Steam clung to the tiled walls, the hiss of the water loud enough to drown the compound hum beyond the door. Harper braced one hand against the shower's tiled wall, head bowed, letting the heat pelt her shoulders until her skin flushed raw. Dried blood streaked down in thin ribbons, diluted pink as it slid from her nose and lip, the copper sting still sticking to the back of her throat. Her eyes burned, not from soap, not from water—just from the hollow ache of hours spent awake in the dark, listening to her pulse pound against the bruises Brock had left. Every blink dragged heavy, grit in her lashes, her body begging for sleep she never found. Last night's voices echoed— Brasso's laughter, the snarl in Brock's tone before the punch, Knuckles' fury heard through her closed door—all of it replaying in fragments she couldn't silence. She rubbed at her face, the sore bridge of her nose, the split at her mouth, and found herself trembling anyway, exhaustion so deep it left her bones weak.
She twisted the handle until the water cut off, the sudden silence pressing heavy against her ears. Steam hung dense in the air, curling off her skin as she stepped onto the cold tile. The mirror was a blank fogged sheet until her palm dragged a streak through it, clearing just enough for her reflection to bleed through. The face that stared back didn't feel like hers—swollen lip, nose raw from clotting blood, eyes rimmed red from a night without rest. She held the gaze longer than she meant to, searching for some trace of the girl who'd once laughed in neon bars, who'd once believed in a home that still stood. Nothing there but hollow eyes and a stranger's mouth. With a quick pull, she snatched a towel from the rack, wrapped it around herself, and slipped out, padding barefoot across the hall.
Her room greeted her like a cold box. The bed was still perfectly made, covers pulled tight, save for the faint rust smear near the top where she'd let her face rest without ever crawling under. On the desk, the glass of water from last night sat beading condensation, untouched since Brock had set it down. Beside it, a metal tray waited with eggs gone rubbery and toast curled at the edges—his morning delivery, ignored the same as the glass. She didn't move toward either, just let the sight sit there, reminders split between night and day, proof of a span endured but not lived.
She dressed in silence, every motion stripped of thought, stripped of care. Black cargo pants pulled up over damp skin, belt threaded and buckled without a pause. A black tank top dragged down over her shoulders, fabric clinging to the heat still radiating off her. The routine felt mechanical, like her hands belonged to someone else, fastening, smoothing, tucking with no urgency and no resistance. Each piece of clothing slid into place like armor she didn't quite believe in anymore.
She dropped onto the edge of the mattress, tugging her boots close. The leather creaked as she slipped her feet inside, the motion easy until she bent to lace them. Pain flared through her face, the bruised swell at her cheekbone pulling tight, her split lip stinging as her jaw flexed. She winced, fingers pausing against the laces before finishing the knots in silence.
The door swung open before she'd finished, hinges groaning in the quiet. Brock filled the frame, voice flat. "You ready to go?"
She didn't answer. Just rose to her feet, smoothing her hands down her thighs, and moved toward him with her gaze fixed low, refusing the weight of his eyes. His stare caught her anyway, flicking once to the dark bloom under her cheekbone, but no words came. He only turned on his heel, stride carrying him into the corridor.
Harper followed, half a step behind, the silence between them pressing as they wound through the hall, into the waiting elevator, and down toward the thrum of the training floor.
─•────
The mat slammed Harper's shoulder and rattled bone through muscle, a shock that climbed her spine. She dragged in air, rolled to her knees, and forced herself upright before Brock could bark at her for staying down too long. Salt stung her lashes, burned at the corners of her eyes, her pulse hammering so hard it felt like her skull was keeping time.
Barely twenty minutes into drills, and he hadn't let up once. Every exchange came fast, precise, brutal—testing her guard, punishing her timing, dragging every ounce of effort from her body. She wasn't green. She knew these rhythms. But the memory of his fist from last night kept flashing in the corner of her vision, and each time it did, her hands faltered that fraction he never missed.
"Again." The word landed flat as he circled, gloves up, his free hand snapping against hers to flick her stance back into place.
She shuffled across the mat, fists raised, weight braced the way he demanded.
"Lower." His glove rapped hers down, a sting of contact that forced her arms into line before he slid back a pace. His gaze stayed on her, waiting. "Go."
She lunged, sequence burned into her body—jab, cross, hook, kick—the first two hammering into his forearms, the hook clipping his jaw. For a half-second satisfaction flared, until his shoulder crashed into her chest and shoved her off balance.
