Ciel was a lot of things. A gunslinger, a mercenary, a flirt, a problem wrapped in chaos and bad decisions.

  But a good person?

  That was debatable.

  Was she a bad person?

  Well, she’d argue that one until the end of time.

  She liked to believe she was doing the right thing—or at least, she liked telling herself that. But believing that meant thinking about it. Really thinking about it.

  And Ciel wasn’t a thinker.

  Not because she couldn’t be, but because she was an over-thinker.

  And over-thinking? That was dangerous.

  That’s how you start justifying things you shouldn’t justify. How you start picking apart the jobs you take, the lines you cross, the blood on your hands, and realizing maybe.... it wasn’t always for the right reasons.

  So she didn’t think.

  She acted. She lived in the moment. She made her choices and moved on because what the hell else was she supposed to do?

  But now, standing at the edge of the crumbling tunnel, her back pressed to the cold, damp wall, revolver loose in her grip, she had nothing to do but think.

  Gorrug had come back from his watch, his massive form settling against the stone with the comfort of a man who could sleep through an explosion.

  She hadn’t hesitated to take the next watch.

  She needed the space.

  She needed something to focus on.

  So she stood, pacing slowly along the length of their temporary campsite, watching the tunnels stretch out into darkness, waiting for something, anything, to come crawling from the abyss.

  And yet, nothing did.

  So she paced.

  Slow, careful, the worn soles of her boots scuffing softly against the damp stone.

  Her long, wild chestnut hair hung loose down her back, strands still damp from the sewer air, flicking against her shoulders. The glow of distant bioluminescence caught in the sun-bleached streaks, giving her an almost ghostly presence in the dimness.

  Her golden-violet eyes flickered in the dark, reflecting the faintest shimmer of light, sharp and restless.

  The thin, enchanted halter she wore clung to her compact, toned frame, the fabric stitched with faintly glowing arcane circuitry—a relic of old-world tech that had long since been repurposed for mercenary life.

  Her shorts were ragged but reinforced, the side belts packed with spare rounds, an old lucky coin tucked into one of the many hidden pockets she never thought to use.

  A bandage wrapped loosely around her thigh, covering a fresh gash from one of Red’s wretched claws, the dried blood staining the white fabric a deep, rusted red.

  She didn’t like being still.

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  So she paced.

  And for once, she let herself think.

  She had spent years telling herself she was the good guy.

  Sure, she took jobs from bad people, but she took jobs from good people too.

  She had robbed, but only from people who could afford to lose it.

  She had killed, but never without a reason.

  She had worked alongside criminals, warlords, and gang bosses, but only as long as she could stomach it.

  That was how it worked, right?

  That’s how you justify it.

  Because once you started thinking too hard, the lines blurred.

  Once you started thinking too hard, you started wondering if maybe…

  You weren’t actually a good person.

  Ciel exhaled sharply, turning on her heel, running a hand through her tangled hair, teeth biting into her bottom lip.

  And then there was Sylva.

  Sylva, who had tried to kill her once upon a time, who had fought beside her when everything went to hell, who stayed despite knowing Ciel was a walking death wish.

  Sylva, who could see through every joke, every smirk, every bullshit excuse, and call her on it.

  Sylva, who had admitted—for the first time tonight—that she wanted something. Wanted her.

  But was afraid to want it.

  Because how could you let yourself love a dead woman walking?

  Ciel swallowed, pressing her back against the stone, tilting her head toward the ceiling, exhaling slowly.

  She was so good at moving forward.

  So good at not looking back.

  But right now?

  Right now, she felt like she was standing still.

  Ciel was not good at this.

  At thinking.

  At feeling.

  She lived fast, moved faster, shot first, asked questions never. That was the way of it. That was how she survived.

  Because the moment she started thinking too hard, the moment she let herself actually sit with what she had done, she had to ask questions she didn’t have answers for.

  And she hated that.

  She hated how easy it was to lie to herself.

  She hated how she wore the mask so well—how she laughed, joked, flirted, fought, how no one ever really saw past it.

  Because the mask kept her from thinking.

  Kept her from really looking at the people around her.

  And how much danger she had put them in.

  She let out a slow, shaky breath, dragging her fingers through her hair, pacing faster now, boots scuffing against the damp stone.

  Raze.

  The grizzled, battle-scarred veteran, the man who had turned on his own military to stand for something he believed in. A man who had been chewed up and spit out by the world, left with nothing but his cigar, his sword, and a grudging sense of duty to the people who followed him.

  He should have left her behind a long time ago.

  And then there was Gorrug.

  The big, soft-hearted bastard.

  A behemoth of a warrior, with an insatiable thirst for battle but a heart that was too damn big for the world he lived in.

  Gorrug had never questioned her. Never hesitated to follow.

  And that scared her.

  Because one day, she was going to lead him into a battle he wasn’t walking away from. Like now.

  And then there was Miri.

  Miri, with her bouncy, borderline-adorable mannerisms, her cute giggles and soft voice, who also happened to be batshit insane.

  Their adorable, unhinged little witch. Sweet, soft-voiced, fascinated by death in a way that was either deeply poetic or deeply psychotic.

  But she had looked so tired after healing them tonight.

  Drained. Pale.

  And yet, she had still smiled.

  Still laughed.

  And Veyra.

  The drunk, foul-mouthed half-elf who couldn’t walk a straight line if you paid her, but could shoot the wings off a fly at three hundred yards.

  Veyra, who had already been exiled from her people, already been discarded by a society that never wanted her in the first place.

  Veyra, who had nothing left to lose, and yet still fought like she had everything.

  Even… Skrimp.

  That horrifying, abomination of a creature that Gorrug somehow saw as a companion.

  That feathered, pig-bird-cat thing with sharp teeth and a wheezing honk of death.

  Even that thing was in danger.

  Because of her.

  Because she didn’t think.

  Because she always just kept moving, kept charging forward, kept dragging everyone else with her.

  And now—here they were.

  In a sewer. Chasing a myth. Owing their lives to a crime lord. Wounded, exhausted, running out of food, out of magic, out of luck.

  And it was all because of her.

  She paused, pressing the heel of her hand to her forehead, breathing through her nose.

  Her head hurt.

  Her chest hurt.

  Her thoughts were going in circles now, twisting tighter and tighter, making her stomach churn, making her pulse spike—

  No.

  No, fuck that.

  She didn’t have time for this.

  She had been out here for hours now.

  She exhaled, forced her breath to even out, and turned back toward the alcove.

  She needed to go back in. Check on them. Make sure they were still breathing.

  Because whether she deserved them or not, whether she should be leading them or not—

  They were still hers.

  And she’d be damned if she lost them now.