Rain slicked the streets in silver ribbons as the SUV wound through East Halworth's industrial belt, tires hissing over standing water. Warehouses loomed in blocks of rust and corrugated steel, their windows spilling fractured light across the asphalt. Inside the cab, the air carried the faint tang of oil and wet concrete, the silence stretched taut between three bodies who didn't need words to measure distance.
Harper sat in the back, shoulder leaned to the window, watching neon smear across the glass as the city rolled past. Up front, Brock drove with his usual precision, hands steady on the wheel, eyes forward. Knuckles rode passenger, broad frame angled toward him, the two of them trading words too low for her to catch. The murmur carried like a current she wasn't meant to follow, leaving her with the reflection of her own face in the glass and the steady hum of the engine beneath her feet.
It had been almost a week since her nightmare brought him into her room, and she'd woken at dawn to find him still there. She hadn't said a word—just rolled to the wall, feigning sleep until the chair creaked and his footsteps carried him out. He never spoke of it. Neither did she. She wasn't even sure he knew she'd opened her eyes.
Now, in the hush of the SUV, her gaze flicked to him at the wheel, the memory tugging closer than she wanted. Brock felt it—or maybe just saw it in her eyes—and spoke without turning his head.
"Straight talk," he said. "This is a sit-down. Yard broker owes us lanes. I make the deal, Knuckles watches angles. You don't move, don't speak, don't breathe wrong. You're here to see how it runs. Nothing more."
His eyes cut to the sidearm at her hip before returning to the road. "That's for show. You don't touch it unless I tell you."
Her hand brushed the edge of the holster, subtle as breath, before she stilled it against her thigh. A simple nod was all she gave him, eyes returning to the window. He'd made his point.
The SUV turned off the main road and rolled up to Rivers Edge Reclamation, the kind of neutral ground that dressed itself as legitimate—hand-painted hours on fogged glass, a bell wired to a sprung hinge—while catwalk silhouettes and the slow prowl of a yard dog told the truth louder than any paperwork. The chainlink rattled on its sliders and let them through. Weld-light sparked somewhere back among stacked frames and twisted rebar, blue-white flashes that made the puddles look like they were holding lightning.
Brock pulled the SUV into a strip of gravel near the gate and killed the engine. For a moment the only sound was the tick of cooling metal and the dog's low snarl drifting across the yard. Then he turned in his seat, eyes settling on her.
"You walk on my right," he said. "Half a stride back. You don't speak unless I tell you. Keep your hands where they can see them."
Knuckles opened his door first, scanning the lot before stepping out. Brock followed, jacket zipped, hands empty, sidearm hidden under fabric because the posted rules said holsters snapped and magazines seated. Harper slid out last, boots hitting wet gravel. She moved to where he'd told her, close enough for him to block her line if heat came fast, close enough to read his movements.
They passed through a narrow man-gate set beside the main sliders, chainlink clanging shut behind them. The yard stretched in broken geometry—rows of stacked frames, twisted rebar, the wet glare of weld-light flaring blue-white in the distance. Sparks showered briefly, making the puddles look like they were holding fire. A dog barked once, then slunk back into shadow. Cameras blinked red from the corners of the catwalks, sweeping lazy arcs across the open ground. Harper felt them trace her as she walked, the weight of eyes both electronic and human settling on her shoulders.
Brock kept his stride even, shoulders squared in the posture he wore when business was meant to look clean. She stayed the half-step back he'd ordered. Knuckles held the outside edge, silent and solid, eyes on angles as they crossed to the far side of the yard.
A steel staircase climbed toward a glassed-in office perched above the loading bay. Brock took it without pause, hand loose at his side, jacket zipped. Harper matched his rhythm, every sense locked on his back. At the top, Knuckles broke off, posting on the far side of the door where anyone inside could see him. Brock pushed it open without knocking and stepped through. Harper followed, the room tightening around her as the door clicked shut behind them.
