Most western-European countries were, at first, heavily reluctant to “fight fire with fire” when involving super-abled individuals. Consequently, the growing appearance of super-abled individuals within crime-related organizations is devised to be the main reason why most police forces started resorting to asking the IHI for help. Many see this as the beginning of their approval as a globalized mediator in Impacted-related conflicts.

Salvatore was in a foul mood. Police raids against his businesses were somewhat of a common occurrence, and so he had made his peace with the occasional wrench in his plans. An unbeatable team of lawyers and clever political manipulation had made it sure that nothing would come of them if he complied with the forces. What set him on edge, though, was that this time it seemed to be some kind of heavily equipped task force—maybe even the IHI. This was not only unprecedented. He had also made sure of paying the relevant actors within the local administration so that he would be informed of those interventions before hands.

At first, Salvatore had thought that the two kids he was talking with were responsible for his current plight, and he would have had them killed on the spot for this very reason if one of them hadn’t been so dangerous. But if any doubt had lingered in his mind, seeing their reactions and genuine panic as they walked out of his restaurant behind him and his cohort had soothed his suspicions.

“Damien, you know what to do,” he whispered to his Impacted bodyguard as they advanced towards the end of the alley. “As long as they don’t start cuffing us, we play nice. If they do something that we didn’t sign up to, we’re out of here.”

The man silently nodded in response as he kept both his hands in the air. Salvatore hadn’t known Damien for long, all things considered, but he trusted him with his life. He had to, after all. La Famiglia was about trust, not about blood, after all.

Salvatore cast a conspicuous glance at the two guests behind his men. Though he could not see them fully, he could guess from the broad hand gestures that they were having some kind of heated discussion.

This could be bad. He thought. If they act too unexpectedly, it could affect the plan.

Though he had no doubt he could get out of the judicial system reasonably quickly if circumstances forced him to, Salvatore didn’t want the two Rampants to cause any trouble. He hated when blood was needlessly spilled. Even more so when he already had contingencies in place.

Salvatore heaved a weary sigh of relief as he crossed the threshold of the streets in the next instant. He immediately put an arm in front of his eyes to block the blinding lights that shone right at his face.

“Gentlemen, there’s no need for such treatment,” he said in a loud yet calm voice.

Though he could hear a lot of muttering and movement in front of him, the relative silence of the scene was somewhat disconcerting. Somehow, even the city’s usual night buzz seemed subdued.

A loud call from the man who had ordered them out of the alley broke the almost silence. “Please line up on your knees to your right and face the wall—hands behind your heads. If I see any of you make any kind of sudden movement, you’re dead.”

Salvatore stepped to the right to allow the rest of his group to exit the alley but didn’t turn around. Instead, he faced the blinding lights in front of him.

“I think my ears must be playing tricks on me,” he said. “Could you inform me as to what the charges against us are?”

“Turn around and on your knees,” the man yelled into his loudspeaker.

“Perhaps we could—” Salvatore started but got interrupted as the man yelled into his cursed tool once again.

“I’m not going to repeat myself, grandpa. You either drop down to your fucking knees, or I’m going to make you!”

“Oh, no. This won’t do. This won’t do at all.” Salvatore said in a quiet voice. “Damien? Please, go ahead.”

Inspector Tristan Fabres looked at his watch anxiously. He hated being sidelined. More than that, he hated being sidelined by the goddamn IHI. The smug and self-serving assholes had a habit of treating ordinary cops like toddlers while they barely did more than swooping in to take credit where he and his men had done the work.

Tristan hated them. In normal circumstances, Tristan wouldn’t have hesitated to remind them that they didn’t have the full authority to undertake these sorts of raids by themselves. But this time, the commissioner had authorized it all and even allowed them to deploy not one but two contracted Impacted to intervene. Apparently, Salvatore Toscano had started employing quite the dangerous Impacted, and his superiors weren’t confident that the mobsters could be apprehended without assistance from the IHI.

Though he would never voice it out loud, Tristan almost wished that asswipe Captain Morand would get what’s coming to him. The man was a constant reminder of why Tristan hated the mockery of an armed force. Cocky, rude, and obnoxious, the IHI ‘officer’ was a parody of himself. Aside from being one of the most frustratingly smug people Tristan had had the displeasure of interacting with, Morand had dropped in unannounced during the preliminary briefing and had simply dismissed him as a mere secretary.

