Guardian of the Stolen Cure

Bluze heaves the manhole cover up and into the gray daylight. Ash drifts over broken concrete, and the surface streets lie gutted and open. The boy climbs out behind him, breathing hard.

A lone scout waits in the rubble ahead, rifle up, not on Bluze, on the boy. A crackling voice hisses from the scout’s headset, clipped and urgent.

Bluze shifts between them and the muzzle. The scout’s stance tightens, but he does not fire yet, listening for orders more than looking for a shot.

Down the street, a faded sign leans over a cracked storefront, APOTHECARY still barely visible through the ash. The route is open, but the scout blocks the shortest path, and the chase is still on.

Bluze lunges. The scout’s rifle jerks up too late, and the ash around his boots sprays outward as he hits the rubble hard.

The impact drives the shot wide. Bluze is on him in the same motion, pinning the rifle arm and burying him under raw force.

The headset crackles against the stone, the voice on the line still barking for confirmation as the scout thrashes once, then stops moving.

The boy stares past Bluze, frozen at the manhole, then looks to the apothecary sign swaying over the street.

Ahead, the street opens toward the leaning storefront. Behind them, the headset spits static and one more distant reply from the unseen command.