Knuckles swung the rear passenger door wide, shoved the front seat forward, and dragged the headrest up to clear space. Brock angled Harper's boots in first; Knuckles caught them, eased them into the footwell. With her legs clear, Brock ducked under the frame, twisting sideways as he dropped into the rear corner. He drew her torso across with him until the back of her head rested against his chest, the raised headrest behind to keep it steady. Awkward but sure, he wedged against the door, shoulder to glass, one knee braced wide for leverage. One hand steadied her jaw, holding the airway clear, while the other dragged the belt across their hips and snapped it home, pinning her into him so the jolts would hit him first. Her fingers clenched in his sleeve and didn't let go. Knuckles shut the door, slid into the driver's seat, killed the dome light, and eased them out into rain, wipers dragging slow arcs across the glass.
Harper felt carved out and ringing, the cabin still holding the after-sound. Every inhale snagged where his thumb braced the hinge of her jaw, scraping raw along the bruised line of her throat; every exhale tasted of pennies. Her cheekbone pulsed where Skiv's forehead had found it, the back of her skull thudding dully against Brock's chest whenever the tires crossed a seam. Ribs needled where the rack had caught her; old stitches tugged, so she kept her breaths shallow. Skin burned along the wrist she'd torn free; her forearm still remembered the bite of his grip. The smear down her sleeve had dried to brown. She clung to Brock's sleeve because it was the one thing that didn't lurch or strike back. Streetlight carved the cabin in bars; each pass flushed heat up her throat, made her mouth want to open. She pressed it down and borrowed his rhythm instead—small, contained, in on the lift of his chest, out when it fell—until the panic loosened its teeth.
Knuckles let the mirror stay empty for a mile before pulling his phone from the dash pocket. He thumbed it on, shoulder pressed to the wheel as he listened through the first ring.
"Price."
Static shifted, then a voice, steady. "You breathing?"
"Yeah." Knuckles kept his tone low. "We're on the road. Harper took a choke—she's awake, pulling air, but she's rattled. I want Graves waiting."
A pause, paper-thin. "And you? Brock?"
"We're good. No holes." His jaw worked once. "We've got what we came for. Enough to keep Vex happy."
Another pause, softer this time. "Alright. I'll get Graves down to the bay. You call me when you hit the gate."
Knuckles gave the faintest grunt. "Copy." He thumbed the phone dark and slid it back into place.
The line went flat and Harper startled at the sudden quiet. Brock lifted her jaw a fraction higher, chest rising slow against her temple until the tremor ran out of her shoulders. He kept the rest wordless—two fingers light at her wrist, the other hand bracing her jaw just high enough for air to move clean—and let the bumps land in his shoulder instead of hers.
When the road steadied, he dug a bottle from the console, twisted the cap, and brought it close. "Do you think you can take some water?" he asked, voice low.
She managed the smallest nod. He tipped just enough to wet her lips, stopped when the swallow caught. The burn went down rough but left a cooler line behind it that steadied her. "Good," Brock said, steady, the weight in his shoulders easing a fraction.
The wipers kept time; highway lamps drew the cabin in bands of light and let it go. She lost track of how many passed. When a merge swung the Tahoe hard she startled, fingers cinching his sleeve; he didn't name it, only shifted closer so the sway hit him before her. Miles blurred that way, lamps thinning, signs she half-read sliding past the glass. Somewhere beyond the last exit before home he bent his mouth near her temple and said, quiet as a promise, "Almost there." The rest he left to the hum of the road and the rise and fall she matched to his chest.
Knuckles rolled up to the gate, let the scanner catch the tag, and pulled his phone one-handed from the console.
"Price."
"Yeah."
"At the gate. Thirty seconds."
"South door's cracked. Graves is up."
"Copy."
The bars slid back. Knuckles took the service road to the south bay; the overhead door rose on a strip of low light. When the engine clicked quiet, Brock thumbed the belt free and shifted her weight forward, keeping one hand under her jaw so air could move clean.
"Hold on," Brock murmured, more shape than sound.
Knuckles was already at the door, rain still on his shoulders. He bent in, slid an arm beneath Harper's knees, the other firm behind her shoulders, and lifted her in one practiced draw. The shift pulled a thin sound out of her, ribs flaring protest.
"I know," Knuckles muttered, adjusting her weight against him. "Got you."