The office smelled of hot iron and wet cardboard, the air stale from the heater rattling in the corner. Fluorescent light buzzed overhead, throwing everything in flat glare—steel desk bolted to the floor, two plastic chairs in front of it, a file cabinet shoved against the back wall.
Three men waited. Rylan Pike stood behind the desk with a clipboard he pretended to need, eyes quick and restless behind square frames. Brasso leaned against the wall opposite, shoulders filling the narrow space, arms folded like weight was its own language. Teal hovered near the file cabinet, sneakers shifting, gaze never settling.
Brock crossed straight to the desk, posture clean, controlled, like he was here to close business and nothing else. Harper stayed where he'd told her—half a stride to his right, not sitting, not speaking—her eyes skimming the geometry of the room. Pike's pen. Brasso's bulk. Teal's jitter. The single door at their backs, Knuckles visible through the glass, posted solid against the rail.
The balance of it pressed down on her. A triangle: broker at the desk, muscle at the wall, runner at the back. Brock in the center of it, steady as stone.
He unzipped his jacket just enough for the line of the holster to show under fabric and set a plain envelope on the desk. The paper made a dry, deliberate sound against steel.
Pike tapped his pen against the clipboard, a smile that aimed for easy but didn't reach his eyes. "Lawson. Didn't think the Syndicate sent rain calls. You here to check the books, or just to remind us whose lane we're standing on?"
Brock didn't bother with the smile. He slid the envelope forward across steel, the sound cutting through the room. "Five nights from now, a shipment rolls in. Two trucks. They use this dock, this hour. You clear the way."
The pen stilled. Teal shifted, sneakers squeaking against linoleum. Pike's gaze flicked to Brasso, then back to Brock. Brasso unfolded his arms, eyes drifting toward Harper with slow intent, like the demand had given him license.
Harper stayed steady where Brock had set her, but the weight of Brasso's stare pressed closer than his bulk against the wall.
Pike set the clipboard down, pen balanced between his fingers. "You don't need me to tell you who runs those trucks. Five nights out, two units heavy—that's Maw steel. Clearing a lane for them means putting my face between Syndicate weight and their guns. That's not a position a man walks out of clean."
Brock didn't blink. "You don't need to walk out clean. You just need to keep the dock open."
Across the room, Brasso shifted off the wall, the movement small but loud in the tight space. His eyes cut back to Harper, slower this time, tracing her in a way that made it clear he wasn't listening to the deal anymore.
Harper kept her body still, jaw locked, but every muscle in her shoulders screamed to move. She fixed her gaze on the desk instead, on the curl of paper at the envelope's corner, the way Pike's thumb twitched against the clip.
Pike's frown deepened. He leaned forward, elbows to steel. "And when they ask why the cameras blinked? Why the sweep was light? What answer am I supposed to sell them?"
Brasso's grin edged visible now, weight rolling off the wall as if her silence were an invitation. He let one hand smooth the line of his sleeve, casual, while the other hung just a little too low at his belt.
Brock's gaze flicked once, fast, to Brasso. A single beat. Then back to Pike, as if the man's muscle wasn't even worth a warning. "You sell them whatever story keeps your teeth in your head. Lane stays open. Sweep stays blind. Five nights."
Pike leaned back, pen ticking. He pitched it low to Teal: "Cut the sweep and they'll smell it. Five days isn't long to mask a shift. Maw won't buy coincidence."
Teal shifted, sneakers squeaking against linoleum. "Five days isn't long to mask it. Cameras catch a gap, they'll come asking why rotation slipped. And they won't buy coincidence."
Pike's mouth pressed flat, the pen pausing mid-tap. "If it backfires, we're the ones they burn first."
Their words blurred to Harper—murmurs of cameras, sweep, Maw—but the meaning was plain enough. The deal stank of risk, and Pike was scrambling for a way not to bleed first if it soured.
In the quiet between their whispers, Brasso pushed off the wall. His boots thudded once against the floor, shoulders rolling loose as he drifted forward. His gaze crawled over her like he was stripping layers, slow, deliberate, until it hooked and held.