"Reset." He gave her nothing—no flicker of recognition, no slack in his stance. Already he'd shifted footing, angling for the next line of attack. "Go."
Each set came faster than the last, strikes snapping toward her before her breath steadied. He never slowed to explain, never gave her space—just a glove cracking against her ribs to punish an opening, a boot driving her stance wider, a clipped "No" when her rhythm slipped a fraction. Every correction carried weight, each one leaving her body stinging even as she pushed through.
By the tenth exchange her shoulders burned, muscles quivering under the strain, every punch dragged out by will alone. Her lungs rasped, sweat running into her mouth, but still he pressed, offering no slack, only demand.
Without pause, he shifted her into a timed strike circuit, the watch on his wrist ticking down a ruthless thirty seconds per run. Cross the mats, tag the dummy three times with clean form, retreat to start before the buzzer. Simple in theory. In practice, each pass blurred into footwork and recalibration, every slip magnified by his presence shadowing her shoulder.
On the third pass she overreached, her knuckles glancing off the padded surface at a bad angle, pain sparking up through her arm into the muscle at her shoulder. She bit down on the sting, reset, and drove forward again, pace refusing to break.
Brock's voice stayed even, but his corrections came quicker now, giving her barely a breath to adjust before the next demand snapped out.
By the final run her arms dragged like they'd been poured full of lead, every swing pulling at her joints, every step heavier than the last. When the buzzer split the air she caught it more as reprieve than triumph, chest heaving, heat crawling down her spine. Still, she squared her shoulders at the line, forced her breath into control, and met his stare head-on—refusing to give him the satisfaction of watching her break.
He stepped in close and pressed the hilt of a training knife into her palm. "Keep it."
Before she'd even settled her grip his hands closed over her wrist—iron snapping shut. A wrench, a twist, and the blade was gone in less than two seconds, clattering to the mat between them. He didn't glance at it. "Again."
She stooped, scooped it up, forced her stance back into line.
This time she angled her body, trying to shield the weapon from his reach. His hand still found her forearm, twisting hard until pain fired through her nerves and her fingers spasmed open. Steel hit the mat with a flat smack.
"Tighter," he said, already stepping back. "Again."
She bent, retrieved it. A tight pull knotted through her upper arm now, stance pulling taut on reflex.
He came in harder, shoulder slamming into hers, his grip crushing down over her hand. "Move your feet," he snapped when she froze that fraction too long. He tore it free and let it clatter down between them. "Again."
And again. And again. Each attempt stripped from her faster, each failure met with a correction that landed like a blow.
"Guard your side."
"Stop turning into me."
"Clamp down."
By the eighth run her forearms shook, her fingers raw from clenching the hilt, every knuckle screaming. Moisture slicked her grip, the handle sliding inside her palm no matter how tightly she crushed down. Brock's voice stayed clipped, his grip rougher with every disarm, his presence crowding hers until the mat felt like it held no air at all.
When the knife struck the floor one final time, she stared at it, the rattle echoing louder than her own breath. He didn't so much as glance back—just stripped the pads from his hands, tossed them into the bin by the wall, and turned for the doors.
"Done." The word landed clipped, final.
Harper shoved air into her lungs and pushed herself off the mat, sprinting a step to close the gap before settling into stride a few paces behind him. Her arms dragged heavy at her sides, each breath still raw, but she held the distance as they left the training hall together.
They left the training hall in silence, boots striking against the polished floor, and stepped into the elevator. The ride down was a cage of flickering lights and her ragged breath, Brock's reflection fixed forward in the steel. When the doors opened, he strode out into the corridor, and she followed the length of his shadow down the hall until the low murmur of voices bled out from the cafeteria ahead.
The cafeteria hummed with steady voices and the scrape of trays, the smell of fried oil and boiled starch thick in the air. Brock didn't pause, didn't glance at the spread—just took a tray from the stack and stepped into the line. Harper followed, her hands still trembling faintly as she lifted one for herself.
She moved down the options without appetite, sliding a spoonful of vegetables onto her plate, a strip of chicken beside them, nothing more. The heat rising off the steam trays turned her stomach, but she forced her movements steady, refusing to draw his eye.
Brock's tray filled quicker—protein and starch, fuel more than food—and he moved on without a word. Harper trailed in his wake, balancing her half-empty plate, eyes fixed on the floor as they wove between crowded tables.