Brock steadied the crown of her head until Knuckles had her clear of the cushion, then dropped out behind them, boots striking the concrete in time with the echo of the bay. Harper's temple settled against Knuckles' chest once he straightened; his arm tucked firm under her shoulders, angling her head for clear breath as he carried her steady under the strip of light.
Brock swung the bay door shut, cut the bright strips so the room held to low, and moved ahead to shoulder doors and key them with the back of his hand so Knuckles never had to break stride.
"Lighter than you look," Knuckles muttered, voice pitched for her alone, words meant to shave the edge off the quiet. Brock followed tight, never more than a step away.
They went straight to med. Graves waited gloved under warm light, hair tied back, eyes already on the red line scoring Harper's throat. "Set her there," she said, voice low as the room.
Knuckles eased Harper down onto the table, careful of her head, then stepped back without a word. Brock stayed close, steadying her chin until Graves slid in with gloved hands. Only then did he let go, shifting to the side of the bed, hip against the rail, his eyes never leaving her face.
Graves didn't waste the first seconds: pulse-ox clipped on, penlight across pupils, stethoscope under the collarbone, two gloved fingers walking the bruised line of the neck. "Tell me what happened."
Brock's voice came low. "She was stuck in with a Maw enforcer. He slammed her into the racks more than once." Graves swept the penlight across each pupil; Brock's mouth tightened. "Took her to the floor too—head bounced a couple times. Left wrist got driven into a post."
The stethoscope slid under Harper's collar; Graves listened, shifting sides. Brock kept going, steady. "He locked her in a blood choke. She broke it, but he shifted to brute force on her throat."
"How long?" Graves asked, fingers walking the bruised line of Harper's neck.
"By the time I got to her, she was barely awake. If she went out, it wasn't long. Came back quick once he was off." His eyes caught on the dried smear across her sleeve. "Most of this blood isn't hers. She bit him, stabbed him—he bled out on her."
Graves gave a short nod, already leaning in. "Not hers, then. Good. Less for me to chase." Her voice dropped firm. "I need to check your neck."
Gloved fingers traced the darkening band across Harper's throat. The first press made Harper's jaw clench; the second, lower, dragged a swallow she couldn't hide.
"Alright," Graves murmured, shifting closer with her scope. "Breathe deep."
Harper drew air shallow, ribs flaring, and let it go in a ragged thread. Graves listened a beat, then moved to the other side. "Again."
The next inhale snagged; Harper's face pinched tight.
"Ribs are talking," Graves said, palm finding the line of bone. She pressed slow, one space at a time. Harper hissed when she hit the side.
"Mm. Bruised, not broken."
She took Harper's wrist, turning it carefully. "Squeeze for me."
The fingers curled, trembled, then stopped halfway. Harper sucked in air through her teeth.
"Sprain." Graves set it down gentle, then bent to catch her eyes with the penlight. "Follow me."
Harper's gaze dragged after the glow, slow but steady.
"You know me?" Graves asked.
Harper rasped, "Graves."
"That's it," Graves said, softer now. Her eyes traced the line of stitches at Harper's side, half-hidden under sweat and dirt. She pressed along them, light, watching Harper's face. The wince came but passed; the skin held steady under her glove.
"They're healing well," Graves said, more to Brock than Harper. "No tear, no infection."
She snapped fresh gloves on, pulled a vial and syringe. "Pain shot," she said. "Acetaminophen base. Safer for her head, easier on the throat." The plunger drew with a quiet scrape; she tapped the barrel, flicked the needle. "It'll sting, but it'll take the edge off."
The injection went quick, a twitch in Harper's thigh, then done.
Graves stripped her gloves and looked past Harper to Brock. "You're staying with her?"
"Yeah." His voice was low, but sure.
"Good. Then listen." She peeled two pillows down from the shelf, stacked them with a flat hand. "Prop her—shoulders up. Don't let her lie flat tonight."
Brock's eyes followed the stack. "Keeps her breathing clear."
"Exactly. Cold pack next—side of the neck." She pressed a palm to her own throat to mark the spot. "Fifteen on, twenty off. Couple cycles."
Brock gave a short nod, his hand braced on the rail as Harper shifted faintly.
"No whispering," Graves added, tugging the bin closer. "Worse than talking. Best is no voice at all till tomorrow. Small cold sips only. Soft food if she asks. Nothing stronger for pain until I clear it."
Brock's jaw tightened. "Alright."
She glanced down as Harper stirred, then back at him. "Now the warnings. If the inhale turns squeaky, saliva starts hanging, swelling climbs, lips go gray, or she can't get air—you bring her straight back. Understand?"