Brock didn't turn, but Harper caught the shift—the grind of his jaw, the single tap of a finger against the envelope on the desk. A signal. Small. Controlled. He'd seen it.
Her breath thinned, pulse racing, but she held her ground. His orders echoed in her head: half a stride back, don't speak, don't breathe wrong.
Brasso's grin crept wider, eyes sliding from her to Brock with something uglier curled at the edges. "Didn't think you mixed business and comfort, Lawson. Guess she's keeping you warm between runs."
Brock's reply came flat, aimed at Pike. "She's here to watch. That's all. If your man's confused about the deal, clear him up before he costs you."
Pike's jaw twitched, pen tapping harder against the clipboard. He didn't answer right away. Teal shifted like he wanted to melt through the floor.
Brasso's laugh scraped out low, mean. "She ain't here to watch. She's here so you've got someone to clean up after. You gonna tell me she doesn't drop to her knees when you're done?"
The words hung like smoke, souring the air. Teal's sneakers squeaked as he shifted again, gaze skittering toward the window. Pike's pen stilled on the desk.
Brasso's eyes dropped, slow and blatant, lingering on her mouth before crawling back up to her eyes. His hand shifted lower, palming himself through his pants as his grin curled mean. "Can picture it already," he drawled. "Those lips stretched wide, spit and tears down your chin. Bet you'd choke pretty for me."
The air went tight. Teal flinched like he'd caught a blow himself, Pike froze mid-tap, the room pressing in heavier with every word.
Then Brasso's other hand came up, fingers reaching for her hair—mocking, certain, like he was already owed the touch.
That was the break.
Brock's weight shifted off the desk, shoulders angling to cut between them—but Harper moved first. Her jacket snapped up, steel clearing leather in one clean motion. The muzzle jammed under his ribs—no daylight between. Her knee crashed into his thigh, her free hand fisted his collar and wrenched him sideways, driving him into the edge of the desk hard enough to rattle the metal.
The office bristled—chair legs scraped, Teal's jacket rode up as his hand jerked for steel, Pike froze with the clipboard clutched tight. Knuckles was already framed in the glass with one palm shown high for the camera, his off-hand drifting an inch then freezing at his jacket hem.
Harper's voice stayed level. "Open your mouth at me again," she told Brasso, eyes flat as the muzzle ground deeper, "and I open you."
Brasso hissed through his teeth, his grin faltering as the pressure dug in. Teal's hand stalled mid-draw. Pike's pen slipped against the page, the weight of the moment dragging the deal into silence.
That's when Brock moved—slow, deliberate, anchoring the chaos. His left hand settled over Harper's wrist, not pulling her off, just enough to remind her he was there. His right opened toward Pike, calm threading into the air.
"Rylan, eyes on the bubble," he said, voice steady as concrete. "Port security's watching. If they hear a pop, your dock closes, your books get torn apart, and Black Maw's trucks go looking for another lane. You sign with us tonight, you keep your yard open. You stall, you lose everything."
Brock's gaze cut next to Teal, steady as a blade. "Hands out. Now."
Teal froze halfway into his jacket, eyes wide, then eased his palms into the air, fingers trembling.
Brock shifted just enough to catch Brasso in his periphery, voice dropping lower. "Don't move. You breathe wrong, you bleed."
Brasso's jaw worked, the smirk gone, sweat starting at his temple as the muzzle dug deeper.
Then Brock's attention slid to Harper. His hand pressed firmer over her wrist, grounding, not forceful. "Voss," he said, voice flat but meant for her alone.
The name landed like a hook In the room. Pike's eyes flicked up—fast, startled—before he caught himself, recognition sparking and dying in the same breath. Teal's gaze darted once between them, questions he didn't dare voice tightening his face.
Brock didn't give it oxygen. His eyes flicked past Harper, toward the glass where Knuckles stood in reflection, silent and ready. A small tilt of his chin, a signal: hold steady.
