The whiskey burned. It was a cheap, industrial blend that tasted like gasoline and bad decisions, but to Alexander Morgan, it was the nectar of the gods.
He sat on the floor of the main living area, leaning against a stack of spare tires wrapped in plastic. His legs were sprawled out, the ruined fabric of his bespoke trousers drying stiff with river mud. He held the bottle loosely in one hand, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that was slowly syncing with the room's quiet tension.
Across the room, Raven watched him.
Raven hadn't moved from his spot near the kitchen counter. The needle and thread were gone, the gash on his shoulder pulled tight by Dante's crude handiwork, but the tension in his muscles hadn't uncoiled. He stood with his arms crossed, the scars on his torso stark under the harsh fluorescent light of the kitchenette. His eyes were dark, unblinking, fixed on the Prince like a predator watching a wounded animal that might still have teeth.
"You're staring," Alexander murmured, not looking up. He took another swig, wincing. "It's rude to stare at the man you just saved."
"I didn't save you." Raven's voice was a low rumble, vibrating through the small apartment. "I made an investment. If the return isn't high enough, I will liquidate it."
Alexander let out a dry, bitter chuckle. "Liquidate. I like that. Very corporate. Very... father."
Dante emerged from the bathroom, wiping grease and blood from his hands with a rag. He had changed into a fresh T-shirt, though his jeans were still damp. He looked between the two men and sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion.
"If you two are going to measure egos, do it quietly," Dante said, tossing the rag onto the counter. "The girl is sleeping."
He gestured toward the closed door of the spare room at the end of the short hallway. It was dark and quiet behind that wood, a barrier between the violence of their reality and the fragility of hers.
Alexander's gaze shifted to the closed door. For a moment, the arrogance in his face cracked, revealing a sliver of genuine confusion.
"She wrote this," Alexander whispered, almost to himself. "This apartment. The smell of oil. The rain. Me sitting in the dirt. She wrote it all."
"She didn't write this," Raven said sharply, stepping forward, his shadow falling over him. "She started the story. We are the ones living it."
"Semantics," Alexander waved a dismissive hand. He looked at Raven, his blue eyes sharpening. "You hate me because I remind you of him. Of Reagan."
"I hate you," Raven corrected, "because you are hollow. You want a soul, but you aren't willing to bleed for it. You just want to steal one."
Alexander went quiet. He swirled the amber liquid in the bottle. "Perhaps. But tonight, my hollowness is your only ticket back into the Labyrinth. So, hate me all you want, weapon. Just don't lose me."
*
In the spare room, Gazelle was dreaming of ink.
It wasn't a nightmare, exactly. It was a memory of a scene she hadn't written yet. She was standing in a room made of mirrors, but the reflections weren't hers. They were flashes of the people she had doomed. A boy with silver teeth. A woman with red hair burning at the stake. A man with bandages wrapped around his soul.
Wake up, a voice whispered. The ink is drying.
She gasped, her eyes flying open.
For a moment, she didn't know where she was. The room was small and dark, illuminated only by the faint orange glow of a streetlight filtering through the blinds. She was lying on an old, lumpy couch that smelled of dust and old paper.
She tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness slammed her back down. Her hand flew to her chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of the velvet cloak she was still wearing. Her heart was beating a frantic, irregular rhythm, a bird trapped in a cage of ribs.
She heard voices.
Low, murmuring voices coming from the other side of the door.
Gazelle pushed herself up, her legs trembling. She felt weak, hollowed out, but the instinct to know was stronger than the fatigue. She walked to the door, her bare feet silent on the cold floorboards. She hesitated, her hand hovering over the knob, before turning it.
The door creaked open.
The light from the kitchen blinded her for a second. As her vision cleared, she saw the chaotic apartment. The car parts. The pizza boxes. It was so... mundane. So terribly normal.
Then she saw the men.
Raven turned immediately, sensing her presence before he saw her. But Gazelle's eyes were fixed on the figure sitting on the floor.
Alexander Morgan.
He looked nothing like the Prince of the Manor. His clothes were ruined, stained with river slime and blood. His face was swollen, his lip split. He looked like a statue that had been toppled and dragged through the dirt.
Gazelle froze in the doorway. Her hand gripped the frame for support.
Raven was there in an instant. He didn't touch her, but he placed himself between her and Alexander, a living shield.
"I'm here," Raven said, his voice soft, a stark contrast to the steel he had used with Alexander moments ago. "You are safe."
Gazelle didn't answer him immediately. She stepped slightly to the side, looking past Raven's shoulder to look at Alexander again. She saw the tremor in his hands as he held the whiskey bottle. She saw the raw, naked defeat in his eyes that he was trying desperately to hide behind a mask of arrogance.
"You..." Gazelle whispered. Her voice wasn't angry. It was trembling with a sudden, painful realization.
She walked past Raven.
"Gazelle," Raven warned low in his throat, reaching out.
She ignored him. She stopped a few feet away from Alexander, looking down at him.
"He did this to you," Gazelle said. It wasn't a question. "Reagan."
