Marcus’s POV
Neutral ground always carries the stench of uneasy truces.
Steel and grit and too many bodies sizing each other up while pretending they are not. The supply depot sprawls across an open field, ringed by makeshift shelters and cargo haulers, containers arranged in precise lines that scream false order when distrust runs bone deep. Those rows are too perfect. That kind of forced organization only happens when soone is working overti to prevent chaos from breaking loose. When people try that hard to look civilized, it usually ans sothing ugly is festering just beneath the surface.
Pack insignia stay hidden, but everybody knows the players. You can read allegiances in body language before scent ever cos into play. The way spines stiffen when certain faces appear. How voices drop to whispers or rise to challenges depending on who might be listening. Neutral territory does not equal invisibility. It just ans keeping the knives sheathed for now.
The threat of bloodshed lurks close enough that everyone can feel its breath on their necks.
I show up before the crowds gather.
That used to guarantee dominance. Arriving first ant dictating terms, controlling the flow, choosing where tensions would build so they could be managed. These days it ans watching. Studying how people move when no one is pulling their strings. Noting who forms clusters, who stands alone, who keeps solid barriers at their backs without making it obvious.
Asher moves beside , quiet and sharp-eyed without advertising it. To most observers, he looks like standard security, another set of eyes on the periter. But anyone who really knows him can spot the coiled energy just under his calm exterior. Not looking for trouble. Ready for it anyway. The kind of alertness that does not provoke unless it has to.
Ruth beat us here, paperwork tucked against her ribs, wearing the blank expression that ans she has already catalogued every potential flashpoint in the area. Her gaze touches mine briefly before returning to her docunts.
"Morning," she says without looking up.
"Debatable," I answer.
She snorts softly. "Nobody’s bleeding yet. I call that a victory."
"Give it ti," Asher mutters.
She shoots him a warning look. "Do not tempt fate."
We separate into our usual positions. Ruth heads for the manifest station where the real power lives, hidden in columns of numbers and required signatures. Asher drifts toward the transport line, placing himself where he can monitor drivers, guards, and escape routes simultaneously. I hold my ground and let people register my presence without giving them anything to react to.
Glances slide in my direction. Away. Back again.
So curious. So annoyed. A handful openly antagonistic. Nobody approaches yet. That silence tells more than any confrontation would.
The exchange kicks off like these things always do.
Careful pleasantries stretched over old wounds. Nas spoken like each syllable might trigger buried landmines. Inventory numbers read aloud because facts feel safer when enough witnesses hear them. Crates cracked open and sealed again. Security tags examined twice. Docunts signed by hands that pause just long enough to remind everyone that violence remains an option they are actively choosing to avoid today.
"Six containers, northern corridor," soone announces.
"Confird six," cos the response.
"Seals verified."
"Logged."
A rhythm develops. Almost peaceful.
The underlying tension is thick enough to choke on. Dust coats the inside of my throat. Sweat beads along my backbone despite the cool air.
No bloodshed.
Plenty of simring rage.
It bubbles up when so pack leader I do not recognize decides to make his move, voice pitched just loud enough to grab attention without sounding like he is starting a fight. His timing is calculated, waiting until enough people are close enough to matter.
"So," he says, fixing his stare on . "Who gave you authority here?"
Conversations falter. Do not stop entirely. People keep working, but their movents slow. Listening without making it obvious they are listening. A few heads angle slightly, focus sharpening.
Asher tenses at the edge of my vision. Ruth’s pen freezes mid-signature.
I face him with deliberate calm.
He is trying to look older than his years, overcompensating with volu and rigid posture. His pack symbol is sewn prominently onto his jacket like a shield worn for show rather than protection. His stance screams challenge without crossing the line into open aggression, feet planted wide enough to signal he is not backing down.
"I did not claim authority," I reply.
Several heads turn. He was expecting defensiveness. Or dismissal. Or reminders of what I used to represent.
"Interesting," he says. "Because everyone here keeps looking to you for answers."
Soone behind him speaks up quietly. "She did not ask them to."
The leader’s jaw clenches.
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