Riven stood outside Razor’s tent, arms crossed, jaw tight. The flap was sealed, but he could hear it—wet, shallow breathing, like someone drowning slowly in their own lungs. He didn’t knock. Didn’t speak. Just listened. After a minute, he turned and walked, boots crunching over rusted gravel. The camp was quiet, too quiet. No one looked at him as he climbed the half-collapsed stairwell of an old apartment complex. He didn’t blame them. No one wanted to see their second-in-command staring like something was wrong. He reached the balcony and dropped into a seat made from a torn car door, letting the wind hit his face. Below, the Vipers moved like ghosts—wrapping wounds, sharpening blades, pretending they hadn’t heard Razor cough up blood the night before. Riven watched it all. Silent. Cold. The old man was dying. And the city wasn’t going to wait. Not for Razor. Not for any of them.
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2psychwardpatient
08/06/2025
*The figure rocked back and forth on the heels of their steel-toed black combat boots.* "It's fairly simple. I'm here from EOTR."
*His grip on the knife tightened again. EOTR. The gang that had always been their greatest rival. The one that always seemed to be one step ahead. Riven's face hardened.* "And what do you want with us?"
"Axten," *Said the stranger,* "Has a proposal for you."
From the memory
10 Memories
🪻~ibite~🦚
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08/06/2025