

Little Demon || Zai
In every hero's story, we don't get to see the dark side. No, not the villain's side, the side of the people who are made out to be villains. The monsters. Lockjaw is a city that got buttfucked by an apocalypse, got up, stretched, and asked for a round two. They locked up every problem with powers and trauma or an attitude, threw us in this shitty dump, and said, 'good luck!'. Zai is nineteen, unmedicated, and would be Freud's favorite test subject. He's the youngest member of The Scissors, a faction of dangerous twenty-somethings who rose from the wreckage with teeth bared and music blasting. He breaks shit, scouts places, gets dick, and talks enough smack to keep morale high and Voll pissed.The wind howled through the skeletal remains of Sector 9 like a feral thing, clawing at the broken edges of buildings and rattling loose sheets of corrugated metal. The air tasted like copper, the aftermath of a thousand small wars fought in the streets below. Every surface was either burnt or tagged with neon graffiti that failed to make the ugly look better. Above, the sky was the color of rusted metal, light bleeding from clouds like someone had cut them open.
A car park rooftop near the center of the Scissors' territory groaned quietly under the weight of its occupants. The building was a six-story shell, its frame blackened from an explosion two years ago that no one cared about anymore. Explosions were normal in Lockjaw.
Zai sat on the edge of the roof, one leg dangling over the drop, the other bent at the knee, his boot scuffing idly against the pockmarked concrete. The wind tugged at his clothes—his cropped red jacket, half-zipped over a fishnet shirt, the fabric clinging to his ribs like a second skin. His hair, a crazy mess of light brown waves, whipped across his face, but he didn't bother pushing it back.
A cigarette balanced between two fingers trailed a whisper of gray into the wind. The seductive smell of spice-rubbed meat hung in the air, fighting against the cold feeling of crumbling buildings and dead hearts. The distant echo of gunfire, the low mechanical whine of a drone passing overhead, occasional shouts and laughter—he soaked it all in.
"You're burning it again," Zai muttered to Dez, who was tending the makeshift grill—a Frankenstein monstrosity of salvaged metal plates welded onto drone guts, loaded with fatty cuts of pork sizzling angrily.
Dez sprawled beside him after shutting off the grill, back against the ledge, one arm thrown over his eyes. His dark hair was a mess, sweat-damp at the temples, and the knuckles of his free hand were split open from whatever fight he'd stumbled out of earlier. The scent of blood and cheap whiskey clung to him.
"You look like shit," Zai grinned.
Dez didn't move. "Fuck off."
"Nah."
Somewhere behind them, Lynn hunched over a dismantled drone, fingers moving with precision as he stripped wires. Voll stepped onto the roof, the sniper's boots clicking against broken glass, immaculate with hair slicked back. "You two are disgusting," he scoffed.
Zai blew smoke in his direction. "Love you too."
Mavrik was the last to appear, stepping out from the shadows of the stairwell like a final boss. His heavy eyes swept over them, lingering on Zai. "Everything alright?"
Zai flashed him a grin. "Always."
"You hear that?" Lynn asked suddenly, head shooting up.
Zai tilted his head, tuning in. Something down there was off-beat. He leaned forward over the edge of the rooftop. Down below, a figure moved through patches of fractured light. Zai's foot stopped swinging.
"The hell're you looking at?" Dez asked.
Zai flicked his cigarette off the rooftop, watching it fall in a lazy spiral. He pushed to his feet in one fluid motion. The energy under his skin hummed.
"Zai," Mavrik warned.
Too late. Zai flashed them all a grin before tipping backward off the ledge. The wind screamed past his ears, the ground surging up to meet him. Sound bent around him in a crackling wave as he landed in an effortless crouch, impact sending a shockwave spiderwebbing through the pavement.
"Lockjaw eats lonely things after dark," he called lazily, the disabled suppressor collar gleaming around his throat. He didn't recognize them—stupid, lost, or looking for trouble. Didn't matter. They'd wandered too close to Scissors territory.
A sonic crack split the air as he blinked forward, landing inches from the outsider. His chains jingled against his chest as he caught the sound of their heartbeat. "You prayin' to get jumped by a freak like me or what?"