When he finally stopped, she raised her gaze just long enough to see Knuckles already seated, broad shoulders angled toward them. His eyes met hers for a breath before they dropped to the dark bloom rising under her cheekbone. The flicker of recognition there was quick, heavy, and she lowered her stare again, sliding into the seat Brock left open, tray set down as though it might make less noise if she willed it.
Brock dug into his food without ceremony, knife carving through meat, fork clattering steady against the plate.
Knuckles leaned back in his chair, eyes cutting across the table. "Everything set for Maw?"
Brock gave a short nod, chewing, then swallowed. "Pike'll lock the lane. I trust him to hold it."
Knuckles tilted his head, tone sharpening. "How're you running it?"
Brock didn't hesitate. "Overwatch front and back. Two SUVs—one for each truck. We box them in, clear their escort. Vale and Mason take the cabs. Once the drivers are down, we roll the freight straight out."
Knuckles grunted, neither agreement nor objection, just weighing the shape of it.
Harper stayed quiet, eyes fixed on her plate. The vegetables cooled into limp colors, the strip of chicken untouched, her fork still resting where she'd set it.
Knuckles speared a bite, the scrape of metal on tin undercutting his voice. "Vale'll be glad to stretch his legs. He's been itching since the river job."
"Then he'll get his chance," Brock said, the words carrying weight but not warmth. He chased them with another mouthful, shoulders loose, tone steady enough to pass for casual.
The two of them drifted into lighter talk after that—old jobs, names Harper didn't know, shorthand between men who'd run the same streets for years. To anyone else it might have sounded easy, but she heard the tightness under it, the pauses where there used to be flow.
She kept her head down, nudging a fork through her vegetables, chewing nothing. Her eyes rose once without meaning to, catching Brock's gaze on her from across the table. It lingered a second too long before he turned back to Knuckles, his voice resuming like the moment hadn't happened at all.
─•────
The range swallowed her like everything else in the compound—concrete walls, air stale with cordite and oil, sound chewed down to a hollow echo. The rifle lay cold across her palms, the weight familiar now, but no lighter. Routine had burned the strangeness out of it, leaving only the monotony of muscle and motion. Brock set a single magazine on the bench between them, the thud of it loud in the quiet.
"Three-round burst today." His thumb flicked the selector until it clicked. "Three shots per pull. Same stance, same sight picture. The only difference is what the gun does after the first round. You don't correct late—you stop it from moving in the first place."
She glanced at the rifle, then at him, the words catching against the memory of Brasso's hand and the muzzle she'd jammed into his ribs. Several days had passed since then, each one ground down under Brock's drills until her body was a map of bruises, shoulders tight with strain, sleep shallow at best. He hadn't eased once, hadn't given her room to breathe, yet now he was trusting her to manage three-round burst—trusting her to keep control when control was the very thing he'd broken her down on. The weight of it settled heavy in her chest, harder than the rifle stock pressing into her palm.
Harper planted her boots, weight tipped forward. Brock didn't tear her stance apart like he had that first week; he only stepped close enough to press a hand at her hip, nudging her a fraction deeper into her lean, then slid her support hand further down the forend.
"Gives you more control," he said, his voice even, as though control was something she should still be trusted with.
She seated the mag with a hard push, tugged it once to make sure it locked, then rolled the rifle into the hollow of her shoulder. The stock dug into bone already tender from days of drills, the familiar ache setting in before she'd even lifted her sights.
"Half breath. Press smooth. Hold the trigger until the burst's done—then let it all the way forward to reset."
She drew air through her teeth, held it in her chest until the edges of the room seemed to narrow. The silhouette downrange blurred against concrete, then steadied, the front post poised square at its chest.
"Go."
The rifle roared three times in the space of one drawn-out breath, the reports merging into a rhythm that rattled through her teeth. Recoil hammered into her shoulder faster than single fire, dragging the front sight high off the paper target before she wrestled it down again. Her whole frame absorbed the fight—knees locked, jaw clenched, muscles screaming to keep the weapon tamed in her hands.
"Reset." Brock's hand closed on the barrel shroud, pressing it down until the muzzle dipped. "First shot was clean. Second started to walk. Third went wide. Don't relax after the break—tighten your hold, drive it forward."
Harper shifted her grip, rolling her shoulder until the stock dug deeper into bone, her knuckles whitening on the forend. She leaned in, forcing her stance harder into the line of fire.