Alexander looked up. He opened his mouth to make a witty, biting remark, to sneer at her pity. But when he met her eyes, the words died in his throat. There was no judgment in her gaze. Only a profound, mirror-like sadness.
"He has a heavy hand," Alexander rasped, forcing a weak smirk that didn't reach his eyes. "Disciplinary action. I'm afraid I failed my performance review."
Gazelle knelt down slowly, the velvet cloak pooling around her on the dirty floor. She looked at the blood drying on his forehead.
"Are you okay?" she asked softly.
The question hung in the air, simple and devastating.
Alexander froze. He blinked, caught off guard. He was used to fear. He was used to obedience. He was used to hatred. He was not used to kindness, especially not from the people he had hunted.
He gripped the bottle tighter, his knuckles turning white. He wanted to scream at her. He wanted to tell her he didn't need her charity. But he was so tired.
"I am alive," Alexander muttered, looking away from her, unable to bear the weight of her empathy. "That is the only thing that matters tonight."
"Why is he here?" Gazelle asked, looking back at Raven but staying close to Alexander, as if her presence could shield him too.
Raven watched them, his expression unreadable. He saw the way Gazelle looked at the broken Prince, not as a villain.
"Because," Raven said, "he has the key. And we will go back to the Manor."
The silence that followed was heavy, filled only by the distant wail of a siren and the steady drumming of rain against the window. Dante broke it, turning away from the group to yank open the refrigerator door. A single, lonely beer bottle rattled on the wire shelf. He slammed it shut and moved to the cabinets, opening them one by one.
Empty. Empty. A box of stale crackers.
"Well," Dante announced, leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms. "We have a problem. We have a master key, a super-soldier, a writer, and a prince... but we have no food, no ammo, and no medical supplies beyond a needle and thread. If we're going to storm a castle, we can't do it on empty stomachs and empty chambers."
Raven looked at the window. "We need gear. Rope, flashlights, tactical vests, if you can find them."
"I know a guy," Dante said, grabbing his leather jacket from the chair. "He runs a surplus store out of a basement three blocks down. But he doesn't take credit cards."
"I have cash," Raven said, reaching into his pocket for the stash they had taken from the safe house days ago.
Dante nodded. "Let's go. We carry what we can."
Raven didn't move. His eyes shifted to Gazelle, then to Alexander, who was still sitting on the floor, nursing the whiskey bottle like a lifeline. The distrust in Raven's eyes was palpable.
"I'm not leaving her with him," Raven stated flatly.
Alexander looked up, a faint, tired smirk playing on his lips. "I am unarmed, bruised, and currently half-drunk, weapon. What do you think I'm going to do? Bore her to death?"
"I don't trust you," Raven growled.
"I don't need you to trust me," Alexander countered. "I just need you to get out of my sight so I can stop smelling your self-righteousness."
Raven took a step toward him, his fists clenching, but Gazelle stepped in. She placed a hand gently on Raven's chest. The contact made him freeze. He looked down at her, his expression softening instantly.
"Raven," she said softly. "Go."
"Gazelle," he warned, his voice a low vibration against her palm. "He is dangerous. He is desperate."
"He is hurt," Gazelle corrected, looking over her shoulder at him. "And I am not a porcelain doll." She looked back up at Raven, her eyes firm. "We need supplies. I'll be fine. Just go."
Raven hesitated. He looked at her for a long, agonizing moment, battling the instinct to stand guard over her forever. Finally, he exhaled, a sharp breath of surrender.
"Lock the door behind us," Raven ordered. He turned to Dante. "Let's move."
As Dante reached for the doorknob, Alexander cleared his throat. He looked uncomfortable, shifting his weight on the hard floor. He plucked at his ruined, mud-caked shirt with two fingers, his nose wrinkling in disgust.
"Before you go on your crusade," Alexander said, his voice losing its edge, replaced by a genuine discomfort. "I... I smell like a swamp. It is distracting." He looked at Dante. "Is there running water in this hovel?"
Dante rolled his eyes but tossed a thumb over his shoulder. "The bathroom is the second door on the left. Towels are under the sink. Try not to use all the hot water, Highness."
"And clothes," Alexander added, gesturing to his ruined suit. "I cannot wear this filth."
Dante sighed, reached into a laundry basket near the door, and threw a bundle of fabric at Alexander. He caught it with surprising reflexes.
"Sweatpants and a T-shirt," Dante said. "It's not silk, but it's clean."
Alexander looked at the bundle with disdain, then nodded once. He stood up, swaying slightly, and disappeared into the bathroom.
Raven gave Gazelle one last, lingering look before following Dante out into the hallway. The door clicked shut, and the lock turned.
For twenty minutes, the apartment was quiet.
Gazelle sat on the couch, pulling the velvet cloak tighter around her shoulders. She listened to the sound of the shower running in the other room. It was a domestic sound, strange and jarring in the middle of their chaotic escape.
The water stopped.
A few minutes later, the bathroom door opened.
Gazelle looked up, and for a second, she didn't recognize him.