"Yeah," he said quietly. "I'll be here."
Graves wasn't finished. She tapped two fingers against her temple. "He rang her bell, too. If she vomits, the headache spikes, she can't track where she is—or you can't wake her—you come back."
Brock frowned, eyes fixed on Harper. "And if she stays under?"
"Wake her every couple hours," Graves told him. She hooked her hands into fists, holding them out. "Ask her name, where she is. Put a hand in each of hers, make sure she can squeeze back—both sides."
Brock nodded once, slow but firm.
"Airway's open. Ribs are bruised but stable, wrist sprained. Head's the one I'm watching, but she's lucid, tracking. She'll hurt, but she'll hold if you follow what I gave you." Graves' tone softened, just a fraction. "She needs rest more than anything."
Brock shifted, the stacked pillows still in his grip. He bent as if to gather Harper up.
"Uh-uh," Graves said, catching the move. "She walks. Better for her head, better for her lungs. You keep her steady, but let her use her own legs."
Brock's jaw worked; then he passed the pillows off to Knuckles.
Graves angled her chin toward Harper. "You ready to move?"
Harper blinked, slow, then gave the smallest nod.
"Good girl. Then go. Bed, pillows, ice, and no voice till tomorrow."
Brock slid an arm under Harper's elbow, his other hand braced light at her back as she eased upright. Her knees buckled once; she caught herself against him, ribs flaring under the shift. He adjusted without a word, steady as a brace.
Knuckles swung the door open with his free hand, holding it wide. "Red carpet service," he muttered, dry as ever, the pillows tucked under his arm.
Harper huffed something between a breath and a laugh, then let Brock guide her out.
Price was waiting just outside the med bay, shoulder to the wall, eyes on the door as it opened. His gaze cut straight to Harper, measuring the sag of her weight against Brock, the bruising already surfacing along her throat.
"She's fine," Knuckles said before the silence could stretch, voice even, leaving no room for argument. He shifted the pillows under his arm, gave Price a short nod. "And thanks—for having Graves ready."
Price's eyes lingered on Harper another beat, then flicked to Brock, then back to Knuckles. "Good." The smallest dip of his chin followed, acknowledgment without ceremony.
They moved down the hall in step, Price setting the pace, Brock steady at Harper's side, Knuckles bringing up the rear with the pillows still under his arm. The corridor smelled of disinfectant and steel; their boots threw back hollow echoes that trailed after them to the elevator.
Inside the car, no one spoke. The hum of the lift and the hiss of the doors filled the space instead. Harper leaned a little heavier into Brock's arm when the car jolted upward, ribs flaring; his hand shifted at her back, bracing her without a word.
The doors opened on the residential floor. Price peeled off first, a short nod marking his exit. Brock steered Harper toward his quarters, Knuckles walking them as far as the turn.
He stopped there, finally passing the pillows over. "She's set now," he said, then met Harper's eyes for the first time since the bay. "Text me if you need anything."
Brock gave him a nod, low and sure. "Thanks."
Knuckles answered with the faintest tilt of his chin, then turned down towards his door. Brock adjusted his grip and guided Harper into his quarters, the door shutting soft behind them.
The kitchen lights bled low across the floor as he walked her past, her weight tucked steady against his side. A short stretch down the hall and he shouldered his door open, guiding her through.
She didn't speak, but he felt it—the way her head turned, the pause in her step when she caught the wrong room, the wrong space.
"I know," he said, voice low. "Not yours. Graves doesn't want you alone tonight. Easier here. I'll keep the checks."
He steered her to the edge of the bed, steadying her down until the quilts pressed cool against the backs of her thighs. The room was stripped bare of comfort—order in every line, dresser shut tight, edges squared. Only the bed broke the rule, wide and heavy under its weight.
Her gaze drifted over the controlled neatness, then down to her own sleeves—stiff with drying blood.
Brock followed her look, jaw set. "Can't leave you in those."
She didn't answer, but he was already moving—dresser open, clean shirt and sweats pulled down. He set them on the quilts, then crouched low, fingers finding the laces at her boots. The knots came undone quick; he eased each boot off and set them aside, socks stripped after.
The long sleeve was next. Her hands twitched like she meant to do it herself, but the thought of lifting her arms made her chest seize. He read it in her eyes. One hand braced her ribs while the other worked the sleeve back inch by inch, careful over the sore wrist, peeling the fabric free. The shirt came over her head slow, his palm steady at her back to keep her upright.
