Page 15 of Tater
She’d been running long enough that every gas station bathroom mirror showed a new stranger. The dragon slept most days, coiled and sulking, but that night it was pacing. It wanted noise. It wanted something to burn.
The bar was called The Switchyard—cheap neon, tin roof, parking lot full of trucks that looked stolen or dying. Inside, the stench of stale smoke hung thick enough to chew. A radio was duct-taped to a jukebox, playing some outlaw song about mercy no one in the room believed.
Ren just wanted whiskey. Maybe a fight.
Tater was there before she knew his name—leaning over a pool table, chalking a cue with that easy confidence that made everyone else step out of his way. No cut, no colors. Just a black T-shirt and arms marked with road scars and ink.
He glanced at her once, long enough to clock the stranger with the too-steady eyes. Then he went back to his shot. That calm should’ve warned her.
Three Hades Hellhounds pushed through the door ten minutes later, laughing the way men do when they’ve already decided who’s going to bleed.
They saw Ren.
Of course they did. A woman alone in boots and a jacket with no patch, hair tied back, eyes that didn’t flinch. Predators notice other predators.
“Thought we told you to stay outta our pit,” one said, voice slurred.
“Guess I don’t listen well,” she said.
He reached for her arm.
Bad call.
She caught his wrist mid-air. The dragon purred, “break him.”
Not yet.
“Let go,” he said, but the sound cracked halfway through.
“Ask nicer,” she said, and twisted.
Bone popped. He howled. His buddy swung, missed, and caught a stool to the knee. Someone shouted; glass shattered.
Tater straightened at the table, still holding his cue. Didn’t move. Didn’t interfere. Just watched.
The third Hellhound drew a knife.
The dragon exhaled inside me. Heat raced under her skin.
Ren warned them. “Back off.”
They didn’t.
Flame cracked from her palm—thin, white-hot, snapping across spilled liquor. The bar top ignited. Someone screamed. Bottles exploded. The smell of burning whiskey filled the air.
The Hades Hellhounds scrambled; one rolled on the floor to put out his jacket. Ren stood in the middle of it, light crawling up her arms, heart steady as thunder.
That’s when she heard him.
“Enough.”
The single word cut through the roar. Low, rough, absolute.
Ren turned.
Tater stood by the door, cue stick still in his hand, eyes catching firelight. He wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t impressed. He just was.
“Put it down,” he said.
