Harper drifted up through a haze, her body heavy, thoughts refusing to fall into place. Something soft pressed under her cheek, not the thin mattress she was used to, but smoother, cooler, with a faint give that didn't belong. A blanket clung crooked across her shoulder, sliding when she shifted, and the pull of stitches along her side tugged her further awake. She blinked, lids sticking, the room around her blurring into view in pieces—the stretch of floor, the edge of a low table, light spilling muted across walls wider than her own. Confusion pricked at her, slow but insistent, until the pieces settled into something undeniable. The couch. His living room. She was sprawled where she had no business waking up. The realization slammed through her and she bolted upright, the blanket falling into her lap, heart thudding as if she'd been caught.
She scrubbed a hand over her face, trying to chase the sleep from her eyes, and glanced around the room. Empty. No sign of him in the kitchen, no shadow moving in the hall. Her gaze snagged on the door, and for a beat her chest clenched—until she saw the boots left neatly by the frame. He hadn't gone anywhere. He was still here. The truth crept in as she blinked, mind stitching the pieces together. She'd fallen asleep, and instead of waking her, instead of sending her back behind the bolt, he'd left her on the couch and gone to his own bed. The thought pressed strange in her chest. She was in his living room. The main door to the compound stood just feet away, nothing on this side to stop her hand from turning the knob. No lock. Nothing but choice.
Harper pushed herself up, the blanket slipping off her shoulders, feet bare against the cool floor. She stood there for a long moment, eyes fixed on the door. The compound waited on the other side—hallways, boots, gunmetal, every path out of reach but only an arm's length away. Her chest tightened as she stared at the knob, the simple fact that nothing barred her from touching it. But her hand didn't move. Instead she turned, gaze drifting down the hall toward the spare room she still thought of as hers. The bed sat there waiting, narrow and familiar, and the thought pressed hard that maybe this had been an accident. Maybe he hadn't meant to leave her out here at all, hadn't realized she'd stayed under until morning. Maybe if she just slipped back, tucked herself in before he woke, none of it would matter.
She moved toward the hall, but the glow on the stove caught her eye. 6:45. Early, but not for him. He'd be up soon. Her jaw feathered as she paused, gaze sliding down the corridor. His door was closed, hers still open, the narrow bed inside waiting like nothing had shifted. The contrast pressed against her chest, stark in its simplicity. She drew a breath through her nose, slow and tight, then turned back into the kitchen. The fridge gave under her hand with a low suction pop, spilling cold light across the counters as she leaned into it.
Her mouth pulled tight as she stared into the cold light. He hadn't been lying—he really didn't like to cook. Half a pack of eggs sat crooked on the shelf beside a tub of margarine and a bag of shredded cheese. A stack of takeout containers leaned against the back wall, grease bleeding through the cardboard, one of them old enough that the sauce inside had congealed. Cold cuts sagged in their plastic wrap, corners curling where the seal had split. A couple bottles of beer crowded the bottom shelf alongside a single protein shake, dust of frost clinging to the plastic. Condiments cluttered the door—mustard, hot sauce, an open jar of pasta sauce half-forgotten.
She lingered there a moment, frowning at the sad mix, before pulling the eggs, butter, and cheese out onto the counter. When she shut the door, her eyes caught on a loaf of bread perched on top of the fridge, slouched against the wall in its sleeve. She reached up, hooked it down, and dropped it beside the rest.
She didn't reach for the eggs right away. Instead her gaze flicked to the hall, to the closed door at the far end. The thought pressed in—what if he woke and caught her digging through his kitchen like she belonged there? Her jaw worked once, then she blew out a slow breath and tugged open the nearest cabinet. A jumble of mismatched dishes crowded the shelves. She pushed past them until her hand closed on a squat toaster, cord coiled around its base, and set it on the counter beside the loaf. The next cabinet gave her chipped mugs and a dust-coated colander. She dug deeper, fingers knocking against metal, until she wrestled out a skillet wedged behind a pot. The scrape rang too loud in the stillness, but she laid it down with the rest, pulse quick in her throat.
She twisted the knob on the stove, the burner clicking before a blue flame curled to life. The skillet clattered into place over it, metal warming under her hand. As she turned back, her eyes caught on the coffee maker tucked in the corner. She stepped closer, studying the machine like it might betray her, then lifted the carafe and filled it from the sink. Water sloshed soft against the glass as she set it back in place. A cabinet above yielded rows of mugs and, shoved to the back, a canister of grounds. She pulled it down, peeled the lid, and scooped dark coffee into the filter before pressing the button. The machine hummed to life, a low gurgle rising as the first thin trickle poured through.
─•────
The smell dragged him out of sleep before the light did—bitter, rising slow through the walls until it curled under his door.
Brock pushed a breath through his nose, eyes cracking open to the dim wash of morning pressing past the blinds. The room resolved in familiar lines: dresser drawers closed tight, shirts stacked in rigid folds; a handgun on the nightstand, spare magazines lined precise on the shelf above. Nothing out of place, nothing extra—just the essentials. The only softness lay under him, the wide bed layered in dense quilts, heavy and plush, the one luxury he allowed himself.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, swung his legs off the edge. Someone was in his kitchen.
He pushed to his feet, the quilt sliding off his legs, sweatpants slung low on his hips from the night. He hitched them higher with one hand, the other dragging across his chest in a thoughtless scratch before raking back through his hair. Bare skin prickled in the cool air, muscles stiff from sleep, but he kept moving.