His bosses had insisted that Tristan played along and didn’t cause too much trouble. The police were already under-funded enough as it was. So he had complied and had ended up having to spectate the first raid against the mob in three years from more than a block away.

“The two watchers are down. Throwing in the gas in three, two, one,” a feminine voice came from the radio the IHI had lent Tristan. “Sending Squad 1.”

Tristan put his anger aside and focused on the messages coming out of the IHI-lent radio. The next instant would be crucial. The criminals would either try to fight, or they’d escape at the back, where squad 2 and 4 were currently posted.

“Visual on targets. Five or more. They’re fleeing through the back,” the same voice relayed through the faint static.

Tristan’s hands clenched as he felt each second pass with mild apprehension. Come on, don’t fight. I need this to go well if I want to get rid of those buffoons. He thought.

“Visual on targets in the alley,” another voice called—male this time. “Seven total. Repeat, seven total.”

Seven? Tristan thought. They had known Salvatore would be meeting some unknown party, but he expected more than just two people.

“Targets complying with first directives, proceeding with the arrests,” the voice called.

Tristan’s hand unclenched slightly, but he didn’t allow himself to relax quite yet.

“Rampant attack! Repeat, Rampant att—” the voice got cut off and was replaced by static.

“Fuck!” Tristan swore as he punched the side of his police car.

“Deploy Dog and Hawk,” Captain Morand’s voice came from the radio. “And move to next key freq.”

Tristan pressed a button on his standard police-issued radio and spoke. “They’re in trouble. I’m going in.”

“Tristan, stop! You’re not here to deal with Impacted!” his second in command, Walid, called as Tristan started putting a bullet-proof vest on.

The tall and pale man interposed himself in front of Tristan and the direction where the action was taking place. The two men stared down at each other as the rest of their own task force started discussing what had just happened in the background.

“It’s too dangerous. We know they have at least one dangerous Impacted, and that’s not even taking their own two into considerations. You might get killed, Tristan!” Walid said as he put a hand on Tristan’s shoulder.

“I have to know what’s going on. It’s been five fucking years since I started going for that son of a bitch Toscano, and I’ll be damned if he butchers an IHI squad while twiddling my thumbs in the back!”

“I thought you hated those guys,” Walid remarked.

“I do. But they’re my responsibility. If they die, I’m fucked,” Tristan spat as he fastened the bullet-proof vest and adjusted his holster. “Let me pass, Walid. You’re not qualified to dissuade me from going.”

“You… You’re doing this because of Vanessa, aren’t you?” Walid said somberly. “Fine. Go waste your life. Fernandez! Diallo! Da Silva! With me. We’ll cover Inspector Fabres while he goes to witness the situation.”

The three men cast a wary glance at each other but followed their superior’s order without objecting.

Tristan nodded at his deputy and started walking briskly towards the restaurant. He knew from the briefing that the IHI squads should be waiting in the street at the exit of a dead-end alley. The two-hundred-odd meters that separated his team and the scene were quickly crossed, and Tristan took a few seconds to assess the situation.

“I’m right at the corner. I can hear gunshots and sounds of battle,” he called into his radio. “You four stay here, and if things go even more south, you bolt back without waiting for me, is that clear?”

“Understood,” Walid answered, soon echoed by his men.

“Good. I’m going in,” Tristan didn’t wait for the adrenaline in his veins to recede as he rounded the corner.

The second the fight came into his view, Fabres had to jump to the ground to avoid a flying manhole cover. He didn’t quite see where the projectile had originated from, but he quickly focused on finding something to hide behind instead of trying to find out.

“What was that?” Walid called into the radio.

“Manhole cover. Seems like the Impacted are having a go at each other,” Tristan called from behind the cover of a large advertising column that stood in the middle of the street.

Though the night was quite dark and the street lamps weren’t all that bright, Tristan could see a few gawking people standing in their balconies, some of them even filming the scene that was taking place.

“Stay inside, you fools!” he yelled as a loud banging sound came from the fight scene. “You guys are going to get hit by something!”

Though he expected it, Tristan still swore when no one seemed to be keen on heeding his advice.

Fucking idiots. He thought. Though I guess I’m the worst one of the lot right now.

It was at this moment that Tristan realized one thing had been off about this fight during this whole time. He hadn’t heard a single gunshot coming from the street. Even though there were supposed to be two fully armed IHI squads intervening. He quickly sneaked a peek around his current cover and looked in the direction the fight was still raging.