"Once more."
The next burst tore through the range, brass clinking against concrete as it scattered across the lane. The sight still leapt, but she caught it quicker this time, dragging the post closer to the silhouette's chest and holding it there through the climb.
"Better." His knuckles tapped against her side, firm and grounding. "Your core does more than your arms. Lock it before you fire."
She reset again, lungs pulling a steady breath, jaw tight. Exhale, press. The rifle barked three times in brutal rhythm, recoil pummeling her shoulder in quick succession, each round slamming out before her body had fully recovered from the last. Heat shimmered off the barrel, the air rippling faintly in front of her sights.
Brock bent to the spotting scope on the bench—he always kept one, even at fifty meters, sparing the reel between strings. His voice carried without lifting his head. "Two in the chest, one just above. That's the line you want." He straightened, gaze cutting back to her. "Keep it there. Make it muscle memory."
They worked in short strings—fire, reset, adjust—until the smell of burnt propellant clung to her skin and her palms slicked against the forend. Spent brass pinged across the concrete and rolled into dark corners. Each set tightened until the groups chewed into the same patch of paper, her arms trembling from the effort of keeping the rifle pinned.
Finally, Brock lowered the glass. "That's clean enough."
She started to ease the rifle down, waiting for the nod toward the rack. It didn't come.
"Remember how that feels," he said. "Because tomorrow, you're on the job."
Her shoulders pulled tight, the stock still pressed into her chest. "Me?"
His gaze didn't waver. "Maw shipment. Weapons. We take them before they can move them further up the chain."
She adjusted her grip on the handguard, as if holding tighter might keep the ground from shifting. "Which means they'll come loaded and ready to protect it."
"They will." His tone carried nothing but certainty, as if the weight of that truth was immovable.
Her pulse jumped, hot in her throat. She'd gone against the Syndicate before—felt their machine crush her with precision, numbers, brutality. Now she was staring down Black Maw from the inside, part of the machine she'd once fled. That should have steadied her, knowing it could steamroll through anything in its path. Instead, doubt gnawed: whether she could keep pace, whether she could hold the line without dragging them down. Black Maw didn't just fight back. They made examples.
Brock reeled a fresh silhouette downrange, the motor whining overhead. "Again," he said, as if the conversation had never happened.
She shouldered the rifle, but it felt heavier now, the sight slower to steady. The first string scattered high, the second dragged left.
"Focus," Brock said—his voice even, but weighted in a way that pressed down on her more than a shout ever could.
She reset, forced her grip tight, but her hands weren't listening. Her thoughts slipped forward to tomorrow—to the convoy, the press of headlights, the crack of rounds meant to kill. The stock bit deeper into her shoulder, the smell of oil and scorched metal thick in her nose. By the time the mag clicked dry, her grouping sprawled wide across the target, a spray more than a pattern.
Brock studied the paper through the scope, silent, and the absence of correction landed heavier than any word. Then he stepped back from the bench without a sound.
─•────
That night her room held her like a box too small for air. Harper lay diagonal across the bed, boots still on, one arm flung over her eyes. The covers stayed tight and undisturbed beneath her, the space around her silent but for the hum of the vents. Thought circled without landing—fragments of the range, the smell of oil and scorched powder still clinging in her head, the word tomorrow hanging heavier than the rest.
The hinges whispered, the door easing open. She jerked upright, legs swinging off the mattress, pulse ready for the reprimand she'd been expecting all day—another word about her stance, her scatter, the way her hands hadn't listened.
But Brock didn't come in with that weight. He stood in the doorway instead, a takeout bag hooked in one hand, the smell of fried food drifting out as he tilted it up for her to see.
"Come on," he said.
She didn't move at first. Every night until now he'd left her dinner on the desk, tray cooling beside a glass of water, and walked out without a word. This—standing in her doorway, waiting—wasn't the script. Harper stayed on the edge of the mattress, eyes narrowing at the bag in his hand, suspicion flickering through her before she could choke it down.
Brock's stance didn't change. He just held the bag steady, gaze fixed, as if the silence was hers to break.
Finally, she pushed to her feet, legs heavy, and crossed the room to him.
She expected him to stop in the kitchen, maybe drop the bag on the counter and wave her toward it. Instead, he stepped out of his quarters and turned for the stairwell, the takeout bag swinging loose in his hand. He didn't explain, didn't look back to see if she was coming—just walked with that same steady, unhurried stride.
