Page 38 of Tiny's Testament
My lungs forget how to work. My heartbeat stutters once, hard enough to hurt. My vision tunnels. Sound muffles like someone stuffed cotton in my ears. The warehouse disappears at the edges, darkness creeping in until all I can see is that mark.
That goddamn mark.
My right hand starts to shake, so I shove it in my pocket before Torch can notice. The scar across my palm burns, not phantom pain, real fire, like the cut just reopened. Blood pounds in my ears. My chest tightens. I can't breathe right, can't think straight. Because it's not just any Hellhound mark.
It's Creed's signature.
I know because I learned it from him. I spent three months watching him work before he let me hold the can myself. The angle of the jaw. The red bleeding into black at the edges. The left eye socket is slightly larger than the right. Creed said a wolf keeps one eye on the present and one on what’s coming.
And there, at the base of the skull, where the jaw meets empty space, is a small flourish. Three dots in a triangle. Creed's personal signature. His way of saying,I was here. I marked this. It's mine.
The room spins. Heat crawls up my neck. Sweat breaks cold across my back. The warehouse dissolves, and I'm seventeen again, standing in a different building with a spray can in my hand and Creed's voice in my ear.
"Straight lines," Creed says, his hand guiding mine on the can. His grip is firm but not controlling. Teaching, not forcing. "Steady pressure. You rush it, it bleeds. You hesitate, it fades. You gotta find the rhythm between those two."
The paint hisses out, black mist curling in the afternoon heat. We're in an old meatpacking plant east of Barstow, claiming territory the Vipers thought was theirs. The air smells like rust and rotting meat, but Creed doesn't seem to notice. He's focused, calm, like he's painting a masterpiece instead of a threat.
"Why split the skull?" I ask, watching the center line take shape under his guidance.
Creed grins, all teeth and scars. The scar through his left eyebrow makes him look perpetually skeptical, like he's questioning the universe and finding it lacking. "Because wolves are pack animals, kid. But every wolf has two sides, the one that hunts and the one that bleeds. The killer and the killed. You gotta honor both, or you're lying about what you are."
He steps back, admires our work. The skull seems to watch us, empty sockets judging.
"You bleed on your first mark, it's yours forever," Creed says, pulling out his knife. "Blood makes it real. Makes it a promise."
"A promise to who?"
"To yourself. That you'll never forget what you're capable of."
I don't mean to, but the can slips. The sharp edge of the cap cuts my palm in a quick, clean cut, deep enough to matter. Blood wells up, drips onto the concrete below the mark.
For a second, I panic. Think I fucked it up. But Creed just laughs, low and warm, like I've done exactly what I was supposed to.
"There it is," he says, clapping my shoulder. "You're a Hound now, Tiny. Marked and bound."
I stare at the blood on the ground. My blood, mixing with dust and paint fumes, and feel something shift inside me. Pride and fear twisting together in my chest until I can't tell them apart.
"Marked and bound," I echo.
Creed wraps my hand in a rag and ties it tight. "That scar's gonna remind you who you are every time you grip a throttle. Every time you throw a punch. Every time you think about running." He leans in close, eyes bright with something that might be love or might be madness. "You're family now. And family's forever."
I believed him. God help me, I believed every word.
"Tiny." Torch's sharp, worried voice pulls me back.
I'm standing in the middle of the warehouse, staring at the mark like it's a ghost made solid. My right hand is out of my pocket, pressed flat against my chest like I'm trying to physically hold my heart inside my ribs.
How long have I been standing here? Seconds? Minutes?
"You see this?" Torch asks, moving closer. His hand's on his gun. It’s not drawn, but ready. He's scanning for threats, for the danger that put that look on my face.
But the danger isn't here anymore. It's in my head. In my blood. In the scar that won't stop burning. I can't answer. My mouth won't work. Words pile up in my throat and choke me. Because it's not just the style. It's theexecution.
I taught other Hellhounds how to make the mark. But only Creed did it like this. Only Creed marked territory like he was signing his name in blood.
"Tiny," Torch says again, sharper now. "Talk to me, brother."
I force my lungs to work. Air scrapes in, tastes like metal and memory. "It's them."
