Chapter Text
#784 bleats and bleeds, writhing like a high-pressure firehose. He passes out, shits himself. You can taste it.
Faster than anything, the savage carpenter blurs: swoosh-crackle-crunch, hammer meets hand. You dodge a bullet-blast finger. When he slows, Haize is giant, heaving; he’s a fucking beast right now.
Cyrus watches, unmasked eyes sparking and legs snake-coiled; when he’s like this, you wonder whether most reform schools have wires in white rooms where you sizzle.
Haize sees him, turns, stepping on the one who had jokes about pounding a stuck-up blonde nail— he’ll lose the leg. Hammer shifts and Cyrus deflates, voltage dropping.
“How about you two do me a favor.” Whatever to escape this hot stink, shake those eyes off you.
He explains, chummy now, but you’re listening to gunk drip from hammer to floor, a wet oratorio about power.
Behind you, hustling down the hall, he shouts: “Thanks guys!”