The clock ticked past eleven-thirty when Ezra laced his boots, his fingers trembling just enough to betray him. He'd never been one for rituals, but tonight, every knot, every tightened lace felt like the last thread keeping him together.
Kai stood by the window, gaze fixed on the rain-slick street below. His stillness was unnerving, like a predator conserving energy before the strike. Jace paced the room like a caged animal, lighting one cigarette after another, the glow of each ember sharp against the dark.
At twelve sharp, Kai finally turned. "We move."
Ezra followed without a word, pulse drumming in his ears. Jace brushed past him in the doorway, muttering low enough for only him to hear: "Try not to slow us down, rookie."
Ezra ignored the jab, but his chest tightened. He couldn't decide if Jace wanted him to fail—or wanted him gone altogether.
The streets were slick with rain, their footsteps muffled against the asphalt. The city looked different at this hour: hollow-eyed, dangerous, alive in ways daylight couldn't touch. Neon bled into puddles, red and blue and sickly yellow. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed, fading into silence.
Kai led them toward the old district—rows of warehouses that loomed like sleeping giants, their windows blacked out, their walls tagged with graffiti that looked more like warnings than art.
Ezra swallowed hard. "What are we walking into?"
Kai didn't look back. "A handoff."
Jace snorted. "That's the polite word for it."
Ezra's throat went dry. He'd imagined fights, maybe threats, but handoff? That sounded like deals, and deals meant men with guns and reasons to use them.
Kai stopped at the edge of a chain-link fence, the metal slick with rain. He pushed it open, the creak swallowed by the storm. "Stay sharp. Speak only if I tell you to."
Ezra nodded, though his gut twisted.
They slipped inside the largest warehouse, its cavernous belly echoing with every drip of water from the roof. Crates were stacked in uneven towers, the smell of oil and damp wood filling the air.
And then—voices.
Men emerged from the shadows, a half-dozen of them, their silhouettes sharp under the faint glow of hanging lamps. Guns glinted at their sides, not raised but visible, a threat without words.
At their front was a man in a leather coat, his face carved with deep lines, eyes cold and measuring.
"Kai," the man said, voice gravel rough.
Kai inclined his head. "Brenner."
Ezra froze. The way they said each other's names wasn't friendly. It was acknowledgment—two wolves circling, recognizing the teeth in each other's mouths.
"You're late," Brenner continued.
"Traffic," Kai said evenly.
A chuckle rippled through Brenner's men. Jace shifted closer to Ezra, low enough only he could hear: "Keep your hands where they can see them. Don't twitch."
Ezra obeyed, pulse hammering.
Brenner gestured, and one of his men dragged a crate forward, popping the lid. Inside, wrapped in black cloth, were stacks of something Ezra couldn't fully see. Paper. Cash? No—the size wasn't right.
Weapons.
Ezra's stomach turned cold.
Kai remained impassive. He pulled a smaller case from his coat and set it on a crate between them. With a click, it opened, revealing neat bundles of bills, crisp and tight.
The exchange was simple. Too simple.
Which was why Ezra's gut told him it wouldn't stay that way.
As Brenner's men began to move the crate, Jace leaned against a support beam, cigarette between his lips, smirk plastered across his face like armor. "Smooth as always."
But his eyes weren't on the exchange—they were scanning the shadows, sharp, restless.
Ezra followed his gaze, and that's when he saw it: a flicker of movement near the far end of the warehouse. A shape, low and fast, ducking behind a stack of crates.
Not one of Brenner's.
His chest clenched. "Kai—"
The first gunshot cracked the air like thunder.
Chaos erupted. Brenner's men scattered, weapons drawn, shouting. A second group stormed from the shadows, masks covering their faces, guns raised and spitting fire.
Ezra dropped to the ground instinctively, the concrete biting into his palms. The smell of gunpowder filled the air, sharp and choking.
Kai was already moving, shoving the case of money aside, drawing his own weapon from beneath his coat with terrifying speed. He fired twice, clean shots that dropped two masked men where they stood.
Jace grabbed Ezra by the collar, yanking him behind a stack of crates just as bullets shredded the wood where he'd been kneeling. "Welcome to the real game, rookie," Jace hissed, eyes wild with adrenaline.
Ezra's heart thundered so hard it hurt. He wanted to scream, to run, but instead his hand closed around the cold steel of a pistol Kai must've shoved into his jacket earlier. His fingers trembled, but he held on.
Kai barked an order—sharp, precise. "Flank left! Now!"
Ezra's body moved before his brain caught up, scrambling alongside Jace through the maze of crates. Bullets sparked against metal, ricochets screaming in his ears. His lungs burned with every breath.
They ducked behind a low wall, Jace firing a few rounds over the edge. He cursed under his breath, the smirk gone, replaced by grim focus.
Ezra clutched the pistol tighter, the weight foreign in his hand. He'd never held one before. Never pointed death at another person.
But when a masked man rounded the corner, rifle raised, Ezra's body reacted. He lifted the gun, finger squeezing the trigger.
The shot rang out, deafening.
The man staggered, fell.
Ezra's breath caught. His hand shook violently. He'd just—
"Keep moving!" Jace snapped, shoving him forward. "No time for breakdowns."
Ezra stumbled on, his vision blurring at the edges. The warehouse was a storm of noise and fear, but through it all he caught glimpses of Kai—moving like a ghost, precise, ruthless. Every shot he fired found its mark. Every step was measured.
Ezra realized then: this wasn't new for Kai. This was his world.
And now it was Ezra's, too.
The gunfire finally dwindled, leaving only the groans of the injured and the crackle of rain dripping through broken skylights. Brenner's men regrouped, weapons raised, eyes blazing. The masked attackers had retreated, leaving bodies scattered across the concrete.
Kai holstered his weapon, calm even in the aftermath. He looked at Brenner. "You've got a leak."
Brenner spat blood, glaring at the bodies. "I'll deal with it."
His eyes shifted to Ezra then, sharp and assessing. Ezra froze, every nerve screaming.
But before Brenner could speak, Kai stepped in front of him. "He's with me."
Something unspoken passed between them. Finally, Brenner gave a slow nod. "Then keep him alive."
With that, he and his men dragged their crates into the dark, leaving the warehouse in eerie silence.
Ezra's legs buckled. He leaned against a wall, his pistol slipping from his hand, clattering against the concrete. His breath came ragged, every nerve frayed raw.
Jace crouched beside him, studying his face. For once, there was no smirk, no venom. Just a flicker of something unreadable.
"You pulled the trigger," Jace said quietly.
Ezra swallowed hard, his throat dry. "I didn't have a choice."
Jace lit another cigarette, the flare briefly illuminating his eyes. "That's what we all tell ourselves."
Kai's voice cut through the quiet. "Enough. We move."
Ezra forced himself to his feet, his body shaking. He followed Kai into the rain, Jace trailing behind.
And as the night swallowed them, Ezra realized he'd crossed a line he couldn't uncross.
The dares were no longer games.
They were survival.