She was still curled on the couch when he finally shut down the TV, breath even, lashes sunk against her cheeks. He'd stood over her for a long moment, debating whether to wake her, send her back down the hall to her own bed. But the way she looked—still, at ease in a way he rarely saw—had made him leave her where she was. It was a risk, leaving her in the open like that. Nothing would have stopped her from walking out. Still, even if she made it through the door, the gates would've caught her before she got far. And part of him doubted she'd even try.
Now the faint bitterness in the air carried its own answer—she wasn't just awake, she was moving in his kitchen.
He twisted the handle and eased the door open, stepping into the dim corridor. The air outside was warmer, laced with that bitter edge that had pulled him from sleep. His steps carried him toward the kitchen, the low hum of the coffee maker filling the silence.
Harper stood at the stove, back to him, shoulders set tight under the thin fabric of her shirt. The skillet hissed faintly where it met the flame, her hand steady on the handle as she worked the eggs. Hair mussed from sleep fell loose around her face, a few strands brushing the line of her jaw each time she moved. Bare feet pressed into the tile, toes curling against the cool surface, and steam from the pan curled upward, soft against the morning light. For a moment she seemed carved into the space like she'd always belonged there.
She didn't notice him. He lingered in the doorway, silent, watching her move until the quiet stretched too long. Then he cleared his throat, soft but deliberate.
She froze. The spatula hung in her hand, breath caught, before she turned toward him.
"What are you doing?" His voice carried steady, not unkind.
Her mouth opened, faltered, then she managed, "Making breakfast."
His brow lifted a fraction. "I make breakfast."
Color rose faint across her cheeks as she turned back to the stove, nudging the eggs with the edge of the spatula. "You said you hate cooking."
He started to speak, mouth parting, but the words stalled. His jaw flexed once before he shut it again, silence pressing in where a reply should have been.
The silence sat heavy between them, thicker than the hiss of the pan. Heat flushed up her neck, the spatula suddenly clumsy in her hand. She looked down at the skillet, the eggs already firming, her chest tight with the urge to vanish back to her room.
His eyes caught the shift—the set of her shoulders, the hesitation in her movements. His jaw eased, the edge in his posture softening as he finally spoke.
"It's fine," he said, low, steady. "You're not stepping on anything."
Relief loosened something tight in her chest, chased quick by a flicker of surprise. She hadn't expected him to read her that easily, let alone answer it. Her eyes cut toward him, searching, before she turned back to the pan.
Brock pushed off the doorway and stepped into the kitchen, his presence filling the space as he brushed past her. The faint heat of him grazed her shoulder before he reached the cabinet, pulled down a mug, and filled it from the pot she'd started. He didn't say anything more, just settled into a chair at the island, the scrape of wood on tile punctuating the silence as he took his first swallow.
She slid the pan off the flame and reached for the toaster, dropping two slices of bread inside with a soft click. "Hope you like fried egg sandwiches," she said over her shoulder, voice low but steady. "Didn't have much else to work with."
Brock leaned back in the chair, mug balanced in one hand, eyes steady on her. "I don't mind that at all."
The toaster popped, and she caught the slices on their way up, setting them flat on a plate. She smeared margarine across the surface, quick strokes that melted into the heat, then coaxed the eggs from the skillet onto the bread. A scatter of shredded cheese followed, softening as it touched the yolk. Without glancing up, she slid the plate across the island to him, the scrape of china low against the counter, before reaching for two more slices to start her own.
Brock bit into the sandwich, the crunch of toast and the run of yolk cutting through the quiet. He chewed once, twice, then asked, "What made you decide to cook?"
"Like I said," she answered, sliding her own eggs onto toast, "you don't like to cook. And I wanted to feel useful." She rounded the island with her plate in hand, sliding into the chair beside him. After a bite she added, almost tentative, "If you want, I can do breakfast every morning."
He blinked at her, mug paused halfway to his mouth.
She rose before he could answer, crossing to the counter to pour herself a cup of coffee. Behind her, his voice followed, low. "You don't have to. But I won't stop you."
She pulled the carafe back, went to the fridge for cream, then rooted through the cupboards until she found sugar. "I will," she said, shaking a packet into the mug, "if you stock the fridge better."
Her words lingered In the air as she stirred cream into her cup, then carried it back to the island. She slid into the chair beside him again, pulling her plate close and lifting the sandwich to her mouth like nothing more needed saying.
Brock watched her in his periphery, the crunch of bread, the easy set of her shoulders as she settled back into the seat. He let his gaze drop to his own plate, kept his posture steady, but the truth pressed closer than he'd admit—he hadn't expected her to cook, hadn't expected her to move around his kitchen like it was hers to claim. The surprise caught in his chest, silent, leaving him with nothing but the taste of egg and the faint curl of steam between them.
They ate without words for a while, the crunch of toast and the low hum of the coffee maker filling the room. Harper kept her eyes on her plate, chewing slower than she needed to, the silence carrying farther than it ever had in this place. For once it didn't bite. It just sat between them, steady.
Brock finished his sandwich, brushed a crumb from his hand, and leaned back in the chair. His eyes cut to her, steady, deliberate.
"There's a job tonight."
Her head came up, the crust of her sandwich forgotten in her hand. "I'm on it?"
"You are," he said. His voice was flat, but there was no edge in it, no threat. Just fact. "It won't be like the Maw. Cleaner. We've got an office staked out—front's empty, real work happens in a locked room at the back. They're keeping data there. Vex wants it."
She set the sandwich down, wiping her hand on her thigh. "So what's my part?"