Harper's grip slackened under his hand, breath dragging tight through her chest. Brock kept hold of her wrist, steady, until the muzzle slipped clear of Brasso's ribs. He guided her down smooth, pressing the weapon back into its holster, and only when the snap clicked shut did he release her.
Brasso stayed slumped against the desk, jaw tight, sweat shining at his temple, fury straining under his skin.
Brock didn't look at him. His attention locked on Pike, voice cutting through the thick silence. "Here's how this goes. You give me the lane, clean and quiet, five nights from now. Maw's trucks roll through, no delays, no surprises. You keep your men on leash, you keep this dock running. You stall, you hedge, you lose more than a contract—you lose your yard."
Pike's throat worked. His hand shook as he set the clipboard flat on the desk, pen dragging his name across the page with an unsteady scrawl.
Brock watched the ink dry. Then he gave a single nod. "Good. Now everyone walks away tonight."
The weight of it settled in the room—command, final and immovable. Teal dropped his gaze, Brasso clenched his jaw and stayed still, and Pike slid the signed sheet across the desk like an offering.
Brock took it, folded once, and tucked it into his jacket. Then he tipped his chin toward the door. "We're done."
He didn't wait for an answer. Just turned and moved, the weight of his stride carrying through the floor.
Harper fell in half a step behind, her pulse still a war drum in her chest. Knuckles peeled off the wall outside and slotted back into position at their flank, eyes hard, silent.
They descended the steel stairs without a word, boots ringing against the metal, the hum of the yard and the flash of weld-light filling the space between them. The gate clanged open, chainlink rattling like teeth, and the night air pressed damp against her face.
The night pressed heavier as they crossed the yard, puddles hissing under their boots. Weld-light flared blue across the stacks, throwing their shadows long.
Harper kept her eyes forward, half a stride behind Brock, but the heat in her chest had curdled into something colder. The echo of the holster snap still rang in her ears, louder now than the rain or the dog's low bark. She'd moved without leave, broken every word he'd laid down before they stepped out of the SUV.
And Brock hadn't said a thing.
That silence was worse than anything he could've barked in the moment.
By the time the black shape of the vehicle came into view, her stomach had knotted hard enough she felt it in her throat.
The SUV loomed in the dark strip of the lot, water dripping from its frame, rain ticking soft against the hood. Brock scanned once over his shoulder—toward the gate, the office glow behind them, the cameras mounted high. Then he rounded the nose of the vehicle, pulling them into the blind angle between stacked pallets and chainlink where no lens reached.
Harper had just set her hand on the door handle when his fist caught the collar of her jacket. Fabric wrenched tight against her throat as he slammed her back into the steel panel hard enough to rattle the chassis.
"What the fuck was that?" His voice was low, vicious, each word sharp as broken glass. "I gave you orders. You disobeyed. You nearly cost me the deal—and the Syndicate doesn't pay for mistakes."
Her pulse surged, adrenaline still dragging ragged through her chest. "He put his hands on me," she fired back, voice strained. "What was I supposed to do—"
The punch cut her short—shoulder, elbow, wrist in one brutal line. Two knuckles cracked across her mouth and nose, her head snapping back against the SUV with a hollow thud. White burst behind her eyes, copper spilling thick over her tongue as her nose split, blood hot and immediate down her lip.
Her knees threatened to give, but his fist still gripped her collar, jerking her upright like he'd never allow her the ground. The metal of the SUV bit cold against her spine, breath tearing shallow through the rush of iron filling her throat.
Across the hood, Knuckles stiffened, shoulders knotting tight, jaw flexing once—but he didn't move.
Brock's face stayed close, voice a low snarl. "Are you fucking stupid? You looking to get yourself killed? You think pulling steel on my orders is optional?"
Her mouth worked, a sound catching in her throat, but before she could shape it into words he shoved her off the panel. She stumbled sideways, boots skidding on gravel, before his hand cracked against her shoulder and drove her toward the back door.
