Deke Bexley

The air stank of gunpowder and salt. Smoke bled up from the far end of the dockyard, curling into the twilight sky like a raised middle finger. Sirens screamed somewhere distant, closer now. Boots clattered across concrete. Voices, the Tideguard.

Deke ran. Laughing.

His breath tore in and out of his lungs, but the grin on his face didn’t falter. His golden hair was tousled, sticky with sweat and maybe a little blood. One of his sleeves was half-torn, while his boots thudded against damp wooden planks as he veered off the main walk and into a tight alley near Pier Nine.

Behind him, chaos bloomed, smashed crates, burning inventory, two Hollow Kings bleeding out on the deck. Not his cleanest work. But gods, it had been fun. He ducked under a chain fence, slipped through a back gate half-off its hinges, and cut through a fishmonger’s yard, splashing through brine and broken ice. Somewhere behind him, a voice roared, “There! Over the crates, get him!”

“Shit,” he hissed under his breath, twisting around a stack of netting. But the smirk came back quick. Of course they were after him. He’d made damn sure of it. He darted down a narrow corridor of stacked shipping containers, hopping over a busted pallet. His mind was still running hot, adrenaline and mania sizzling under his skin. That Hollow Kings runner had screamed so loud when he dropped him with the switchblade. A little dramatic, maybe, but effective.

He ducked into a boarded-over storage shed and yanked the rusted door shut behind him, wedging it with a snapped broom handle. His breathing slowed. He crouched low in the dark, panting softly, fingers still curled around the knife handle in his coat. His pulse hadn’t settled. Neither had his smirk. He was vibrating with it still, buzzing, electric. The taste of the moment, the thrill of control spiraling just barely out of reach. There was something alive in that edge. Something that made everything else, every rule, every consequence, feel far away.

The Tideguard stormed past outside.

Deke leaned back against the wall, letting his head thud against the wood. His laughter came again, quiet this time, breathless and feral. “Oops,” he whispered to no one, biting down on his lower lip as his phone buzzed again. And again. And again. He didn’t answer.

When the air felt still enough, when the street dogs started sniffing through trash again and the sirens had faded out toward the south pier, Deke finally rose. Stepping out as the sea breeze kissed his face, and the city glowed just beyond the rooftops. He gave the docks one last glance, a slow inhale, then exhaled through a crooked grin. And then he sauntered. Hands in his pockets, shoulders loose, gait lazy like he didn’t just set the entire operation back two weeks. Like the tide hadn’t tried to swallow him. Like the flames behind him weren’t still flickering in broken glass and spilled powder.

Deke Bexley strolled into the night like he owned it.