"You get us in." He folded his arms on the table, shoulders broad, voice quiet but firm. "Ceiling duct runs over the room. You drop through, pop the lock from inside, and open it up for Knuckles and I. In and out. No firefight unless something goes sideways."
Her mouth tugged, uncertain. "That's it? Just open a door?"
"That's it," Brock said. He held her gaze, steady. "You can handle it."
Something twisted under her ribs—half relief, half dread. She reached for her coffee instead of answering, the steam curling up between them while the words settled.
Harper didn't speak right away. She lifted the sandwich again, chewing through the last bite in silence, then rose and carried both plates to the sink. Water hissed against porcelain as she rinsed them down, her movements quick, almost careful.
Brock watched her from the island, coffee cradled in his hand. "The job's not until late tonight," he said at last. "You've got the day off until then."
She glanced over her shoulder, brow ticking up. "Day off?"
"I've got prep to handle," he went on, steady. "I'll be in and out. But you can move around in here. Free rein. I'm trusting you not to try and leave, not to pull anything stupid. Otherwise it's back in the room until Vex decides if you're in or out." His gaze held hers. "You understand?"
"Yes," she said quickly, almost too quick.
The corner of his mouth tugged, a faint smirk breaking through. "Good. Then make sure you get some rest in. Don't need you nodding off in the middle of a job."
Her eyes narrowed, the ghost of a smirk answering his. "I don't fall asleep on the job."
"Good thing watching TV isn't a job," he returned, voice low, dry amusement flickering through.
─•────
The lot behind the office building ran on sodium orange and long shadows. Brock cut the engine, and the Tahoe sagged into stillness, dash clock freezing at 01:28. For a moment no one moved, the air inside holding steady and close.
He looked back at them—Knuckles sitting broad-shouldered beside Harper, both shadows in the rear seat. His voice stayed low, clipped. "South service entrance. Blind spot in the exterior cams. Briggs tested the door yesterday—easy to jimmy."
Knuckles lifted the hooked wire from his lap, coiled in a figure-eight, and gave a short nod.
"From there we take the stairs to eight. Room's just off the stairwell. No cameras in the stairwell or hall, but there's a dome cam inside."
Brock reached down, pulled a slim bar of steel from the floorboard, and set it across Harper's knees. "Vent bar. I'll get the closet panel open and boost you in. Once you're in the ducts, you crawl it out yourself. At the far end you'll use this to pop the grate above the room."
Her hand closed over the bar, its weight colder than she expected.
"Soon as you drop, camera's on your right. Tape it fast. That's our window."
His gaze cut to Knuckles. "We'll hold at the stairwell door. Glass panel—we'll see you hit. You open up, Knuckles pulls the data, I cover the hall. Then we're gone."
Brock leaned back, eyes steady on both of them. "Should be quick. Quiet. Clean."
Cold air rolled in when the doors opened; concrete breathed cleaner and old rain. Brock stepped out first, boots hitting the lot, Knuckles following from the far side. Harper slid out after them, tugging the vent bar from her lap and slipping it up her sleeve where the steel pressed cool against her arm. No vest tonight—just leggings, a fitted long-sleeve, sidearm at her hip and the knife she never left behind. Brock and Knuckles moved heavier, vests cinched, carbines slung tight across their chests.
Brock lifted a palm—hold—then two fingers—move—and they ghosted along the edge of the lot toward the south service entrance where the cameras didn't bother to look.
The door was an old steel pair with a tired crash bar and weatherstrip chewed to felt. Knuckles set his shoulder to the jamb, slipped his hook between the leaves, and worked the latch until the bar gave a muted hiccup. The seal burped, and gray stairwell opened beyond. Brock caught the edge with two fingers and eased it just wide enough to pass. Inside smelled like concrete dust and lemon cleaner. Stair light off. He let the door whisper shut to the catch without a click, lifted his hand—two up—and started them climbing.
Their boots carried soft on concrete, the stairwell swallowing each step into the hollow dark. Harper kept her breathing steady, eyes fixed on the broad backs ahead, Brock's vest a block of black just above, Knuckles a shadow at his side. Floor numbers ticked by in peeling paint until the landing opened on eight. Knuckles raised a fist and they froze. He pressed his ear to the steel, listening, then leaned his weight into the crash bar. The latch gave with a muted click, and he eased the door a hand's width.
Linoleum stretched pale under the hallway lights. Just a few paces down sat their mark—a heavy steel door with the top half reinforced glass. Inside, the fluorescents were already humming, throwing hard light over a server stack that rose like a black spine against the far wall. The red blink of the dome camera burned steady from the corner.
Brock leaned close to the door, voice kept to a whisper. "Stay here." Knuckles gave the smallest nod, but as Brock lifted two fingers to Harper—with me—Knuckles' gaze slid to her. A quick look, steady, almost reassuring, before he turned back to his post. Brock eased into the corridor, Harper on his heels, and together they moved silent past the target room until he shouldered open the narrow janitor closet further down the hall. The door whispered shut behind them, the air inside close with dust and disinfectant.
The closet was barely more than a square—linoleum underfoot, a mop bucket shoved into the corner, shelves lined with rags and bleach. Overhead, a ceiling panel sagged slightly, dust clinging to its edges.
Brock held out a hand without looking at her. Harper slid the vent bar from her sleeve and set the steel across his palm. He rose onto the tips of his boots, shoulders brushing the shelving as he braced the bar under the lip of the panel. Muscles bunched through his arms as he levered upward; the square shifted with a faint groan before giving way. He caught it, lowering the panel aside with a careful twist, then handed the bar back to her. The weight settled cold against her palm, the tool hers again, while he steadied the open gap above.
