Marlowe
I scrambled up, breath still ragged, and watched King and Vance trade blows with a brutality that had nothing careful left in it at all — no strategy, no reading the ground, just two men who'd been circling each other's grief for twelve years finally, violently colliding.
I didn't retreat to safety. Every instinct told me to, some old fear whispering that I'd only slow him down, get in the way, become one more thing King had to protect instead of someone capable of fighting beside him. I ignored it. I'd spent this entire story proving, piece by piece, that I was more than something requiring protection, and I wasn't about to abandon that truth now, with everything on the line.
I moved to flank Vance from the side, and King caught the motion, some silent understanding passing bet