And she did follow, though every step felt like it might be a mistake. Her arms folded tight across her midsection, the gesture automatic, protective. He never took her out like this. Training, yes. Cafeteria, yes. But not at night, not with food in hand and no word of where they were going.
Her chest wound tighter the closer they drew to the stairwell, every step feeding the thought that this was some kind of test—one more way to see where she'd crack. Harper kept close enough not to lose him, but not so near she could touch him if she wanted to. The distance felt necessary, like armor.
Brock pushed through the stairwell door without pause, and the clang of metal closing behind him echoed off concrete. Harper stepped in after, the air cooler here, tinged faintly with dust and old paint. He started up the narrow flight without hesitation, boots striking steady against the steps.
She frowned, catching the direction at once—they were already on the top floor. Up meant only one thing. Roof.
Her arms tightened around her middle as she followed, the weight of it settling heavier with each step. The stairwell ended in another door, this one heavier, scarred metal bolted into the frame. Brock shoved it open with his shoulder, hinges groaning, and a rush of night air swept in, heavy with city grit and the faint ozone of neon below.
He didn't stop, just stepped out onto the roof and held the door long enough for her to come through.
The skyline unfolded beyond the compound walls, not a distant horizon but a sprawl of rooftops and arteries of light. Amber streetlamps pooled along the avenues, brake lights flared in broken chains, and neon signs pulsed in uneven bursts, their letters too far to read from here. Across the nearer blocks, air vents exhaled smoke that drifted into the night. From the streets below came the churn of engines and the occasional horn, noise carrying upward to mingle with the deeper, steadier thrum of the Syndicate's generators underfoot. Together it all pressed against the air like a single restless current.
Brock didn't slow to look. He walked straight to the ledge and lowered himself against the parapet, posture easy, the takeout bag set between them with a paper crackle that cut through the hum.
She stopped a few paces short, arms still folded tight across her midsection. For a moment she thought about staying on her feet, letting the distance hold, but the weight of his silence left no room for refusal. Slowly, she lowered herself beside him, back to the parapet, legs stretched out toward the dark edge of the roof.
Only then did she let herself look out.
From this height the view felt different—not just rooftops and arteries of light, but a whole current running beneath her, restless and endless. The noise rose soft through the air, stripped of edges, the city's pulse slowed enough to feel almost steady. None of it belonged to her, but watching from above unraveled a knot inside her chest. Just a thread, just enough to loosen the tightness she'd carried through every drill, every correction, every hour in his shadow. The strangeness of sitting here beside him, the faint crinkle of the bag in the quiet, pressed against that shift in a way she couldn't name.
Brock pulled the bag open, the smell of fried chicken rolling warm and greasy into the cool air. He set down two cartons between them, the paper crackle loud in the quiet.
"Harper," he said. Not harsh, not even raised—just her name. But the weight of it was enough to draw her spine tight.
Her chest cinched. "I don't want to fight right now."
His head turned, brow drawn faintly. "I'm not here to fight."
She let out a brittle laugh with no humor in it. "Then what? Because every time you look at me it's like you're waiting for me to fuck up again. Like if I breathe wrong you'll be on me for it." Her arms locked tighter across her stomach. "You've been riding me for days—stance wrong, guard wrong, aim scattered—and I can't remember the last time you looked at me without finding another way I wasn't enough."
Brock flinched, so quick she almost missed it. His voice came rougher than before. "It isn't about you—"
"It's always about me," she cut in, heat snapping under her words. "Always what I can't do, what I should have done, how I'll never keep up. And you never let me forget it."
His mouth opened, like he meant to shape an answer, but she buried over it, voice low and final. "Knuckles was right."
Brock looked at her then, really looked, and caught the wetness gathering at the corners of her eyes. It froze him in place, just long enough for her voice to drop hard into the space between them.
"He was right." Her throat worked around the words. "You should've put a bullet in my head the second I fucked up in that shipping office—saved everyone the trouble. Hell, you should've done it back in the yard, when you caught me. Would've been cleaner."
His jaw shifted, the start of a protest, but she steamrolled over it, her voice cracking sharp against the night.
"And now you're dragging me onto a real job? Not drills, not dummies—a real fucking job. With guns in play and people who'll shoot to kill. People's lives on the line, and you want me there? Me, who can't even keep my goddamn hands steady on a burst?"