Harper slid the bar back under her sleeve, tucking the steel snug against her arm. When she looked up, Brock had already turned toward her, one hand still braced on the open gap. His eyes caught hers, steady, and he gave the smallest nod. "You've got this," he said quietly. "Ready?"
A breath hissed out through her nose, sharp with nerves, but she managed a nod.
Brock bent under the gap, lacing his fingers together. "Foot here."
Harper set her boot into his palms, the vent bar snug against her sleeve. One hand braced on his shoulder, the fabric of his shirt warm under her palm, while he dipped and then drove upward. She rose with the push of his legs, steadying herself on him until the frame came within reach. Then her grip shifted, fingers catching metal as she pulled while he lifted, carrying her chest to the lip. Dust sifted down as her knees scraped over the edge and she wriggled into the dark run above.
From below he watched her vanish, boots scuffing once against the frame before the duct swallowed her whole. Dust sifted down, catching in his hair, then silence—just the hollow dark overhead. Brock steadied the panel against the wall, gave the opening one last glance, and slipped out of the closet. His steps went soundless back down the hall until Knuckles came into view at the stairwell door, waiting in shadow.
Knuckles' eyes cut to him. "She's up?"
Brock nodded once. "Moving."
Knuckles turned back toward the hall, gaze fixed on the heavy door down the way. "Then we wait."
Through the crack of the stairwell door, Brock kept his eyes fixed on the target room. Fluorescents glared steady, server stack harsh in the light. For a beat nothing moved. Then a figure slipped out from behind the rack, head bent to a tablet, steps easy, like he belonged there.
Brock's gut iced. Not security. The jacket was wrong, the gear cut different, the weapon carried low in a style he knew too well. Maw.
His chest clamped tight. Fuck. He should've put a comm in her ear, given her something. Now she was blind in the duct, heading straight toward him.
Knuckles froze too—just a breath. His shoulders eased, eyes narrowing. His voice stayed low, steady where Brock's wasn't. "She's kitted. Sidearm, knife. She'll find him. Adjust."
The duct pressed close on every side, metal popping faintly under her weight. Harper dragged herself forward on her elbows, the vent bar slipping against her sleeve, breath loud in the tight space. Each pull scraped dust under her arms, grit coating her tongue when she swallowed it back.
The glow ahead sharpened into lines, light leaking through the slats of a grate. She slowed, pushing inch by inch until her face hovered over the opening. The room lay below, fluorescent wash hard against her eyes. From this angle all she caught was the top edge of the server stack, cables threaded like black veins down its back.
She steadied her breath, then slid the vent bar free. Awkward in the narrow crawl, she worked it against the lip of the grate. The steel squealed faint, a knife against her teeth, before the corner gave. She pressed harder, levering the frame until the screws loosened in their sockets and the panel sagged.
Dust fell in a soft drift through the light below. Harper caught the grate with her free hand before it could drop, holding it steady, her pulse racing as the opening yawned under her. She shifted the grate aside and set it gently in the duct behind her, heart hammering. She wriggled forward until her waist cleared the opening, then twisted onto her stomach. Seven feet down. Too far to drop without sound, too far to reach without help.
She braced her forearms on the duct's lip, boots sliding out into the empty air. For a moment her body hung half out, the bar clutched tight against her sleeve. She bent her knees, searching, until the toes of her boots brushed the server stack below. Slow. Careful. She let her weight settle onto it, crouching into the metal frame before lowering herself the rest of the way to the floor.
The fluorescents hummed overhead, cold light glaring on linoleum. The door lay hidden behind the black column of servers, only the glass panel's glow bleeding through. Harper's gaze snapped to the dome camera fixed in the corner. Red light steady.
She yanked the tape from her pouch, tore off a strip, and leapt onto a chair shoved to the wall. One slap, firm and sure, the adhesive sealing over the lens. The red blink vanished under gray tape.
She dropped back to the floor, the tape still clinging to her fingers, and slipped around the bulk of the server stack toward the door. Her boots carried quiet on the linoleum, eyes already fixed on the crash bar she needed to hit.
Then a shape came out from the far side, sudden and close.
Harper froze, breath caught. The man froze too, eyes going wide. For a heartbeat they stared at each other, shock flashing raw between them. Her hand snapped down toward her holster, fingers brushing the grip of her sidearm—
—then his eyes narrowed, flicking over her face. He blinked, chest rising once like he'd been hit. His mouth worked before the word made it out, low, uncertain. "Harp?"
The sound of her name in his voice punched through her like a blade. The room tunneled, fluorescent hum drowned under the pounding in her ears. She saw him, and everything else vanished.
Her fingers locked around the grip of her gun, trembling uselessly. "Skiv?"
The name tore out of her throat, raw, half-broken, disbelieving.
From the stairwell, Brock's eyes tracked the figure pacing the racks until Harper slid into view.
She came around the corner and nearly collided with him. Both froze—rigid under the fluorescents. No draw, no scramble. Just locked, staring.
"Shit," Brock spat, hand slamming flat to the cinderblock. His pulse hammered, teeth grinding. "What the fuck is she doing? Why did she stop?"
Knuckles shifted beside him, braced in the frame. His eyes never left the glass. "I don't know," low and edged. His tongue ran over his teeth, shoulders tight. "But so did he."
Skiv straightened, the tablet sagging in his hand. His voice came rough, almost disbelieving. "I thought you were dead. You—survived the yard ambush?"
