Underdogs

THIRTY-FIVE

❝There's something wrong with your character if opportunity controls your loyalty.❞ — Jack Leonhart

▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂

Chapter thirty-five:

NO HONOR AMONG THIEVES

Jack woke up to chaos.

A pack of hungry wolves barked and growled while rushing down the corridor spread behind the closed door, slavishly following the orders of an empty stomach and making the wooden floor vibrate under their desperate performance. His dormant mind barely processed it, however; deciding to ignore the world and slipping back into unconsciousness instead.

In his dream, he was blind to the approaching danger — just like in reality. His ears caught the sound of chains being dragged across the pavement, sluggishly making their way towards him. He heard the hoarse voices of his soon-to-be-murderers, whispering among each other in a language he failed to recognize; probably pondering about the most painful way to end his life. One voice echoed louder than the rest, but it was cut off by the unmistakable sound of flesh punching flesh, followed by a loud crash... as his body was suddenly thrown to the ground.

His eyes snapped open as his mind awoke from its dazed state, and it took him no time to become aware of his unfortunate situation. 

Staring up into the laughing eyes of a wolf, Jack put two and two together and was quick to realize there had been no wolves rushing about. The ones who had barged into his room and punched him hard enough to throw him off of the bed were way worse than famishing animals.

The strong taste of iron in his mouth informed him of his split lip, and he spat out the thick blood on the floor. A hand appeared in his line of vision, before the man, whose sole existence he despised, tugged him upwards by the collar of his shirt. 

As his blue eyes blazed in rage, Jack snarled at him. A pang of disdain filled his heart, and he was overcome by numbing rage. He should've know.

"Ya ain't lookin' so good, Jackie!"

"Bastard," Jack grunted out, low enough so only the man could hear. "I told her you were too power-hungry to be trusted, but she still ignored my advice. I'll kill you for th—" 

His sentence finished in another grunt as he was thrown to the opposite wall and his head slammed against the hard surface.

Kenny Ackerman tipped his hat to him before clicking his tongue and pursing his thin lips into a gesture of disdain. "Is this really the punk that's making the king shit himself? What a joke."

As he delivered a kick to the younger man's stomach and Jack cursed him again, a blond woman took a step forward. "Kenny—"

"I know, I know," he drawled in a lazy voice while swatting at her. "Ya go get the big guy, ok? I'll handle this, Traute."

Jack followed them with his eyes as the women and men left the room, taking notice of the strange uniforms they were wearing. Covered in black and grey, they gave away the impression to be ready to take anyone down with the thick guns attached to their hips.

Long gone were knifes and blades, replaced by a quicker method of murdering by the hand of guns. However, those weapons were reserved to very few people — those who served directly to the government and the king himself.

His eyes widened upon Kenny, the leader of the group, by the looks of it. 

"The other party, eh?" Jack commented with a humourless laugh, shaking his head as Kenny handcuffed him. "You warned Galene about your own minions? What the fuck is your plan, bastard? What are you playing at?!"