Round 58

The factory floor feels like an execution platform—cold concrete under bare feet, the chill seeping into bones already exhausted from hours of fucking. The soldiers stand in a semicircle with guns drawn, treating us like common criminals instead of goddesses who brought half the town to ecstasy last night. But it’s not their weapons that make my blood run cold—it’s the three women standing beyond them.

Two robed figures flank a tall woman in a sleek business suit. Their hoods fall back simultaneously to reveal identical faces, pale skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones, eyes glowing with symbols etched into their forearms. The one in the middle steps forward, voice cold as winter: "Names."

Before I can even process this new threat, Halia drops to her knees between us all—praying like a devout supplicant while Hera and Abby press against each other for comfort. The little cleric’s blue eyes are wide with terror behind her desperate faith. I should feel protective, but right now she’s just another liability we can’t afford.

Silra moves to my side, her hand on my arm a silent command to hold back the violence boiling under my skin. The rogue’s silver hair catches the harsh fluorescent light as she inclines toward me, whispering: "Let. Me. Handle. This."*

The enhanced operative circles closer, her own symbols pulsing in sync with the twins’. She sneers at Silra’s attempt at diplomacy: “You think you’re clever? We’ve dealt with your kind before—”

Magic crackles through the air like static electricity before a storm, and I realize these bitches aren’t fucking around.