"In the car." He yanked the door, crowded the space so there was only one direction to go. "Now."
Harper slid inside, folding herself into the corner like she could make herself smaller. Her knees came up tight, one arm wrapped around them, the other pinching hard at the bridge of her nose. Blood streamed hot through her fingers, dripping steady onto her pants. She let it—better there than the upholstery. Another mess would only earn her worse.
Brock's door yanked open and slammed shut in the same motion, the whole chassis shuddering with the force of it. His movements were clipped, violent in their precision—key jammed, ignition coughing the engine awake, his hands locking at ten and two on the wheel.
The passenger door shut softer, but not by much. Knuckles slid in, the seat groaning under his weight. He didn't look back, but Harper caught the brief set of his jaw in the glass, the stiff line of his shoulders angled forward.
The SUV filled with the scent of blood and wet metal as Brock dropped it into gear. Tires hissed over the gravel, the gate clanged shut behind them, and the yard fell away into rain.
Knuckles reached down without a word, rummaging under his seat into the duffel at his feet. His arm extended back, a rag dangling from his fist, offered blind over the seat. "Seatbelt," he muttered, voice low, flat.
Harper shifted stiffly, dragging her knees down from the corner to snap the buckle home. Then she snatched the cloth and pressed it hard under her nose. The fabric turned warm almost instantly, heavy with iron. She leaned forward, elbows braced to her thighs, breath rasping around the copper sting as the rag darkened in her hand.
Knuckles checked the mirrors twice like the first pass hadn't landed, thumb swiping condensation off the side window. His voice came quiet, meant only for her. "Keep pressure. Forward, not back. Breathe through your mouth."
The rag grew heavy in her hand, metallic taste bleeding down the back of her throat, her split lip finding teeth with every bump of the road. She caught Knuckles' look when it came again in the mirror—steady, unreadable, carrying more than he'd ever say—then it slipped away, leaving her gaze fixed on the hard line of Brock's shoulders as the city pulled them in. Rain stitched its quiet across the roof, the silence between the three of them thick enough it didn't need words to cut.
They took the river road without a sound, sliding under overpasses and along chainlink where the water smelled metallic in rain. Wipers measured the distance, lane markers passing in pale bands, the defroster whispering until the fog bled off the glass.
Harper kept the tilt forward, swapping corners of the rag as it soaked through, mouth open to breathe around the throb in her lip. Knuckles worked the mirrors and angles, shoulders shifting with the rhythm of habit—signal, check, settle—once cracking his window an inch to thin the smell of iron. Brock's grip stayed rigid on the wheel, no sudden entries, no wasted motion, his stare locked forward, never once letting the rearview catch his eyes.
The city unspooled in sodium and brake light and wet asphalt; a dredge barge moved dark on the river; a patrol car ghosted past in the opposite lane and kept going. When the viaduct bent, he took the turn under it and let the ramp carry them down to the service road, past a row of blanked-out warehouses and a battered billboard for a fireworks outlet that hadn't existed in years.
The compound gate found them with its dull orange glow. Knuckles lifted his badge to the camera bubble, the bolt clacked, and the fence split open. The cab stayed hushed as they slid through, rain hissing off the hood like a secret being kept.
The ramp dropped them into the garage's concrete throat—fluorescents humming, water ticking off the undercarriage, painted lines slick as skin—and Brock nosed into their bay with the same measured hands he'd held the whole drive.
The SUV rolled to a stop, engine idling low before Brock killed it with a twist that snapped the silence tighter. He shoved the door wide, stepped out, and slammed it hard enough that the echo chased itself across the concrete throat. His stride carried him into the corridor without a glance back, boots fading fast against the hum of fluorescents until even that was gone.
Harper stayed curled in the back, rag pressed to her face, her breathing shallow as the ache throbbed steady in her nose and lip. Blood still seeped, but slower now, thick enough that the rag only spotted instead of soaking. She leaned forward, elbows on her thighs, and waited—counting her heartbeats, willing the pulse under her fingers to quiet.
