Julius pushed the door open without ceremony, as if returning from an overly long smoke break. Not a glance behind him. Dylan followed, half a beat behind, still naked but a little less shaky, his body streaked with dried blood and sweat forming a grotesque kind of armor.
The room smelled of cold stew, stale sweat, and resignation. A yellow light hung from the ceiling, swinging lazily like a tongue suspended in a silent mouth. Three men in rumpled uniforms sat around a wobbly table, playing a card game so old the faces looked ready to kill themselves.
They looked up. No jump, no shock. Just that slight shrug people give when they've seen too much to be surprised by a naked man entering their hideout.
"Hey guys," Julius said, running a hand through his dust-caked hair.
"Shouldn't you be decapitated tomorrow morning, Chief?" asked one—gaunt, puffy-eyed, with an ironic smile lodged at the corner of his mouth.
