Anthony did not move away when Nine opened his eyes.
That alone told him everything.
The room was dim but not dark. Soft light leaked in through slatted blinds, cutting the space into narrow bands of gold and shadow. Concrete walls. Low ceiling. A private room tucked beneath one of Nine's legitimate fronts. No windows anyone could see from the street. No cameras. No witnesses.
Safe.
Anthony's face hovered just inches above his, eyes bright with curiosity rather than concern. Too close for comfort. Too close on purpose.
Nine blinked once. Then again.
The dream receded slowly, like blood washing down a drain. The sword. Molly's hands. That familiar ache of being alive. It all thinned until only the present remained.
Anthony smiled wider.
"You always do that," he said. "You disappear when you sleep. Like you're somewhere better."
Nine sat up in one smooth motion. No grogginess. No confusion. His hand moved out of habit, checking the weight of the room, the angles, the exits. Anthony stepped back just enough to give him space.
"How long," Nine asked.
Anthony shrugged. "Couple minutes. I got bored watching you breathe."
Nine swung his legs over the side of the cot. The scars along his torso caught the light as he straightened. Old wounds layered over older ones. Knife marks. Bullet entries. Burns. A history written in flesh.
Anthony's eyes flicked down without shame.
"Still looks like a museum," he said. "You should charge admission."
Nine ignored that. "You called this meeting."
Anthony tilted his head. "No. You did. You just forgot."
Nine stood. "I do not forget."
Anthony laughed quietly. "Sure you do. You just decide later that you meant to."
They stared at each other for a long moment. The air between them hummed with unspoken things. History. Blood. Tests never finished.
Nine walked past him toward the table in the center of the room. One chair. Two glasses. A bottle untouched.
Anthony followed, casual as ever, and dropped into the chair without being invited.
"So," Anthony said. "What's up. You have not called for me in a while."
Nine poured himself a drink. Did not offer one.
"You have been busy," Nine said.
Anthony grinned. "You noticed."
Nine turned, glass in hand. "One of Anderson's men is dead."
Anthony did not look surprised. He looked pleased.
Just for a fraction of a second.
Like a child who had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar and found the attention delicious.
"That happens," Anthony said lightly.
Nine watched him over the rim of the glass. "It happens when someone wants it to."
Anthony leaned back, folding his hands behind his head. "You think I did it."
"I think," Nine said, "that you knew it would happen."
Anthony's grin softened into something sharper. "And you let it."
Silence settled heavy and deliberate.
Anthony lowered his arms and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You are not intervening because you find it amusing. Say it."
Nine did not deny it.
Anthony laughed under his breath. "See. That is why I like you. Anyone else would pretend to be offended."
Nine stepped closer. "The moves you are making are starting to make me think you want what I have."
Anthony's eyes lifted slowly.
"What you have," he repeated.
"Yes," Nine said. "Power. Control. The chair."
Anthony considered him, genuinely thoughtful. Then he shook his head.
"No."
Nine studied his face. "Do you want it."
Anthony met his gaze without blinking. "If I wanted that you would be dead."
The words landed clean. Not a threat. A statement of fact.
Nine did not hesitate.
His hand cracked across Anthony's face.
The sound echoed sharp in the room.
Anthony's head snapped to the side. Then he laughed.
Actually laughed.
He turned back, rubbing his cheek, eyes shining. "Yeah. I guess I deserved that."
Nine did not smile. He reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head, tossing it aside. The scars caught the light fully now. A mural of pain. A map of survival. Proof of every time death had failed.
Anthony's expression shifted. Respect. Hunger. Recognition.
"You remember how many times we have done this," Nine asked quietly.
Anthony stood. "Enough to know how it ends."
Nine raised his hands slightly. Not defensive. Invitational. "Get ready."
Anthony stepped back. "No."
Nine paused.
"I have things to do," Anthony said. "People to poke. Fires to start."
Nine's eyes narrowed. "You refuse."
"For now," Anthony replied. He grabbed his jacket and turned toward the door.
Nine's voice followed him. "You will not have to wait for Ren to kill Anderson. I will handle it myself."
Anthony stopped.
The air shifted.
Slowly, Anthony turned back. The smile was gone now. Something colder and sharper had taken its place.
"You should not say that," Anthony said softly.
Nine took one step forward.
Anthony moved faster.
He closed the distance in a blink, slamming into Nine with all the stored violence he had been pretending not to carry. The room exploded into motion. Flesh against flesh. History colliding. No rules. No restraint.