The rain had followed them back. It drummed against the roof of the safehouse, steady, relentless, as if the storm itself refused to let the night end.
Ezra sat on the floor with his back to the wall, knees drawn up, hands trembling in his lap. He hadn't spoken since they left the warehouse. The pistol Kai had shoved into his jacket lay on the table now, dark and ugly against the wood, like it carried a pulse of its own.
Every time Ezra blinked, he saw the man's face. Not clear—never clear—but enough. The moment of shock, the stagger, the way his body hit the concrete with a sickening thud.
The sound wouldn't leave him.
Jace lounged in the corner, smoke curling lazily from his cigarette, his eyes sharp despite the relaxed posture. He hadn't needled Ezra yet. Hadn't mocked him. And that, somehow, made it worse.
Kai stood by the window, his silhouette rigid against the dim light. He hadn't spoken either.
The silence pressed in until Ezra finally broke. "I killed him."
The words scraped out of him, raw and hollow.
Kai turned, his face unreadable. "You survived."
Ezra's chest tightened. "That's not the same."
Jace exhaled smoke, chuckling low. "First one's always the hardest. After a while, the faces blur. You stop remembering them."
Ezra snapped his head toward him. "That's supposed to make me feel better?"
"No." Jace's eyes gleamed. "It's supposed to make you feel real."
Ezra pushed to his feet, his body trembling. "I didn't sign up for this. The dares, the games—I thought it was about proving something. Strength. Courage. But this—" He pointed at the gun on the table. "This isn't a game. This is blood on my hands."
Kai's voice cut through the room, steady and sharp. "You think courage comes without blood?"
Ezra froze.
Kai stepped closer, his gaze heavy. "This is the world you stepped into the moment you said yes. Fear isn't conquered in comfort. Survival doesn't wait for permission. You pulled the trigger because the alternative was dying on that floor."
Ezra's breath shook. "Then why do I feel like I did die?"
The silence after hung like smoke.
For the first time, Jace's smirk faded entirely. He stubbed out his cigarette, his jaw tight. Ezra caught it—a flicker of recognition in his eyes, like he'd asked himself the same question once.
Kai's hand brushed the gun on the table, sliding it back toward Ezra. "Look at it."
Ezra recoiled. "I don't want it."
"You don't get to want or not want," Kai said, his tone flat. "It's yours now. Every weapon you touch will be yours until the day you can't lift it anymore. Pretend otherwise and you'll break."
Ezra stared at the pistol, his pulse pounding. His stomach turned, bile rising. But part of him knew Kai was right. Pretending it hadn't happened wouldn't erase the weight in his chest.
Slowly, with shaking fingers, he reached out. His hand closed around the gun. Cold. Heavy. Final.
Kai nodded once, as if that tiny movement was a victory.
Ezra hated him for it. And yet, a part of him clung to it too—because Kai's certainty was the only thing keeping him from splintering apart.
Hours slipped by. Jace dozed in the corner, one arm draped over his eyes. Kai remained near the window, a statue carved from shadow. Ezra sat at the table, the pistol in front of him, staring at it as if it might speak.
When he couldn't stand it anymore, he pushed to his feet and stepped outside. The rain hit him instantly, cold needles against his skin. He tilted his head back, letting it wash over him, as if water could cleanse what blood had stained.
But the memory wouldn't fade. The man's fall. The silence after.
Ezra's throat closed. He pressed his hands to his face, dragging in a ragged breath.
"Drowning won't help."
The voice came from behind him. Jace.
Ezra lowered his hands, glaring. "You always sneak up just to piss me off?"
Jace leaned against the wall, lighting another cigarette. The glow briefly lit his face, sharper in the rain. "You think you're the first? The guilt doesn't go away. Not with rain. Not with whiskey. Not with anything."
Ezra's jaw tightened. "Then how do you live with it?"
Jace's smile was humorless. "You don't. You carry it until you stop noticing the weight. Or until it crushes you."
The words chilled Ezra more than the rain. He studied Jace's face—the tired lines, the sharpness that wasn't just arrogance but armor. For the first time, Ezra wondered what Jace had buried under his smirk, how many faces haunted him in the dark.
Jace flicked ash into the rain, his eyes narrowing. "Don't let Kai fool you. He talks about survival like it's a virtue. It's not. It's just what's left when everything else is stripped away."
Ezra's voice came out low. "Why follow him, then?"
Jace didn't answer immediately. His jaw worked, his eyes flicked to the distance. Finally, he said, "Because once someone saves your life, you spend the rest of it trying to figure out if you owe them… or if you hate them for it."
With that, he crushed the cigarette under his boot and walked back inside, leaving Ezra soaked and shivering, his words burrowing like splinters.
When Ezra returned, Kai was still by the window. Their eyes met.
Kai didn't ask where he'd gone. Didn't say anything at all. But Ezra caught the brief flicker in his gaze—something between calculation and something softer, something Kai would never name aloud.
Ezra sat back at the table, dripping rainwater onto the floor. The pistol was still there, waiting.
And Ezra realized something terrifying: he wasn't afraid of holding it anymore.
He was afraid of getting used to it.