The passenger door opened softer this time. Knuckles got out, the cab shifting with the weight leaving it, then his door shut gentler than Brock's had. A moment later the back door clicked open and cool air cut the scent of blood and iron. He didn't say anything, just stood there until she looked up.
His hand came down, palm out—steady, waiting. She hesitated, then let him help her out.
"You're good," he said quietly, almost under his breath. Not praise, not a question. Just enough to settle her on her feet.
Harper clutched the rag tighter, the damp fabric cooling against her skin, and nodded once. It was the only answer she had.
Knuckles didn't let go once she was upright. His hand shifted to her elbow, steady pressure guiding her toward the corridor Brock had vanished into. Harper didn't fight it. Her legs felt heavy, her head buzzed with leftover ache, and the rag in her grip was already cooling against her nose.
The compound swallowed them—fluorescent hum, the drip of water off the undercarriage echoing down the hall. Knuckles kept her close to his side as they crossed the bay and stepped into the waiting elevator. The doors shut with a hollow clang, the lift shuddering upward, carrying them into quieter air.
On the residential wing, the hall stretched clean and muted, the weight of Syndicate order pressing down from every paneled wall. Knuckles didn't ease his pace. His hand at her arm was a tether, pulling her along until they reached Brock's door.
Harper slowed, pulse hitching, but Knuckles' grip tightened once, reminding her she didn't get to stop here. His other hand dropped to her hip, unclipping the sidearm Brock had made her carry. He slid it free, holster and all, like it was nothing more than another piece of equipment being logged.
Then he pushed the door open, the lock clicking under his thumb, and nodded her through first. He followed a step behind, shutting it solid against the hall.
Inside, the air was still, quieter than the rain and engines they'd left behind. Brock wasn't in sight.
Harper crossed to the island, rag clutched loose in one hand. She dropped it on the counter, crimson soaked deep into the fabric, and reached for a glass. The tap hissed as she filled it, water catching faint light as she lifted it halfway to her mouth.
Steps sounded behind her, heavy and sure. Brock came out of the hall, jacket shed, eyes pinning her in an instant.
"Don't get comfortable," he snapped, voice hard enough to cut. "You're done. Go to your room."
Her spine went rigid. The glass hit the counter with a dull knock as she set it down untouched. She kept her gaze low, shoulders tight, and moved past him in a careful arc, like she expected a hand to catch her if she misstepped. His presence loomed all the same, heat brushing her shoulder as she slipped by, before the hall swallowed her.
He followed, the weight of his steps a silent shadow behind hers. At her door, she stepped through without hesitation, and the click of the lock under his hand sealed it shut.
Only then did he turn back toward the kitchen.
Knuckles hadn't moved. He stood at the island, Harper's holster dangling loose from one hand, his stare fixed hard on Brock.
"Don't fucking start," Brock snapped, voice low and edged.
Knuckles dropped the holster onto the counter with a smack. "Too late. You fucked this one, Lawson."
Brock squared up, eyes narrowing. "She drew steel in a broker's office. With cameras rolling. I told her half a stride back, hands down. She couldn't follow one order."
"She snapped because you set her up to snap," Knuckles fired back, voice rising. "You dragged her into that room knowing Brasso would see her as an easy mark. You should've left her in the car. You knew exactly what was gonna happen the second he laid eyes on her."
"She has to learn," Brock growled, stepping closer, finger stabbing the air. "You think the clock stops because she's green? Vex isn't gonna wait around. She doesn't get the luxury of fucking up."
Knuckles slammed his fist into the counter hard enough to rattle the glass. "She doesn't get the luxury because you haven't trained her for that yet! You've had her in the ring, you've had her at the range, but you never once prepped her for standing in front of a man like Brasso. She's not ready for that kind of filth, and you know it. You threw her in a room full of wolves and expected her to keep her head. What the fuck did you think was gonna happen?"