To his surprise, most of the squad members were still alive and conscious, but they were all currently cowering like him behind several makeshift covers. In the far end of the street, he could see at least four figures fighting against each other. Because of the distance and the chaotic nature of the fight, it was difficult for Tristan to determine what exactly was happening. He saw that at least two of the Impacted were hurling objects at two others. One of their opponents seemed to be encased in some kind of massive bubble.

“What’s going on? Why isn’t anyone shooting?” He called into the IHI radio. Only crackling static answered his inquiry.

Did they fry their equipment? Why is nobody answering? He thought with a frown.

Tristan sprung from his cover and darted towards one of the nearest IHI agents he could see, who stood a good thirty meters away from him, behind a toppled-over garbage bin. Adrenaline filled his veins as he sprinted the distance away from the safety of cover, but his guardian angel must have been watching, as nothing hit him during his sprint.

Fuck me, that wasn’t smart. I could have been hit by something. Tristan thought bitterly.

Tristan ducked next to the woman, who barely spared him a glance as she kept her eyes on the fight.

Though Tristan wasn’t one bit interested in the looks of the people he dealt with, he still took the time to memorize her appearance. Remembering people was a crucial part of his job, after all.

The woman was average-sized, with close-cropped black hair that barely peeked from under helmet and a pale complexion. She also had a long and straight nose that vaguely reminded Tristan of depictions of Cleopatra. Her current facial expression of intense focus probably made her look a bit older than she actually was, though Tristan thought it safe to assume she was over at least thirty-five, and the faint traces of wrinkles on her forehead seemed to hint at a frequent amount of frowning.

“Inspector Fabres, what the hell is going on?” he said as he pointed at his armband. “Why is none of you answering your radio?”

“Captain Morand had us change the encryption after the fight began,” the woman replied quickly as she kept surveying the ongoing fight. “With all due respect, sir, you should stand back and let us handle the situation.”

“I’ve been trying to get Salvatore Toscano and his goons behind bars for the last few years. I’m here to do one thing and one thing only. It’s catching them. And there’s no way to do that from three blocks away while hiding from the action,” Tristan said with a deepening frown. “Or are you telling me how to do my job?”

The woman winced. “Sorry, sir. It’s standard procedure when engaging Impacted targets.”

Tristan rolled his eyes hard at the probably scripted and well-rehearsed answer.

“Well, that’s not how my procedure goes,” Tristan had to shout over the sound of a large metallic object repeatedly bouncing on the pavement mere meters from them. “Anyway, where is Salvatore? Where’s the rest of his cohort?”

“We’ve caught them,” the woman said as if it were obvious. “Were you not told?”

“Well, obviously not,” Tristan said, grinding his teeth. The vein on his forehead threatened to pop at the revelation.

I’ve crossed a fucking WWII warzone to be told that my job has already been done for me? He thought as he did his best not to explode at the woman.

“I’m sorry,” the agent said with a genuinely apologetic tone. “Captain Morand probably wanted to wait until the fight was over to tell you.”

Right. Tristan thought cynically but refrained from voicing his disdain out loud for fear of appearing too unprofessional in front of someone who probably didn’t deserve it.

“I don’t think I want to risk leaving cover again. Might as well stay for the rest of the fight,” he grumbled. “Why isn’t anyone shooting, anyway?”

“Damien, the mob Rampant, he’s got some kind of ability to mess with our guns,” the agent explained. “We’re not entirely sure yet, but we think he can somehow mess with kinetic energy. He’s managed to deviate most of the shots, and along with the others, they managed to kill or maim most of the agents that tried to get close.”

Tristan’s eyes widened as he grasped the implications. Though he didn’t quite agree with their methods, he could see why the IHI was so obsessed with controlling and monitoring Impacted folks.

He glanced over the four—now five, he noticed—people who were engaged in the fight. Two of them wore a recognizable IHI black and white uniform with full-face masks on. The both of them were currently inside of what looked to Tristan like a giant soapy bubble. Twenty meters away from them stood three other figures. One, the one Tristan recognized as Damien Souffis, was without any kind of face protection and stood in front of the two others.

The fighting and flinging of heavy objects between the two sides had apparently stopped. In fact, it looked like they were talking now, though Tristan couldn’t hear a thing with the distance.

