The runner is already bloodied by the time we arrive. Alejandro's men found him and did the warm-up. Now he's tied to a rusted chair, shirt soaked through, a split lip leaking onto his chin.
Alejandro doesn't waste time.
"Where's the Viper?" he asks, voice flat, uncaring.
Mace spits blood at his feet. "Go fuck yourself."
Alejandro just smiles.
He steps forward and grabs a rusted hammer from the table. No ceremony. No buildup. Just swings it once—crack—and Mace's kneecap caves in with a sickening crunch.
The scream that rips out of him bounces off the concrete walls.
"Try again."
Mace gasps for air, writhing. "I—I don't know where he is!"
"I didn't ask where," Alejandro says, almost gently. "I asked what you know."
"I saw him once!" Mace cries. "Just once—I swear, I was dropping off a girl, he was in the shadows, mask on. Snake mask. But he spoke—deep voice. British maybe. Tattoos on both hands. That's all I know!"
Alejandro crouches beside him, eyes narrowed. "Names. Who else has seen him?"
"I—I don't know names. Just rumors. A guy called Kessler. Runs guns out of Westpoint. That's all I fucking know—please, man, I told you everything!"
Alejandro stands.
I expect him to walk away.
Instead, he grabs the man by the throat.
"No loose ends," he says simply, and drives the hammer down onto the man's temple. The crack is final. Sharp. Mace slumps instantly, dead before he hits the ground.
Alejandro straightens and calmly sets the hammer on the table, blood coating his sleeves.
I don't flinch.
He turns to me, face unreadable. "That was necessary."
"I didn't say it wasn't."
A beat.
Then a smirk. "You're hard to impress."
"You're not trying hard enough."
Alejandro chuckles, low and dark. "Good. I was worried you'd be a delicate thing."
I take a step forward, closing the distance between us. Eyes locked.
"I'm not here to be impressed," I say coldly. "I'm here to watch you prove your worth."
The air shifts.
He nods once. "Then stay close. Kessler's next."
The air in the warehouse hangs thick—rotting, stagnant, soaked in the stench of mildew and piss. Rust clings to the support beams like blood that never washed clean. I step through the filth slowly, eyes scanning the shadows, boots cracking glass and old syringes beneath me.
Alejandro walks ahead, calm, controlled—like a panther stalking prey that's already too wounded to run. He doesn't speak. He doesn't have to. Every movement he makes says I've done this before, and I'll do it again. I've seen killers in my life—hell, I am one—but there's something more surgical about him. Less rage, more precision.
It should unnerve me.
Instead, it draws me in.
We reach the back, where an old mattress is sunken into the concrete floor like it's trying to rot away. Kessler's there, curled up with an empty bottle and dried vomit down the front of his shirt. His right hand twitches as if he's fighting something in his sleep.
Alejandro doesn't slow. He turns to me and says quietly, "Wake him."
Just that. No question. No hesitation.
I oblige.
I slam my boot into Kessler's ribs. There's a sick crack. He jolts awake with a hoarse scream, eyes wide, breath ragged.
"What the—fuck—!"
Alejandro squats beside him, elbow resting on his knee, a lazy calm over his face that makes it worse somehow. "Good morning, sunshine. You remember me?"
Kessler blinks. I watch the moment it clicks.
"Vendetta," he gasps.
"Smart boy," Alejandro replies, voice smooth and measured. "Then you know I'm not here to waste time."
He smiles, but it never touches his eyes.
"I told you," Kessler stammers, trying to scramble upright. "I told your guy—I don't know anything about the Viper—"
The backhand comes without warning. Fast. Brutal. A sound like meat hitting marble. Kessler crashes into the concrete wall behind him, blood spraying from his split lip.
Alejandro rises slowly, dusts his hand off on his pants.
"I didn't ask what you don't know. I'm not interested in your ignorance." His voice is soft, but it cuts like wire.
Kessler is trembling now. I almost pity him. Almost.
Alejandro crouches again and grabs a handful of greasy hair, wrenching Kessler's head back. "Last week. Snake ring. Tall man. You met him."
Kessler sobs. "I—I swear I didn't know who he was—he just said to pass on the money and wait for instructions—"
Alejandro doesn't speak. He pulls a knife from the back of his belt, the steel gleaming even in the dim light. He presses the blade gently—almost lovingly—against Kessler's cheek.
I hold my breath.
"Where is he meeting next?"
Kessler gulps. "Dock Nine! Tomorrow morning! He's meeting someone from out of town—they said it's important—I swear I don't know more than that!"
Alejandro studies him like he's inspecting a painting. Then, without a word, he slides the knife across Kessler's throat in one smooth, clinical motion.
Blood spurts like a severed hose. Kessler gurgles, twitching, then goes still.
I don't flinch. Neither does Alejandro.
He wipes the blade on Kessler's ragged shirt and turns toward me, voice as casual as if we were discussing weather. "Text your brother."
I nod, fingers already moving. I send Phoenix the message:
RAVEN: Kessler gave up a location. Dock Nine. Tomorrow morning. Viper's contact will be there. Kessler's dead.
