Wren

“Who sent you?” Ezra sneers.

The young guy—that looks more like a teenager than an adult—doesn’t respond.

Ezra’s fist shoots out, hitting him straight in the nose. I wince.

Blood splatters out, and the guy groans with the little strength he has left, cupping his nose.

All my appetite quickly vanishes, stomach churning.

“I’m not going to ask you again,” Ezra says. “Who sent you? What club do you belong to?”

The guy still doesn’t respond.

My eyes drift to ...