Tamar’s face felt the flush of insufficient oxygen, a familiar sensation from the rush hour crush on the metro. She tried to swallow, but Malkhaz’s thumb was pressing hard against her windpipe. “Look, if you’re going to threaten me, can you at least do it without cutting off my air supply?” she rasped, her voice thin. “It’s very rude. And also, deeply ineffective.” Revaz’s world narrowed to the sight of Malkhaz’s hand clamped around Tamar’s throat, her feet dangling inches above the cracked foundation slab. A raw, guttural sound ripped from his chest, a sound that vibrated through the warehouse, rattling loose dust from the rafters. It wasn't a growl; it was the sound of a mountain splitting, of ancient stone grinding to dust. Malkhaz’s black eyes flickered towards him, a brief spark of triumph, before Revaz became a blur. The crossbowmen, Malkhaz’s personal guard, had already begun to raise their weapons. One, a hulking brute named Zaza, fired first, the bolt whistling towards Revaz. It embedded itself in Revaz’s shoulder, a dark stain blossoming on his worn leather jacket. Revaz didn't flinch. He didn’t even acknowledge it. The alpha moved like a storm front, a living, breathing hurricane of claws and teeth. He didn’t stop to fight; he simply passed through them, a shredding machine made of muscle and fury. Zaza, mid-reload, found his arm ripped clean from its socket, the crossbow clattering. Another guard, a wiry man with a scar across his brow, tried to bring a kukri down, but Revaz’s jaw snapped, bone-shattering, and the man’s head lolled at an impossible angle. Blood misted the air, painting the shop floor and the rusting machinery in gruesome strokes. Revaz didn’t bother with elegant takedowns; he tore. He pulverized. He annihilated. The warehouse filled with screams that abruptly ended, punctuated by the wet thud of falling bodies. Malkhaz, despite his new thrall-like nature, stiffened with something akin to fear. Revaz was no longer his son; he was an avenging force of nature, a primal engine of destruction unleashed. Yet, Malkhaz maintained his grip, his eyes locked on Tamar. She was the anchor, the leverage. "He can't touch me while I have you, boy!" he snarled, a thin smile on his lips. Tamar, meanwhile, was growing increasingly irritated. Her vision was starting to grey at the edges. She frowned, a crease forming between her brows. “Honestly, this is just unnecessary drama,” she wheezed. She remembered the disintegrating regular, the sizzling blade, the way her own blood had burned through plastic. An idea, desperate and unpleasant, sparked. With a deliberate, painful effort, she bit down hard on her lower lip, tasting the metallic tang of her own blood. It was sharp, a little acidic. She gathered a small bead of it, a bright crimson jewel. Then, with a sudden, surprising burst of strength, she expelled it. A tiny, toxic missile, aimed directly at Malkhaz’s face. It struck him square in the left eye. Malkhaz bellowed. It wasn’t a human sound, nor was it a wolf’s. It was a shriek of pure, agonizing torment, a sound of flesh burning from the inside out. The black in his eye erupted into an inferno of sickly green smoke, his hand instinctively flying to his face. His grip on Tamar’s throat vanished, and she dropped, stumbling, coughing violently, the taste of blood and ozone in her mouth. Revaz, having dispatched the last screaming loyalist with a final, sickening crack, was there in an instant. He scooped Tamar into his arms with a gentleness that belied the gore coating his fur and clothes. His eyes, still blazing with a terrifying, untamed wrath, scanned her for injury. He snarled at the thrashing Malkhaz, who was now writhing on the floorboards, clutching his ruined eye, a dark, viscous liquid oozing between his fingers. “Not here,” Revaz rumbled, his voice low, a deep vibration in his chest. “Not yet.” He turned, a flash of motion, and sprinted towards a crumbling section of the warehouse wall, an unsecured, rusted hatch barely visible in the shadows. With a powerful kick, he burst through, plunging them into absolute darkness. They landed in a narrow, grimy tunnel, the air thick with the smell of damp earth and stagnant water. It was cool, quiet, a stark contrast to the echoing screams and violence they’d left behind. This was one of the forgotten veins of the city, an ancient metro line, rumored to be used by the nocturnal denizens for their illicit commutes. Revaz set Tamar down on a raised section of stone that might have once been a platform. His fur was still matted with blood, his claws extended, but his focus was entirely on her. He nudged her chin up, his eyes, now a deep, worried amber, scrutinizing her throat, where Malkhaz’s grip had left angry red marks. His large, calloused thumb traced the bruised skin with infinite tenderness, as if she were made of spun glass. He whimpered, a low, mournful sound. “I’m fine,” Tamar managed, her voice still a little hoarse. “Just a bit… squeezed.” She noticed a small scrape on her elbow from the fall, a thin line of red against her pale skin. Revaz’s gaze fixed on it, fresh panic tightening his features. He emitted a low growl, a sound of distress. From a pocket in his blood-splattered jacket, he produced a pristine, small first-aid kit, the kind she kept under the counter for clumsy regulars. He opened it with surprising delicacy, pulling out a small alcohol wipe and a Hello Kitty bandage. He dabbed at her scrape, his movements slow, meticulous, his brow furrowed in concentration. The fierce Alpha, who had just torn men limb from limb, now trembled slightly as he applied the sticky plaster. He looked at her, his dark eyes asking without words if he had hurt her. Tamar watched him, the terrifying beast whose gentleness was reserved exclusively for her. He still gave off a dangerous, predatory tension, but every instinct was dialed into her well-being. The silence of the tunnel was broken only by the drip of water from unseen pipes and the soft rustle of his movements. He’d just murdered half a dozen people, and now he was carefully bandaging her elbow like a worried parent. “If we survive this, you’re paying for a deep clean of the espresso machine. And… maybe I’ll let you take me to dinner.”

Subway Tunnels and Scrapes