Delivered. Read.
No reply. But I don't need one.
We walk back to the car through puddles of rot and blood, and my pulse is a steady thrum beneath my skin. Alejandro doesn't speak. I don't either. The silence is thick—intimate in a way I don't like.
I glance at him as he opens the driver door.
There's something in his expression... not satisfaction. Something colder. A knowing. A hunger.
And it unsettles me that I don't want to look away.
The car is too quiet.
Alejandro's driving like he's got nowhere to be—fingers relaxed on the wheel, head leaned back slightly like he just finished a damn massage instead of slicing a man's throat. The city lights blur past the tinted windows, but my eyes stay on him. Watching. Weighing.
He's calm. Too calm.
"Want to talk about it?" he finally asks, voice light, like we're friends out for coffee.
I don't answer.
His smirk stretches wider. "No? You sure? You've got that twitch in your eye again. Same one you had when we first met."
I exhale through my nose. "You murdered someone, Alejandro."
"He was useless. And a coward." He shrugs, like that makes it justifiable. "If he'd lied a second longer, I would've gotten bored."
I grit my teeth. "You didn't need to kill him."
Alejandro hums like he's thinking. "Mmm. That's where we differ, Raven. I don't 'need' to do anything. I choose to."
I shoot him a glare, but he doesn't even glance my way. Just keeps his eyes on the road, smiling faintly to himself like he enjoys the way my jaw's clenched.
God, I want to hit him.
"You think everything's a game," I mutter.
He raises an eyebrow. "Isn't it?"
I stare out the window, biting my inner cheek so hard I taste blood. I shouldn't respond. I know his type—provoking just to get under your skin.
"I've seen worse than you," I say. "And they all bled like the rest."
That gets a reaction.
He chuckles. Deep. Rich. Infuriating.
"Oh, I don't doubt it. I'd bet you made them scream, too. But I'm not worse, Raven." His voice dips, smooth and low like silk on a blade. "I'm just the first one who doesn't pretend to be anything else."
I turn on him. "You think that makes you honest?"
"I think it makes me consistent," he replies. "And I think it scares you more than you'll admit."
He finally looks at me, just briefly, but long enough to let the air shift between us—electric and tense and sharp-edged.
I want to deny it.
Instead I say nothing.
He smiles wider, like that silence confirms everything.
"I don't scare easily," I say after a long beat.
"I know," he murmurs, turning his attention back to the road. "That's what makes you interesting."
I almost reach for my knife. Not to use it. Just to feel it. Anchor myself.
"You're going to push the wrong button one day," I mutter. "And I'll be the one holding the blade."
Alejandro laughs again. Louder this time. "You think I don't want that?"
My stomach knots—but not from fear.
The worst part is... I don't think he's bluffing.
And worse than that?
I don't think I want him to be. I grip my knife anyway, knuckles whitening as rain begins to patter on the windshield. The drive back is long but Im too wound up to care. Alejandro parks the car and we walk inside with him in front of me
The estate is silent. Too silent.
The marble floors echo with each step as I follow Alejandro inside. He doesn't speak. Doesn't look back. Just drapes his coat over the stair railing like this is any other night—like we didn't just leave a man bleeding into gravel.
I trail behind him into the dining room, where a fire is already lit and food is waiting on the table.
I don't remember asking for it.
I don't remember saying I was hungry.
But everything's ready. Polished. Set. Predictable.
That's what pisses me off the most.
"Sit," Alejandro says simply, already sliding into his chair like this is some kind of date.
I stay standing. Arms crossed. Eyes on him.
"I said sit."
"Why?" I snap. "So you can feel like a gentleman after gutting someone in a warehouse?"
He lifts a glass of wine and takes a slow sip before answering. "Because you need to eat. You haven't had anything since we left. And I don't like seeing your hands shake."
That's it.
The chair nearest me flips across the room, crashing against the wall. The wine on the table sloshes violently.
His eyes flick to the mess. Still calm. Still maddening.
"I don't need anything from you."
"No?" he murmurs. "You sure scream like someone who needs something."
"Fuck you." My fists curl. "You think you're charming? You think any of this is real?"
He stands. Slowly. Deliberately. "I don't care about charming. But I know when someone's scared of how much they feel."
I move like lightning, slamming my hands on the table. The plates jump.
"You don't get to talk about feelings. You don't know me."
He steps closer.
"I know what people look like when they're numb. And I know what it means when someone like you starts to crack."
I laugh—sharp and bitter. "You think this is cracking? You should've seen me when Robin died. This? This is me being polite."
He's within arm's reach now, and I can feel the heat of him. The control. The restraint.
"Then show me impolite," he says quietly. "Go ahead. Hit me. Hurt me. Burn something down. Do it, Raven. I won't stop you."
I do.
My fist flies before I register it, slamming into his jaw with enough force to rattle my knuckles. He doesn't stumble. Doesn't retaliate. Just turns his head and licks the blood off his bottom lip.