Tristan went back to the shared cover with the IHI agent. “If he’s immune from thrown stuff, how are you going to deal with him?”

“He’s not immune. We could definitely overwhelm him with sustained fire. But this isn’t about killing whoever we think is too dangerous,” the agent explained. “Which is why we resort to Impacted Agents. We want to apprehend them. They were trained exactly for this sort of exercise. As a matter of fact, they were picked specifically for this task,” she explained.

“How come they’re not done fighting yet, then? Impacted fights are known for being anything but slow,” Tristan remarked.

“Well… As I said, the point is not to kill but merely capture the targets. Though they’ve shown to be… craftier than we expected,” the woman replied.

“Care to expand on this?” Tristan asked, eyes narrowing.

“I’m not sure I’m allowed to share this information with…” the woman started but hesitated.

“…the police?” Tristan asked with a raised eyebrow. “Need I remind you which one of us is technically higher ranked here, Agent?”

The woman looked down and cleared her throat awkwardly. “Well, sir, one of them, Buzzsaw, has the ability to summon and manipulate several kinds of tools,” the agent said. “She can apparently throw them with enough force to damage concrete and metal.”

“Buzzsaw? I thought you guys didn’t like calling Impacted and Rampants by their made-up names.”

“That’s a code name given by HQ. We don’t know her actual name,” the agent said with a shrug. “I think it fits pretty well.”

She pointed at a massive circular saw blade embedded in one of the walls.

“Well, that does look quite dangerous,” Tristan acknowledged with a grimace.

“Indeed. Thankfully, Dog and Hawk—our two own Impacted agents—are handling them right now.”

Tristan looked towards the fight once more. Three of the five figures moved their hands in almost comical gestures that sent miscellaneous objects traveling from one side of the street towards the other with blinding speed. Most of the projectiles either smashed into the pale shield on the IHI side or deflected away from their targets on the other. The last person, a thin, lightly tanned man with a full-face gas mask, seemed to be the only one without an ability relevant to the current fight.

Tristan wasn’t quite sure what to make of all this, but he was confident about one thing: he didn’t want to escape the safety of his cover for the moment.

“So… What about the last one, then?” Tristan asked as he turned his gaze towards the last man in the quintet.

“Person Of Interest 6643, sir. We know little about his powers. He follows Buzzsaw’s orders. She’s the main target, along with Damien,” the agent said as she followed Tristan’s gaze. “6643 has mainly been harassing our agents with several makeshift weapons, to little avail, if I’m honest.”

Tristan refrained from commenting on how calling people by numbers instead of names could be linked with certain very nasty people, as he was pretty sure the woman in front of him hadn’t been the one to come up with that classification.

The gas-mask-wearing man stood a few meters behind his two allies and emptied what looked like a bulky gun at the bubble shield across the street. Out of the three criminals, he was the one with the least experience. Tristan knew it. His posture, visible shakiness, and the clumsy movements with which he reloaded his ‘gun’ every now and then looked so visibly out of place compared to the two others Tristan could almost swear he was here against his will.

“He hasn’t used any powers until now? Are you even sure he has any?” Tristan asked with a frown.

“This is a possibility. He might not have any, sir,” the agent said. “Though standard procedure dictates that in these circumstances, all suspects be treated as potential Impacted. One thing is almost certain, though, it’s not anything flashy or useful, or we would definitely know, by now.”

“And he has just been standing there this whole time?” Tristan asked with a frown. “Is he insane or stupid?”

“I don’t know, sir, I haven’t been able to get much closer than this,” the agent replied. “Captain Morand told us regulars to stay back for the time being.”

“Speaking of your captain…” Tristan began, trying not to let his dislike of the man show in his words. “Where is he?”

The woman seemed to hesitate. “He… went back to the truck with the captured mobsters, sir.”

That spineless bastard. Tristan thought with anger. Of course, he’d let the underlings man the front line while he takes the credit for the capture of the criminals, all while staying as far away from trouble as possible.

“By the way, what do I call you, agent?” he asked the woman next to him.

“Lieutenant Dampierre, sir,” the woman replied with a quick salute.

Tristan had to refrain from rolling his eyes at the gesture and mention of the inappropriate military rank. The IHI so desperately wanted to sound ‘official’ it was almost pathetic. Tristan absolutely hated that they used their massive globalized reach to try and undermine actual official entities when they were, in his eyes, little more than an Uberized militia.

