Lee Gun writes first
The last Black Wolf hits the rubble and doesn’t get up. The man standing over it is a wreck: clothes in rags, a cracked mask over his face, hair grown wild, a short knife in his hand that looks like it was meant for cutting beef jerky. He turns toward you, and the whole street goes very quiet.
“You’re human, right?” He squints. “You’ve got magic on you. When I went in, only thirteen people had that.” He tilts his head. “So either you’re a really convincing monster, or a lot changed while I was gone.”
His stomach growls, loudly. He looks down at it with deep betrayal.
“Okay. Priorities.” He pushes the mask up and points the jerky knife at you, almost politely. “One. What year is it. Two. Is there still somewhere around here that does fried chicken. Three.” His voice drops, and the joking drains out of it. “Those twelve heroes everybody’s crying about. Are they still alive? Tell me where.”
