The wind dragged its claws down my spine as I walked.
I didn't bother lighting another cigarette. My lip was split, my jaw still humming from the punch at the bar, and I didn't have the energy to keep pretending I wasn't falling apart. My boots slapped puddles and broken sidewalk, the city echoing around me like it didn't care if I made it home or not.
Home.
One-bedroom, fourth floor, broken elevator. Stained ceiling. Roaches in the wall. But Tiffany was there, and that made it mine. The only thing I had left in this world that meant a damn.
I was three blocks from the apartment when the air shifted. Call it instinct. Call it experience. I knew I was being followed before the first footstep hit behind me.
"Roan."
I stopped.
The voice was soft—but not kind. Too calm, too smooth. Like a knife wrapped in silk.
I turned around slowly.
Brack stood at the mouth of the alley, hands in the pockets of his black bomber jacket, grinning like he was proud of whatever was about to happen. His gold tooth flashed in the flickering streetlight. Beside him, his usual muscle—Tank and Grit—stood like concrete statues, their faces vacant but eager.
"Brack," I greeted, voice flat. "Out for a romantic stroll?"
"You've been dodging me."
"I prefer the term 'pacing my stress.' Builds suspense."
He stepped closer. "You owe me."
I raised an eyebrow. "You're gonna have to narrow that down, pal. I owe a lot of people."
"Two grand by Friday," he said, cutting through the humor. "Or I take what's more valuable."
My stomach clenched.
"Don't talk about her," I said quietly.
"I didn't say anything."
"You thought it."
The silence between us thickened like smoke. Brack's grin widened. He gestured, casual as hell.
Tank moved first—grabbed me by the front of my jacket and slammed me against the alley wall so hard my teeth clacked together. My vision fuzzed for a second, stars bursting behind my eyes.
Grit followed with a gut punch that sent the air tearing out of my lungs.
I dropped to one knee.
"You think you're clever," Brack murmured, circling me now like a vulture. "Running your mouth. Flirting with danger. But you forget who you're dealing with."
"I don't forget," I gasped, spitting blood onto the concrete. "I just don't care."
Another hit—this time to my ribs. I grunted, folded, barely caught myself before hitting the ground face-first.
"You want to gamble with your life, be my guest," Brack said. "But gamble with hers?"
He leaned down, eyes inches from mine.
"Next time I won't be this nice."
Then he straightened, nodded once to his guys.
They left me there.
Cracked, breathless, bleeding into asphalt. My pulse pounded behind my eyes. My hands trembled as I braced myself against the wall and hauled my body back to standing, one slow breath at a time.
It wasn't just pain—it was rage.
That helpless, caged kind. The kind that choked you if you didn't swallow it fast enough.
By the time I reached the building, the pain had settled deep into my bones. My key stuck in the lock, as usual, and I had to jiggle it like five times before the door creaked open.
The apartment was quiet except for the soft hum of the heater—that ancient metal box in the corner wheezing like it had asthma. The lights were off, but the glow from Tiffany's book lamp lit the living room in soft gold.
She was curled up on the couch, hoodie wrapped around her knees, bare feet tucked under her. Her dark curls were piled on top of her head in a messy bun, and her glasses were sliding halfway down her nose. She looked up as soon as I came in.
Her face changed in an instant.
"Cass—oh my god."
"I'm fine," I said automatically.
She got to her feet fast, eyes already scanning me like she was taking inventory. "No, you're not! What happened to your face? Did you get jumped?"
"Just a misunderstanding," I muttered, dropping my jacket onto the floor. "Some guy didn't appreciate my sense of humor."
"Was it Brack?"
I hesitated.
That was all she needed.
She exhaled, angry and scared all at once. "You promised he wouldn't come near us again."
"I'm handling it."
"With what? We barely have rent this month. You think I don't know that?"
I sat down slowly, every joint aching. "Don't worry about it, Tiff."
"I'm your sister. I'm allowed to worry."
She looked like she wanted to say more—something that would make me hurt less—but she just crossed the room and sat beside me, folding herself into my side.
I draped my arm around her, careful of the bruises.
We sat in silence for a long time, listening to the wheeze of the heater and the low rumble of the city outside the window.
I didn't have a plan.
But I had until Friday.
And I'd burn the whole damn city down before I let Brack lay a finger on her.