---
A rare bat struck his face again, claws scraping his cheek, leaving three lines of blood.
Now Sekhmet's hunger surged.
Warm blood.
Fresh blood.
Close.
He felt his body react like a starving animal.
But he forced himself to remain cold.
Not yet.
Not until the alley belonged to him.
Sekhmet turned his head slightly, eyes sharp.
He spoke to Raka without looking.
"Break one arm," Sekhmet said, voice flat. "Do not kill."
Raka answered immediately.
"Yes, master."
And the assassins finally understood.
This was not a random merchant boy they could erase quietly.
This was a predator with a pack.
And now that the pack was fully out, the alley was no longer a trap for Sekhmet.
It was a cage for them.
Raka's fist was still raised when Sekhmet's bats hit the assassins again, not like random animals, but like a drilled squad that had learned the difference between feeding and dying.
The alley had become a cage of wings.
