Reiner.

  The older hunter sat alone, nursing a half-empty mug. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, but Jarek saw the shift in his posture—the way his fingers curled slightly around the handle of his drink. His gaze swept over Jarek’s torn clothes, the blood dried at his collar, the sword strapped to his back.

  Then he sighed and took a slow sip.

  "Well, shit."

  Jarek pulled out the chair across from him and sat. His ribs screamed in protest. His limbs felt leaden, his muscles screaming for rest, but he forced himself still.

  Reiner raised a brow. "Not even a hello?"

  Jarek exhaled. "Need a place to lay low."

  Reiner set his mug down, studying him. His expression sharpened. "That bad?"

  Jarek let his silence speak for him.

  Reiner’s gaze flicked to the sword. His brow furrowed. "That what I think it is?"

  Jarek leaned the weapon against the table, letting the gold insignia catch the dim light.

  Reiner stilled.

  "Dain Halvark." His voice was unreadable.

  Jarek nodded.

  Reiner exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple. "Hell."

  Jarek leaned forward. "They sent someone after me. Predator-ranked. I put him down."

  Reiner didn’t react at first. Then he let out a slow breath, setting his mug aside.

  "You're screwing with me."

  Jarek shook his head.

  Reiner didn’t blink. "You were a Zero."

  Jarek met his gaze.

  The silence stretched.

  Reiner leaned forward, voice lowering. "How?"

  Jarek exhaled. "I got stronger."

  Reiner scoffed. "Stronger doesn’t cut it. Stronger gives you a fighting chance, not a confirmed kill." He studied Jarek, eyes narrowing. "No offense, kid, but you don’t look like the same person I met a few months ago."

  Jarek didn’t answer.

  Because Reiner was right.

  Jarek hadn’t thought about it before, but he felt different. It wasn’t just his strength. It was in the way he carried himself. The way he no longer hesitated.

  Something had changed.

  Reiner tapped a finger against the table. "And what do you want from me?"

  Jarek shifted, wincing at the pull of his wounds. "I need to get stronger. And I need to disappear for a while."

  Reiner exhaled through his nose. "Hiding won’t be enough. Halvark’s not going to forget about this."

  Jarek nodded. "That’s why I need Apex blood."

  Reiner’s fingers froze against his mug. He looked up, frowning. "You want to hunt one?"

  Jarek shook his head. "I just need its blood."

  Reiner stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

  "You’re serious?"

  Jarek nodded.

  Reiner muttered something under his breath, then sighed. "I know a place. North of the Divide. There’s an Apex-tier beast there." He met Jarek’s gaze. "But you’re in no shape to fight anything right now."

  Jarek exhaled, leaning back against the chair. "That’s why I need a place to rest first."

  Reiner smirked, but it was a tired expression. "Fine. I’ll put you up here for a bit. But when you’re back on your feet, we talk."

  Jarek nodded—or maybe he just meant to. His vision was swimming now, the edges fraying, the sounds of the tavern growing distant.

  Reiner stood, pushing back his chair. "Come on, then. Let’s get you upstairs before you bleed out all over my—"

  The words blurred.

  Jarek tried to follow, but his legs buckled. The floor tilted beneath him. The weight of his body pulled him down, and for the first time since the fight ended, he couldn’t force himself back up.

  A hand caught him before he hit the ground.

  "Damn it, kid," Reiner muttered, his voice somewhere far away.

  Jarek tried to respond, but darkness swallowed him whole.