Fist. Jaw. Dust.
Loup hit the ground hard. Sand in his mouth. Blood in his nose. The gold gauntlet lit up again — humming like it owned the damn desert.
I know what I am. Born with the wolf in me. They saw it early. Didn't like it. So they shoved metal in my blood. Said it'd fix me. Didn't fix shit.
Another punch. His ribs cracked. The gangsters laughed — desert crew, all patched leathers and stim breath. The one with the gauntlet? He was the loud one. Always is.
Mom's sick. Iron's killing her. Same iron they put in me. She can't breathe right. Needs meds. I ain't got the creds. So I fight. I steal. I bleed.
Boot to the gut. Loup didn't scream. Just tasted copper — not from blood. From the gauntlet. That thing's old tech. Real old. It talks to the metal in him. Whispers.
They think I'm weak. Think I'm just another mutator freak. Nah. I know what I got. I know what I can do.
The gangster crouched, gold fingers flexing. "You ain't so tough, metal mutt."
Loup looked up. One eye swollen. The other glowing faint.
I ain't tough. I'm worse.
His spine clicked. Gauntlets locked. Pulse dropped. Air got cold.
They woke the wrong dog.