Brock's lip curled. "You think I don't know the risk? I was ready to step in—"
"Too late!" Knuckles roared, crowding him until their chests almost touched. "Twice now, men under this roof have tried to put their hands on her. Twice, you stopped it. That earned you something—she almost believed she could trust you. And then tonight? You let Brasso crowd her, breathe in her face, and you didn't shut it down until it was too fucking late. And then you made it worse—you hit her. She stood up for herself, and you broke her face for it. That trust? Gone. You shattered it with your own goddamn hands."
Brock shoved him back a half step, heat flaring in his eyes. "You think I wanted that? You think I don't know what it cost?"
Knuckles leaned right back in, jaw tight, teeth bared. "Then act like it! She's running out of time before Vex decides she's dead weight. And her failure? That's on your shoulders, not hers. She's not like the others, Lawson. You know what we've done to her—wiped out her father, burned her crew, gutted her life until there's nothing left. And now you expect her to swallow all of that and fall in line like she was born Syndicate?"
Brock's chest heaved, voice cutting low. "She still pulled the gun. That's on her."
Knuckles' laugh came bitter and humorless. "Bullshit. That's on you. You left her exposed, didn't shut Brasso down, didn't protect her when you should've. You broke the line, not her."
Brock's fists flexed at his sides, knuckles whitening. "She's not a fucking child. She's got to learn the hard way or she won't survive."
Knuckles' eyes flared, his voice dropping into a growl. "No. She's not a child. She's a weapon you're supposed to be honing. And right now, you're not sharpening shit—you're breaking it. Stop treating her like a prisoner you hate. Stop seeing her as another Viper you'd rather bury. Because if you keep running her like this, you might as well go down that hall right now, put a bullet in her head, and spare her the pain of thinking she had a chance."
The silence cracked like a live wire. Brock's chest rose hard, his jaw tight enough to split. Knuckles stood steady, unblinking, daring him to swing.
Finally, Brock dragged in a breath through his nose, voice scraped raw. "Get out of my face."
Knuckles didn't move. Then, with a faint shake of his head, he shoved the holster across the counter and stepped back. "Smarten the fuck up, Lawson. She doesn't have room for your mistakes."
The weight of it hung between them as Brock turned away, back rigid, shoulders carved from stone. Knuckles' glare lingered another beat before he turned on his heel. His boots hit heavy across the floor, and the door slammed behind him with a crack that echoed down the hall.
Brock stood rooted in the kitchen, chest still rising fast, hands flexing like he needed something to break. The silence felt cavernous after Knuckles' voice, raw and jagged. He dragged both palms down his face, exhaling hard through his teeth, then dropped them to his sides.
The sink gleamed under the overhead light. The glass Harper had left sat in it, half-filled from the tap, water line rippling faintly. His gaze stuck on it. A reminder. A mark she'd been here. He reached in, fingers wrapping the cool rim, and lifted it out.
For a long moment he just held it, staring at the clear surface, condensation clinging to the sides. Then he turned, steps slow but certain, carrying it with him down the hall toward her door.
The lock clicked under his hand, the sound sharp in the quiet. He pushed it open and stepped inside.
Harper lay curled on her side atop the covers, not burrowed in like usual. Her knees tucked close, arms folded in, her back angled toward the door. As the hinges whispered shut behind him, her shoulders pulled tighter, the faintest recoil running through her frame. She wasn't asleep. She was bracing.
He stopped just inside, the glass sweating cold in his hand. For a moment he didn't move, watching the small hitch of her breath, the subtle shift of someone who knew she was being watched but refused to turn.
He crossed to the desk and set the glass down, the quiet click of it on wood loud in the room. "Brought you water," he said. The words landed rough, an offering shaped like command.
She didn't answer. Only shifted a fraction, like she needed more space from the sound of him. A sniffle slipped into the silence, small, quick, but sharp enough that he caught it.
He stood there a moment longer, jaw locked, the air heavy between them. His mouth edged like he might speak again—but nothing came.
Brock turned and left, the lock sliding home behind him.