However, the woman in front of him had been more than helpful in informing him, and she had been nothing but respectful since the beginning of their exchange. So he decided he would not let his opinion of her poor carrier choice impact their interaction.

“Well met, Lieutenant,” Tristan said with a nod.

A loud bang interrupted their conversation, and Tristan immediately snapped his gaze at the five super-abled culprits. In the few seconds he had turned his head back to the IHI agent, complete mayhem had erupted in the brightly lit street.

When Tristan had witnessed the first bits of the fight earlier, it looked impressive already. This time, though, it was utter and complete chaos. Random bits of metal flew in all directions, bouncing and sometimes embedding themselves into the street’s walls, windows, and ground. The sudden pandemonium caused a few of the gawking residents at their windows to rush back inside with cries of fear.

Tristan struggled to make sense of the situation at first. In the span of mere seconds, one of the two IHI agents had apparently been knocked to the ground through the gigantic bubble—which, presumably, hadn’t been broken during this whole time. One of the two unidentified Rampants—the guy—lay on the ground in a pool of blood, his own, most likely.

“What the hell happened?” Morand’s voice came from the agent’s radio.

“Dog is down. No visible bleeding, but out of commission. Cause unknown,” Agent Dampierre answered. “Hawk is still maintaining the bubble. POI 6643 is also down. Looks like he’s bleeding a lot. Damien Souffis is currently trying to brute-force the bubble. Looks like he’s bleeding but still standing. Awaiting for orders.”

The mobster, Damien, was indeed clutching at his stomach with his left arm while he repeatedly flailing the other towards the bubble shield. Each motion was followed by the brutal impact of miscellaneous objects against the semi-translucent spherical shield. Bricks, broken light poles, and garbage bins were successively flung against the bubble one after another with enough force to pulverize concrete. The other Rampant, the woman, was also pelting the shield with her own projectiles, and although they were significantly slower than Damien’s, they still looked deadly.

Though the assault was relentless and brutal, the pale bubble held strong. Each impact caused a tiny flash of light to propagate throughout the whole half-sphere but didn’t leave any kind of visible damage.

Tristan focused on the figure of the Impacted IHI agent holding their hands above their head in the center of the shield and realized with mild concern that they were starting to look a bit strained by the effort.

“Do not fire. Repeat, do NOT fire,” Captain Morand’s voice came in from the radio. “Any kinetic energy he can snatch, he can store and reuse afterward. There has to be a limit to how long he can keep at it. Wait for him to exhaust his reserves.”

“Your own Impacted seems to be reaching their limits as well, if I may,” Tristan said to Dampierre.

The woman winced and spoke into her radio. “Sir, Hawk seems to be reaching their limit faster than Damien. Based on past performances, I’d wager she can hold for a few minutes.”

“Shit!” Morand swore. “Smoke them out. Hawk, if you hear me, try to hold as long as you can. Backup is coming.”

A series of dull thunk sounds erupted around Tristan.

Damn, I was so focused on the fight that I hadn’t even noticed so many of them were hiding near us. Tristan thought.

The projectiles arched above his head but exploded mid-air before even reaching the middle of their trajectory.

“Smoking failed, sir,” another agent’s voice came through Agent Dampierre’s radio. “That woman Rampant has mad accuracy with her projectiles.”

“We cannot let them escape,” Morand said with a grave voice. “Do all you can to delay them. Follow them at all costs if they try to bolt. Just remember, no firing guns. I’m going to ask HQ for a Blue Enforcer Protocol authorization.”

“Copy,” came back the numerous replies from agents nearby.

“Blue Enforcer Protocol?” Tristan asked as he kept looking at the fight. “What’s that?”

“It means they’re requesting for a stronger Impacted response team. Blue indicates the level of danger. In this context, it means that the danger is comparable to that of explosives or very heavily armed criminals,” Agent Dampierre replied.

Damien was starting to show visible signs of physical exhaustion, but he hadn’t stopped hurling stuff at the massive bubble in front of him. Most of the large slabs of concrete around him had been yanked off the ground now. The street looked more like a warzone than any fight—Impacted or not—that Tristan had ever seen. In the meantime, the blond woman next to him—who was wearing a full-face gas mask, conveniently enough—had stopped her own assault and was now watching for other projectiles and signs of aggression from the non-powered IHI agents.