My breath is ragged. I blink—hands trembling from adrenaline.
He wipes his mouth. "That all?"
"No," I hiss.
I launch forward again, shoving him back against the fireplace with a growl. We slam into the brick, and I raise my fist again—but this time he catches my wrist.
He doesn't squeeze. Doesn't twist.
He just holds me there. Steady. Patient.
"You done?"
"No," I whisper.
His hand drops. I don't swing again. Not because I've cooled down—but because I see it now.
He let me hit him.
He let me shove him.
He let me win.
The rage fizzles, giving way to something more dangerous: shame. And beneath that... recognition.
He sees me.
Worse—he understands me.
I back away like I've been burned, eyes darting anywhere but his face.
"Don't pity me," I spit.
He lowers himself back into his chair, like nothing happened. "I never pity wolves."
I stand there, fists clenched, heart pounding, chest tight.
And for the first time since Robin died...
I don't know who I hate more—Alejandro... or myself.
FLASHBACK — Two Years Ago
The compound was too quiet.
No drills. No sparring. Just the faint sound of leaves scraping against the concrete courtyard. I was already on edge before I found Robin sitting alone on the stone bench behind the weapons shed.
He used to wait for me here. We'd sneak off from training—he'd bring those caramel candies he stole from Dove's stash, and I'd pretend not to know. But this time... no candy. No smile. Just silence and that hollow look in his eyes.
"Robin?" I approached slowly, cautiously, like he might shatter if I moved too fast. "You okay?"
He didn't look at me. Just kept staring at the floor, his hands clenched so tightly his knuckles were white.
"I'm fine," he said, but his voice cracked on the last syllable.
"You're not." I sat beside him. "What did he do?"
He finally looked at me—and there was something there I wasn't ready to see. Something sharp. Something accusing.
"I asked you to protect me, Raven."
My throat tightened. "I have."
"From everything but him."
I couldn't breathe.
He stood, backing away from me like I was the one who hurt him.
"You knew what he made me do. You knew I hated it. And you let it happen."
"I tried, Robin. You know I tried—"
"You didn't try hard enough!" His voice cracked like thunder. "You could've taken the beating. You could've fought him. But instead, you just stood there and watched while I—while I had to—" His hands trembled violently. "He made me hurt someone, Raven. A kid. Just a kid."
My stomach dropped.
"I couldn't stop it," I whispered.
"You didn't even try."
The silence that followed was more painful than his shouting.
"Maybe you're just like him," Robin said. His voice was low now. Controlled. Scary. "Maybe that's why you're still his little shadow."
My jaw clenched. I forced myself not to cry, not to break.
He turned to walk away.
"You think I enjoy this?" I called after him. "You think I sleep at night knowing what he made you do? What he made all of us do?"
Robin paused—but he didn't look back.
"I used to look up to you," he said. "Now when I look at you... I see him."
Then he was gone
The storm inside me hasn't passed.
Not even close.
I haven't spoken since the fight. Not to Alejandro. Not to Phoenix over the phone. Not even to myself. The silence wraps around me like a second skin—tight, suffocating, strangely protective.
I sit by the window of one of Alejandro's endless guest rooms, watching as the sun smears across the estate grounds like an open wound. Below, the garden is flawless. Sculpted trees, blood-red roses, fountains that make no sound. It's beautiful in a way that feels... fake. Controlled.
Just like him.
The bastard let me win. I saw it in his eyes. The way he moved, the way he smiled through the bruises I gave him. He let me win—and I don't know what infuriates me more: that he did it, or that I needed it.
There's a soft knock at the door.
I don't answer.
It opens anyway.
Alejandro walks in without a trace of hesitation. Shirt unbuttoned at the top, sleeves rolled, fresh bruises on his jaw—ones I put there. He looks more amused than angry. More intrigued than offended.
"Morning, Raven," he says smoothly. "Didn't expect you to sleep after dinner."
"I didn't," I reply, voice sharp as glass.
He grins. "Figured. Want to kill me again, or shall we skip the warm-up?"
I rise slowly from the chair, movements calculated. "Try anything, and I won't stop at warm-up."
He places something on the small table near the bed. A folded note. A black lighter. One single silver bullet.
"You're going to want to read that. Your brother sent word."
I step forward cautiously, eyes never leaving him. "Which brother?"
He shrugs. "The one who trusts me the least. So... all of them."
I open the note. Phoenix's handwriting. Tight, angry script.
'Got word from Dove. Meet moved forward. Viper contact expected today, not tomorrow. You and Alejandro need to move fast. Be ready.'
I crumple the paper in my fist. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"
Alejandro walks past me and gazes out the same window I'd been staring through for hours. "Because I like watching you unravel first. It's fascinating."
"I could kill you right now," I say calmly.
"You won't."
My fingers twitch.
"I might."
He turns, his smile twisted, dark. "You'll try. And maybe that's what we both want."
We stare at each other, fire and frost, and for the first time since I arrived here, I realize just how dangerous it is—being around someone who doesn't flinch from my rage. Someone who invites it