Her breath shuddered out, raw and fast. "If I fuck up here, it's not just me. It's them. And you know it."
"Enough." Brock's voice cut clean through her spiral, firm but not raised. He turned to face her fully, the city's light washing against the hard line of his jaw. "I fucked up in that office. I shouldn't have come down on you like that. All I could see was you dead on the floor because I hadn't prepped you for a man like Brasso. That was on me."
Harper let out a sharp laugh, wet and raw. "And you think you've prepped me for tomorrow? For Black Maw?"
His gaze held steady, the muscle in his jaw working. "No one's ever prepped enough for what's coming. But you'll be there, and you'll fight, because we are running out of time."
She snorted, dragging the heel of her palm hard across her cheek, wiping the damp away. "Thanks for the reminder. Big clock over my head, ticking down until Vex snuffs me out." Her eyes slid to his, swollen and red-rimmed. "Or does he get to give you the honor of pulling the trigger?"
Brock's head snapped toward her, the words hitting harder than she'd meant them to. "That's not why you're here." His voice carried weight, stripped of anything soft. "You think I'd put you through this just to line you up in someone's sights?"
Her laugh came out jagged, breaking in her throat. "I don't even know what the fuck I'm doing," she said, words tumbling fast, almost tripping over each other. "I don't know why I'm here, why I even try. I've lost everything—everyone I ever cared about—and now look at me." Her hand swept out toward the skyline, toward the Syndicate's towers glowing over the sprawl. "Sitting here like I'm part of the machine that took it all away."
Her throat tightened, the words scraping raw. "But if I stop… if I just stop… then I've gotta face what's left. And there's nothing. Nothing but empty space where they used to be."
Her eyes found his again, blurred and red. "I don't even know who I am without them. I don't know what I'm supposed to be."
"Harper," he said quietly.
She shook her head and looked down before he could say more, voice breaking rougher than she meant. "Don't."
He didn't push, just nodded once, as if he'd been expecting the deflection. When he spoke again, his voice carried low, steady, deliberate. "You want to know who you're supposed to be? It's here. That's the answer."
Her eyes flicked to him, uncertain, but he held her there.
"The Syndicate takes care of its own. You make it through your three months—and not just breathing, but proving you can carry the weight—you'll have a place. You'll have purpose. You'll be on my team. And you will make it through. No more running, no more scraps. You won't have to watch your back or wonder if tomorrow's the day it all caves in. You'll know exactly where you stand."
Harper looked away first, the skyline pulling her eyes outward. The city was a jagged smear against the faint glow at the horizon, windows blinking like scattered embers in a fire that never burned out. She blinked hard, dragging the back of her hand across her eyes before the air could sting them into more.
Brock didn't speak again, but she felt him watching—not with the hard edge of training, but with a focus that cut everything else away.
The quiet stretched until it pressed at her chest. Finally, a breath slipped free, shivering on the edges. "You always this sure about people?"
"Only when I'm right."
That dragged a sound out of her, the smallest huff of laughter, so thin it almost wasn't there. She shook her head, stealing a glance back at him. "Cocky."
"Confident," he corrected.
They let the quiet settle again, the city breathing beneath them, the cartons cooling between. After a while Brock cracked one open, the scent of fried chicken bleeding into the night, and passed her a piece. She took it without looking, picking at the skin more than eating, breaking it apart in her hands.
He ate in silence, methodical, but his eyes kept cutting to her, watching the way she worried the food instead of swallowing it. Finally, he spoke, voice quiet enough it nearly slipped into the noise below. "You'll be fine."
Her head tipped, the smallest shake. "I hope so."
"You will." He leaned back against the parapet, gaze steady on hers. "I'll be right there tomorrow. You don't have to worry about that. You'll get through the job, and the next, and the next. And I know it doesn't feel like it now, but you'll find your place here. You'll have purpose again."
She didn't answer. The food in her hands had gone cool, grease slicking her fingers, but she only stared at it like it might hold something she couldn't name.
Beside her, Brock finished his piece and set the empty carton back in the bag. He didn't press her, didn't repeat himself, just let the words hang between them with the same weight as the city pressing in from every side.
The skyline stretched wide and restless, lights pulsing against the dark, the hum of engines drifting up like a tide. Harper sat in it, hollow and full all at once, caught between the gnaw in her chest and the quiet certainty at her side.
Tomorrow waited.