Harper's fingers slipped from her pistol grip, her arm falling slack at her side. Her throat worked before the words came, halting. "Yes… no, I—" Her breath hitched. "But I saw you. In the van, when the Den got raided. You were dead. I saw you."
His body went rigid. He drew in a breath, shoulders rising once, then shook his head. "No. I heard the shots. I was out the back window before they got me." He stopped, searching her face. "The van. What van?"
Confusion tightened across Skiv's face, his gaze dragging down to the emblem stitched over her chest. He froze, breath catching, then looked back at her. "Harp…" The word came out hoarse. "You're in their colors."
Her stomach lurched. "It's not what you think," she rushed, words tumbling. "They took me—dragged me out of the yard. I didn't choose this. They kept me locked up, broke me down, shoved me into their kit like it means something. I'm not—"
Skiv shook his head, quick, almost desperate. "It's fine. It's okay." His voice softened, like he was trying to steady her. "You're here now." He stepped closer, lowering his tone as if the walls themselves might be listening. "Come with me, Harper. The Maw picked me up not long after I got out. They're good people. We can go now—back stair, service lift. We'd be gone before anyone even noticed."
His eyes locked to hers, bright with something raw and aching. "Come on, Harp."
Her mouth worked but nothing came out. She could feel the sting of tears in the corner of her eyes. The weight of his eyes, the rope of memory in his voice, locked her in place. Finally a whisper scraped free. "I can't… they'll—"
"Shh." Skiv lifted a hand, palm out, the plea soft as a touch. "You can. I've got you." His other hand reached toward her, open, waiting. "Come with me, Harp. Right now."
Her chest tightened, air caught between ribs. She didn't move, her hand shaking as she stared at his.
Then a flicker of motion pulled at the corner of her vision. Beyond Skiv, through the wired glass of the hall door, a figure filled the frame—broad shoulders, eyes hard, fixed past the barrier.
Harper's gaze snapped to Brock, her breath catching.
Skiv saw the shift. He followed her eyes just long enough to register the shape standing in the hall, watching. Something in his face broke. He spun back to her, rage igniting, and exploded.
He lunged, faster than she could breathe, his hand snapping around her forearm. "Skiv—" was all she got out before he wrenched her sideways and slammed her into the rack.
Steel shrieked as the frame shuddered against its bolts, the edge gouging her spine. Pain detonated through her side, a raw cry torn out as the air left her in one burst. She clawed at his sleeve, twisting, but his weight bore her upright against the frame before she could fold.
His shoulder jammed up under her chin, snapping her head back, grinding her face into the steel until her teeth clicked together. She bucked hard, hips slamming against his, panic driving, but his thigh cut across and pinned her flat.
"Skiv—stop—" The plea rasped out, thin, desperate, but his grip only tightened. He caught her free wrist and slammed it into the upright. Bone on metal—lightning shot up her arm, skin tearing raw. She tried to yank free, but he wrenched harder, her nails scrabbling against cold steel.
His forehead slammed into her cheekbone—short, savage. Stars sprayed across her vision, skull snapping back into steel. A bell rang high and endless behind her eyes, copper flooding her mouth before she could breathe. Her knees buckled, but he caged her upright, refusing her collapse.
His boot kicked her ankle out, stealing the last of her base. She sagged, breath ragged, but he bore her weight, twisting her pinned arm up and out, slow so she felt every inch. Tendons screamed. His forearm drove across her jaw, wrenching her face aside into the rack. Cold metal pressed merciless into her ribs. The steel frame shuddered with each of her broken breaths. He kept cranking her arm higher—patient, merciless—turning her like a bolt locked too long.
Brock pressed to the wired-glass just as Skiv slammed Harper into the racks. The impact rattled the frame, vibration climbing his arm. He seized the pull handle, wrenched—nothing. Steel held like a wall poured in place. He hit it with his shoulder; the frame barked back, lock unmoved. "Knux!" The shout came raw, too loud for a job meant to be silent.
Knuckles dropped to a knee at the jamb, one glance enough: no seam, no daylight, just solid steel locked hard. "Mag's holding," he muttered, breath tight. "We're not forcing it."
"Then kill it." Brock's palm smacked the panel, demand and order at once.
Knuckles had his penknife out, blade biting screws, shoulders hunched as he worried them loose. One slipped, screeching across the plate; his jaw flexed before he set it again. The cover peeled back, board crammed, wires snarled. He thumbed insulation off in fast, practiced scrapes, bridged copper ends. A click answered, faint coil hum like a held breath—but the magnet stayed locked.
Knuckles spat air, shaking his head once. "Still hot. Backup's feeding it."
Her back slammed to the rack, Harper let everything go slack for a single breath, letting Skiv's weight overrun her—then snapped the wrong way on purpose. Chin to bicep, shoulder slipping under his forearm, she made the slack he hadn't planned to give. The hold shifted. She stole a mouth of air and dragged the wrist he'd pinned up the upright until skin burned, fingertips clawing for the round of his knuckle and peeling it back.
He crushed closer, thigh heavy across her hips to pin her sidearm. She raked her heel down his shin; his weight hitched. Her free hand speared for his ear—steering, not mercy—and she jammed a forearm across his throat, forcing his head aside just enough to steal another inch.
He changed levels, forehead grinding hard into her cheekbone, vision bursting white, and walked her sideways along the shelving, trying to feed her face-first into the upright. The rack shuddered, cables rattling against their ties, heat humming against her spine. She drove an elbow toward his liver; he rode it out on muscle and mashed her wrist harder against the post, fingers hunting a hold that wasn't there. Dust lifted sharp, breath harsh between them.
