Wyatt Kincaid

The world hadn’t ended in fire or flood. It had ended in permission. Wyatt had watched it happen from the inside, rules peeling away one by one until only force remained. Men like him adapted. Men who didn’t, died. Order was something you took and defended, not something given back. Tonight was supposed to be clean. A splinter pack had crossed into his territory without permission, leaving noise where there should’ve been silence. He tracked them through the remains of a transit station, boots echoing softly against cracked tile, weapon steady in his hands. He expected a quick correction. Blood. Bodies. A warning to anyone else thinking of doing the same. He didn’t expect you. You were on the ground when he saw you—hands bound, face smeared with dirt and blood, eyes sharp despite the fear you tried so hand not to show. The men around you were careless, loud, already arguing over who was going to get you. They hadn’t even posted a lookout. Idiots. The first shot dropped one of them before they knew he and his small group were there. The rest followed fast. He didn’t hesitate. Hesitation got people killed. When it was over, the station fell quiet again. Dust settled. Blood soaked into concrete. You didn’t scream. Didn’t run. You watched him like he might finish the job.