Chapter 45. Shattered Glass

The sound came first. A thin, ripping scream cut down Main, high enough to shear the night into strips. Tires followed—rubber shrieking, a motor howling too high, the glassy pop of a bottle meeting brick. Flame climbed the pawn shop’s wall like it had a ladder, licking across dead neon until the letters guttered and buzzed.

“Move,” Axel said. His face was chalk-pale under the streetlights, jaw cinched tight. He kicked his bike alive and the engine answered, harsh and ready. Around him, the Crownless lit up, metal throats roaring in a rough chorus as they arrowed toward the square.

Windows above slammed too late. Faces peered out—white ovals, startled eyes—and then disappeared behind curtains. Riven felt every rev in her arms like a swallowed shout. Pain stitched up her palms when she gripped the throttle, but she didn’t ease; the ache was a boundary she refused.

They burst into the square and the chaos was already arranged like a scene someone else had staged: Rave