His hand slid for her hip, scrabbling toward the pistol holstered there. She caught his wrist, wedged it between belt and bone, and snapped her teeth into his shoulder through cloth. Salt and copper filled her mouth as he jerked, a raw sound tearing loose—half snarl, half grunt. "Harper—" Warning or plea, she couldn't tell. She tore free before he could smash her head again, breath hot with the taste of his blood. His shoulder bunched as he tried to walk her farther down the row, dragging her like she weighed nothing.
She gave him half a step, then planted and snapped back: a short, vicious forehead into the bridge of his nose. Enough to ring, not break. His head rocked; the grip on her wrist faltered. She spun off the post, ripping free with a strip of skin.
He came back fast, hand shooting for her throat the same instant she jammed up for his elbow. Both landed—his arm slamming into hers, bone on bone, his fingers clawing close but catching nothing. They crashed together, locked in close enough that she tasted old coffee on his breath, close enough to feel how familiar this body was against hers.
His forearm crushed across her jaw, angling for her throat. She did the one thing that buys space—chin down, hands in—shoulder jammed under his elbow. He folded the gap shut, jaw taking the pressure instead; her molars lit. She stamped for his knee, scraped shin, missed—then shoved the rack edge between his arm and her neck and stole a breath.
He slid tighter, trying to trip her again. She went heavy, dropped a knee so his hook caught air, ripped her hand free on skin, and popped him in the ear with the heel of her palm. He reeled half a step, kept his back to the door; she crowded that inch, forearm across his collarbones, fighting forward.
He dropped under her hands and wrapped her tight, chest to ribs, arms locking her in. A hooked leg scythed behind hers and took her feet, and he drove through—tile came up fast and ugly; her shoulders cracked first, skull bouncing a half-beat later, white light bursting behind her eyes. The breath left her in a flat sound as he rode her down and sealed the weight—knee heavy on her hip, shoulder smashing her far arm to the floor. He pinned her left wrist under his knee, legs grapevined tight around hers so her kicks were nothing but noise. Then he slid his right forearm across her cheek, turned her face aside, and went hunting for her neck again.
Brock saw Harper slam down, Skiv's weight crushing her, her head bouncing off tile. His gut twisted. He smashed the door again, metal booming down the corridor. "Knux!"
"I hear it!" Knuckles snapped from the panel, knife clamped in his teeth while both hands tore deeper into the reader's guts. Wires spilled like veins across his fingers, stripped copper sparking as he twisted them together. Sweat ran his temple, jaw locked. "Lock's on a battery pack. Not just the wall."
Brock wrenched the pull until steel moaned, shoulder driving again, rage hammering bone to frame. Nothing. He shoved his face to the slit, breath fogging glass—Harper pinned, Skiv grinding her flat. He punched the jamb, voice raw: "Open it!"
"I'm trying!" Knuckles barked, voice tight, low, full of teeth. He bridged another set—relay clicked, coil hummed overhead, still locked. "Come on, you bastard—let go."
Skiv settled heavy and close, weight grinding her flat into the tile. His forearm stayed grinding across her cheek, turning her face hard to the side as he settled heavy and close. One knee parked on her hip, locking her beltline down so her gun stayed trapped
"Stop," he rasped, breath hot with dust and old coffee. The sound scraped raw, part warning, part plea. "Don't make me put you out. I can still walk you out of here."
Her jaw worked against his radius, words crushed out thin. "Let me go."
"Not to them." His grip shifted, forearm sliding from cheek to the hinge of her jaw, palm spreading across her throat. He pressed down, not choking yet, but the promise of it hung heavy in the pressure. His face hovered close, eyes searching hers. "Breathe, Harp. Tap. I'll take you—"
She answered with claws. Her free hand speared up and raked his face from cheekbone to brow; skin went under her nails, wet and sudden. He snarled; his head jerked; the crossface slipped ugly across her windpipe. She jammed her knuckles between bone and neck and bridged hard, hips snapping to buck his weight. He chased it, but she scraped sideways on the tile, freed her right leg just enough to shove a knee between them, and rolled to her side, dragging a mouthful of air that hurt on the way in.
She surged up to a knee and hurled herself forward—body a single drive for the crash bar, everything in her pitched at that strip of metal. The wired glass filled with Brock's shoulders, his fist hammering, so close she could almost slam into him if she just got there. Her hand flung out—
Skiv caught her beltline and the back of her shirt mid-flight and ripped her sideways, a violent arc that smashed her into the server rack's edge. Steel carved into her ribs; the corner hammered kidney and hip; her teeth clacked hard enough to spark her vision. The impact punched the breath flat out of the room. Cables quivered like struck strings, a panel rattled free, her palms slapped down to keep from crumpling as his chest hit her back and the rack shuddered under both of them.
He ripped her off the rack like a drawer—back, down, twist—and dumped her face-first to the tile. He landed heavy on top, chest welded to her spine. His right arm snaked under her jaw, locking clean for a breath—biceps crushing one side of her throat, forearm closing the other. His left hand caught his right biceps, his free palm pressing the back of her skull, hauling her deeper. One boot hooked her thigh, then the other—hooks in—his heels dragging her hips flat against the floor.
Harper's pulse thundered against bone; her vision flickered. His jaw tucked against her temple, stubble scraping her skin, breath pouring hot into her ear, close enough to feel every word.
"Five-count, Harp," he murmured, coaxing like he wasn't crushing her out. "That's all it takes. One… two… quiet." His palm stayed locked at the back of her head, steady as a hand on a child, guiding her deeper into the choke. "Don't fight it. Just a little sleep. In a blink you'll wake and we'll be gone."
