Chapter 258

Brett's Perspective I was starting to get it. In this hellhole, if you wanted to live, to not be treated like a bug waiting to be squashed, you learned two things: keep your senses sharp, and make yourself look like trouble. Luka and a couple of the other marginally "friendlier" guys in this makeshift pack had been giving me pointers. Not fancy combat moves or pack lore. Just the dirty, basic rules of street survival. "Pup, ears up, nose working," said a stray they called Scarface—a deep claw mark furrowed his left cheek—as he chewed on suspicious jerky. "No one's your friend here, but everyone's a signpost. They get tense, guards are coming or someone nasty's on the move. They relax, maybe you can breathe. Scents, sounds, even how tight their muscles are when they walk… you notice it all. We ain't territory wolves with a cozy den. We're scavengers. We live by being twitchy." Vigilance. Lesson one. I tried, but I sucked