“It’s odd, response team or not. I don’t understand why they’ve not tried fleeing yet,” Tristan said with a frown. “I mean, at this rate, they might be here for a while.”

“Ah, that would be because of Dog’s ability. He can create invisible bonds between two objects, which will prevent them from separating for more than a certain distance. Although he usually uses it as a sling to fling objects, in the current situation, I think he linked the three Rampants directly to the ground, so they can’t run far. The only way to break those bonds is to either lose the body part they’re attached to or force him to break them. Which I wager is what they’re trying right now.”

“Ah, I understand why those two would make an effective combo, then. Dog can root opponents in place and fling stuff at people while Hawk protects him with her shield,” Tristan summarized. “But, how did he get knocked down, then? From what I’ve seen, the shield is holding pretty well against the current assault.”

As if to emphasize his words, a massive chunk of concrete smashed against the bubble, sending a white streak circling across its surface.

“Well, that’s where our two unexpected guests come in. I think the woman managed to summon something inside the bubble and flung it at Dog’s head,” Agent Dampierre explained. “Thankfully, he managed to root her before going down, hence the current stalemate.”

“HQ wants to know the current level and type of threats,” Morand’s voice on the radio interrupted their conversation. “What can you guys give me?”

“We got a Blue NF-A, can mess with kinetic energy. Also, we have what looks to be a Red NF-I/IM-I, flings and summons tools, and construction material. The last one is still unconfirmed but presumed Yellow. Will keep you posted for updates,” an agent replied in a timely fashion.

“What the hell was all that nonsense?” Tristan asked.

“Well. As I told you, color denotes a degree of severity. Red is below Blue, danger comparable to someone with a gun. Yellow is even lower than that. Similar to someone wielding a knife,” she explained. “Next, the letters are code for classifications. NF-A simply means Natural Force manipulation of All targets. It’s short for saying the person can manipulate, control, or otherwise affect inanimate objects against what’s considered ‘natural’ laws of physics like gravity—or in Damien’s case, kinetic energy. NF-I is the same but for Inanimate targets. IM-I is short for Inert Materials manipulation. It usually refers to the summoning, deforming, or affecting of inert materials by the wielder. Again, the ‘I’ means that it works on Inanimate targets only.”

Tristan slowly nodded, not sure that he understood everything that Lieutenant Dampierre had said. He looked once again towards the fight between the unstoppable bricks and unmovable soap bubble and was surprised to see the man he assumed was dead rise up from the puddle of his own blood on shaky legs. His clothes were tattered, and it looked like he was missing an entire sleeve on his right arm.

“I didn’t think this one would raise from that hit,” a voice came from the Lieutenant radio. “Captain, I think our last one is some kind of Yellow O-S, regenerator, it seems. Quite a good one. He just regrew an arm in a few seconds. Although it looks… Quite messed up.”

“Copy that, hold on a sec,” Morand said.

“And O-S stands for…” Tristan began.

“’O’ is for ‘Organic manipulation’. ‘S’ stands for ‘Self’,” Lieutenant Dampierre helpfully provided.

“What does your colleague means by ‘quite messed—” Tristan started but stopped himself as a crackle from Dampierre’s radio indicated an incoming transmission.

“This is Captain Morand. HQ greenlighted the use of Dahu. All units standby. Dahu will be released on site in 9 mins. If targets break their bonds, hold them for as long as you can. Recontainment Unit will start operation ‘Sack and Stick’ in precisely 19 minutes,” the captain spoke in a sober voice.

Another round of “copy” answered the call, and Tristan looked at his hiding partner in confusion. The woman, who hadn’t shown much emotion until now, visibly winced at the news.

“What was that about?” Tristan asked with a frown.

“That’s…” she hesitated. “Bad. That’s bad. It’s one of those really strong Impacted we keep in reserve for cases such as this one. They’re easy to re-capture, but…”

Tristan waved his hand in a motion for her to continue.

“…but Dahu’s been known to be… unstable, from time to time,” she finished with a wince.

“Are we in danger? I don’t think running back to where I came from while those three are still going at it is all that safe either,” Tristan said.

“No, we should be fine, as long as we keep some distance from Dahu. He’s not the kind that kills people. He’s here because he makes catching targets easier. It’s just that… he has a tendency to ‘play with his preys’, and even allies, in some rare cases,” Dampierre said.

How the hell did it get this much out of hand. Morand, you fucking dipshit! Tristan swore internally.