His cheek pressed to hers, voice rasping through grit and memory. "You remember. How we steadied each other. Same thing now. Trust me, Harp. I'll walk you out."
Her answer was teeth. She turned her head and bit down hard, cheek and jaw between her molars. Skin split; copper burst across her tongue. He snarled in her ear, jerked, and reflex cinched his grip—the choke slipping from clean technique to raw cruelty, his arm sawing deeper across her throat.
Her breath came ragged against his biceps, barely sound. Both hands clawed for his top wrist—peel, pry, nails digging—fighting for space. She wrenched her jaw sideways into the crook, stole the smallest sliver of air. Black crowded her vision, blood before breath. He buried his grip, chin grinding into her temple, ears roaring with cotton.
She flung her near leg long, shook his hook loose, and rolled toward the rack. Paint scraped her cheek as she dragged his forearm into the steel upright, jamming the crook of his elbow against the edge. Pressure shifted—sharp, ugly—and for one heartbeat she stole a mouthful of air that felt borrowed.
He felt the wedge and yanked his arm clear, dragging her off the rack leg. She kicked his near hook free with a heel flick and bridged hard, turning into him. They rolled—half a tumble—her shoulder slipped past his chest and she hit flat on her back.
He followed like a blanket, smearing close, knees biting into her hips. One palm slapped tile to post, the other dragging her skull up by the hair at her crown. Blood from the ragged bite in his cheek dripped hot onto her jaw, his own wound feeding back into her teeth-bared snarl.
He dropped bone across her throat, forearm grinding the notch, and cinched her head into it. No clean choke—just crush. His biceps bullied one side of her neck, the tile buried the other. "Stop," he said again, closer now, hot in her face.
Sound turned to grit. Her vision hopped and smeared.
Through the glass Brock saw Harper flat on the tile, Skiv's arm crushing her throat. Her heels scraped, teeth bared, his blood streaking her jaw. She jerked once, twice, weaker each time. Brock slammed the door so hard the frame shook. "Knux! She's going under—get it open!"
Knuckles didn't look up. Knife clamped in his teeth, both hands buried in the panel, he stripped wire with a thumbnail. Sparks spit, LED blinked, coil hummed like a hornet nest. He twisted a bridge, waiting for the click—
Nothing. The hum climbed, mocking.
"Fuck!" He ripped the knife free, scraping insulation so fast it bit his hand, blood streaking the steel. "Secondary circuit. They doubled it."
Brock hammered the glass, rage shuddering his chest. "Then kill the feed! Now!"
Knuckles' jaw clenched, eyes locked on the tangle, knife poised. "Working it—seconds."
"She doesn't have seconds!" Brock roared, fist pounding until his own split.
His forearm pinned across her throat, bone biting down as he torqued her head sideways. Her nails scraped at his wrist, useless against the grind. His other hand fisted in her hair, wrenching her skull back until her teeth clacked. The hold wasn't clean anymore—just pressure, crush, pain.
She tore at her belt with her free hand, fingers scrabbling blind until they hooked the hilt. The knife slid free, flat against her forearm, edge hugging bone, her breath rattling through her teeth as the world pinholed.
Brock saw the flash of steel and is stomach flipped. "Now, Harper—do it—" He slammed the glass with his palm, his voice raw.
Knuckles hissed through his teeth, twisting bare copper. A relay clicked, coil hummed louder. "Come on, come on—" Sparks spat, sweat rolling down his cheek.
She tucked the blade tight against her forearm and drove it in, small and ugly—no wind-up, just wrist and shoulder. Steel slid under his ribs through cloth; heat spilled over her knuckles, slick and sudden.
His jaw clamped, teeth grinding. A sound tore loose—raw, animal. His frame jolted, the arm across her throat wrenching crueler on reflex, crushing until her vision shrank coin-small and the world tunneled.
Brock's fist hammered the frame. "Knuckles! Now!"
"I'm in it! Don't rush me!" Knuckles barked, knife scraping insulation. Another click, another hum, the lock still holding.
Harper drove the blade again—ragged, off-angle, tearing more than cutting but still inside him. Skiv's forehead cracked into hers, skull to skull, and white burst through her vision. The ceiling grid fractured into pieces she couldn't hold. Blood slicked her teeth when she gasped against his arm, copper running down her chin.
A UPS beeped flat in the racks, one hollow note. Brock's gut iced; for a heartbeat he thought it was her—the monitor sound of a body letting go. He pressed his forehead to the wired glass, knuckles splitting on the jamb. "Breathe, Harper. Breathe!" His voice scraped raw, more order than plea.
Harper didn't hear him. Her hand hitched again, wrist flicking under bone, the knife finding another seam by muscle memory more than will.
Skiv jerked, breath ripping out of him like fabric tearing. His grip spasmed, faltered, then clamped again—weak but still crushing. Heat spilled hotter over her wrist; his weight sagged heavy, no direction left. His eyes stared wide, unfocused, jaw working like he meant words that wouldn't come. The choke stayed only by reflex, bone holding the last order his body remembered.
Harper's vision funneled to black, her knuckles slick, her own body slackening even as the blade worried deeper by inches.
The coil finally choked, the hum stuttering once before dying. A relay thunked heavy in the frame, final as a gavel.
Knuckles tore his hands back, sparks snapping. "Go!" he barked, twisting clear—
Brock didn't hear so much as feel it. He ripped the pull with everything he had, door jerking wide, hinge screaming. He threw himself through, shoulder clipping steel on the way in, but he didn't stop.
