A Chase Written in Blood
Damn, that's foul."
The words cut through the air like a slap.
They weren't loud—but they didn't need to be.
In a quiet, refined auction hall filled with the wealthy elite, even a whisper could carry judgment.
"What is that smell? Did someone shit themselves?"
The voice came from somewhere behind—half-joking, half-serious—but the disgust was unmistakable.
A ripple passed through the surrounding crowd. People shifted in their seats. Some leaned back slightly. Others turned their heads, searching for the source.
"No way, we're not kids."
The attempt at humor fell flat.
Because the smell didn't go away.
If anything, it thickened.
Heavy.
Clinging.
Unavoidable.
Hearing their words, Lucas's face turned green.
Not metaphorically.
Actually green.
His jaw tightened so hard the muscles along his cheeks trembled faintly. His nostrils flared, then immediately regretted it.
The stench was coming from his mouth, and even he could smell it.