Then he was on them—fist seizing Skiv's collar, jerking him back so fast the forearm came off Harper's throat in the same motion. Dead weight dragged across the tile, scuffing loud, blood spreading fast into the grout lines.
Brock dropped to his knees at Harper. "Harper. Hey." The voice he found was shredded and soft. Her eyes fluttered, unfixed, rolling off him like she couldn't hold the sight. He slid a hand under her skull, fingers hooking the angle of her jaw to lift it clear without cranking the neck. His other hand braced her chest high, steadying her as he swept her mouth open with his thumb—copper and spit, nothing to clear—before pinning the airway wide. "With me," he rasped. "Breathe."
Her chest hitched once, shallow as a twitch. A jagged gulp followed, then another, thinner. The third caught and rattled, her body sagging deadweight against his hands until he said, "Again," and she dragged it up raw, head jerking weakly into his palm.
He shifted, bracing her against the rack and his thigh so the angle stayed open. The bruising was already rising, ugly purple where bone had bitten deep. He didn't press it. His fingers slid to her carotid, searching until he felt the thud stammer back under skin. Relief cracked through his chest. "Good. Stay with me. In… hold… out."
Boots scraped tile behind him. Knuckles slipped through the door, knife still in one hand, eyes cutting first to Skiv sprawled in the blood. He dropped to a knee, pressed two fingers to the throat, leaned close a beat. Nothing. He gave Brock the short nod. "He's gone."
His gaze flicked to Harper—slumped against Brock's thigh, jaw held open by his hand, chest hitching ragged but moving. Knuckles' jaw tightened once, then he met Brock's eyes. "You've got her." Not a question.
He rose, wiped his hand on his pants, and turned for the server stack. Already pulling his kit free, already stripping cable, he set on the data like the fight hadn't happened.
Harper's pulse thrashed under Brock's fingers, wild, dragging her back to the surface. She blinked, eyes clearing in fits, darting like she was still trapped in the choke. Then her hands pressed to the tile, shaky but insistent, and she tried to shove herself upright.
"Easy." Brock caught her shoulder before she could tear loose, palm steady but firm. She twisted anyway, body still in fight-or-flight, every nerve screaming to move.
"Harper. Stop." His voice came low, right at her ear, stripped raw but steady. "You're out. He's done."
Her eyes flicked to him, unfocused but trying. The words dragged through the haze; her muscles sagged, the fight bleeding out of her. She slumped back against his thigh, jaw trembling, chest sawing ragged air.
She tried again, smaller—hands braced on his forearm, a stubborn push. He set his palm to her collarbone and held. "No." Not sharp; immovable. "Stay with me. Eyes here." His other hand cupped the base of her skull so her head didn't loll. "We move when your head's back." Her breath hitched, then found his rhythm again.
The rack's UPS gave a flat beep. She flinched like the sound had teeth; Brock felt it run through her into his arm. "Ignore it," he said—to her, to himself. "Not you. In. Hold—out." She coughed once, tried to swallow; the scrape told him enough.
Behind them, Knuckles worked the stack—cables stripped, drive spun down, screen blacked out—eyes cutting once to the door before going back to his kit.
Harper's pupils were still blown wide but starting to track. Her breath snagged on the hold; he counted her through until one exhale didn't crack, then the next. A tremor built from a fine shimmer to a full shake that clattered her teeth. He set his hand heavy on her shoulder and let her push against something that wouldn't move until it eased.
"I need to—" she rasped, her gaze cutting to the door, to the floor where the dark shape bled out.
"No." Two fingers under her jaw pulled her back; his forehead almost touched hers. "You need to breathe." He made the word need a place to stand, not a command.
Knuckles came over only once the stack was dark, drives pulled, and lenses wiped clean in his head. He dropped to a knee opposite Brock, not crowding. Two fingers found the pulse behind the bruise at Harper's jaw, light as moth wings. "Harp." Low. "Eyes."
She dragged her gaze to him. He held it for two breaths, counted them under his own. "There you are." His palm settled on her shoulder—warm, steady, not moving her. To Brock: "You've got her?"
"I've got her."
A small nod. "Good." His eyes swept the room once, crisp. "Ledger, DVR, NAS, modem, badges. All of it." Then back to her, voice softer than he ever gave in public. "We're done. We're leaving." He turned his forearm so she could take it if she wanted, felt the twitch of weight, and eased her back with a gentle press. "Not yet. Minute more. That's both order and favor."
They took it. Brock kept her anchored—jaw thrust, shoulder steady, his chest the metronome. "With me—slow in, slow out." The tremor ran through and began to ebb; her eyes started to track instead of float. Knuckles watched the door and the edges, counting quiet time by breaths instead of seconds. The rack's fan coughed and settled. No one hurried it.
When the next exhale didn't crack and the one after held, Brock said, "Now," not a question—timed to her breath. He slid an arm under her knees and the other behind her shoulders, forearm cradling the base of her skull so the neck stayed neutral. She tried to help and couldn't; that was fine. "Easy." He lifted. She folded into his chest on instinct, the way a drowning body goes quiet when the shore is finally real, and a small, stubborn breath found space at his collarbone.
Knuckles took the door, lights as they were, nothing touched that hadn't needed touching. Brock nudged the knife off the tile with his boot, bent just enough to slide it away without putting it in her eyeline, then straightened and kept her tucked in. He didn't look at Skiv. He didn't let her.
He carried the air she'd just remembered how to take and all of her weight like it didn't cost him a thing, and the three of them left the room where the past had stood up and fought.