Leggings clung damp to her skin. He hooked the waistband and drew them down, one side then the other, lowering them past her knees. She shifted weakly to help, and he had them off, set in the pile with the rest.
The sweats slid on easier—cuffed at the ankles, loose enough not to press. The shirt went over her head, cotton soft against her skin, his hand guiding her arms through without a tug.
When he'd gotten her into clean clothes, he eased her back against the quilts and worked two pillows under her shoulders, just like Graves had said. She sagged into them at once, eyes half-lidded, the fight sliding out of her frame one notch at a time.
"I'll be back," he told her quietly. "Cold pack."
Her lids flickered—acknowledgment, maybe—and he crossed into the hall.
When he returned, her body had folded small under the weight of the quilts: knees drawn, chin tucked shallow, ribs tight. Safer curled, even if it hurt. The sight tugged something low in his chest.
He sat on the edge of the mattress and touched her shoulder. "Easy." His voice came low, coaxing. One hand steadied her ribs while the other smoothed her knees down. "Don't curl in—you'll breathe better long."
She let him guide her flat again. Only then did he set the ice pack gentle to the side of her neck. Her breath hissed at the cold, shoulders twitching, but he steadied it in place.
"That's better."
He pressed the pack into her hand, folding her fingers around it. "Keep it here." Her grip was faint but enough. He pulled the chair close, sat heavy, elbows on his knees, eyes never leaving her face.
Minutes stretched. Her breaths thinned, slower, her hand weakening. The pack slipped toward her collarbone; he caught it before it dropped, brushed her skin as he took it away. She shivered under the quilts, too cold now.
"Enough," he murmured, setting the pack on the nightstand. He drew the quilts higher across her chest, tucking them until the tremor eased. She sank deeper into the pillows, her breathing thin but steady.
He stripped his boots, laid his jacket and sidearm on the dresser, pulled on sweats. For a long moment he stood at the bedside, eyes on the chair. He should take it. He'd meant to take it.
But she was already half under, ribs rising shallow beneath the weight, and Graves' orders ran through his head—wake checks, keep her breathing open, don't leave her.
Slow, deliberate, he lowered himself onto the bed, staying on top of the covers, careful not to shift her weight. The heat bled across the small space between them, close but not touching.
Her breathing evened. He let his own fall in time with it, quiet in the dark.
The night held in fragments. Every hour he woke her, gentle hand at her shoulder, voice low against the hush: name, place, both hands in his, squeeze. Each time she surfaced slow but sure, eyes finding him, grip uneven but there. Between checks she drifted, her breathing shallow under the quilts, his own matched to hers. He never closed his eyes for more than minutes at a time. The chair sat untouched in the corner, the bed holding them both in its weight. Close, but not touching. The warmth of her a constant at his side, the dark pressing close until the first wash of pale light broke through the blinds.
The watch on the nightstand chirped soft, the mark he'd set. Brock turned his head; she was curled still under the quilts, breathing even, the bruises at her throat darker in the pale light. Peaceful. It made him hesitate.
He reached out anyway, hand settling gentle on her shoulder. "Harper."
She stirred, a flinch at first, then her eyes blinked open, hazed but finding him.
"Name."
Her mouth worked, voice rough. "Harper."
"Where are you?"
"Your room."
He held out both hands. She curled her fingers around them, the squeeze weak but even. He nodded, letting her go.
"You're good," he said, voice kept low. For a beat he just looked at her—the dried blood in her hair, the stiffness in her posture, the exhaustion carved deep. Then he drew a breath. "Think you're steady enough for a shower? Quick, not hot. Wash the night off."
She nodded once, slow but sure. Brock swung his legs off the bed, stood, and slid an arm under her elbow to help her up. Her knees wobbled; he steadied her, guiding each step down the short hall. At the bathroom door he stopped, one hand still braced at her back.
"I'll be right down the hall," he said, voice low, certain. "Call if you need me."
She nodded again, faint but sure. He braced her against the frame with one hand. The other tugged the hem of his shirt she wore, pausing just long enough to catch her eyes. She gave the faintest nod. He eased it up, careful around her ribs and the angry line at her throat, lifting her arms free one at a time. The sweats followed, drawn down slow so she didn't have to balance more than a second.
She was left in the thin cotton underneath, pale against bruises. He turned the tap, waited with his palm under the stream until it ran steady, warm but not hot.
"Quick, not long," he murmured. He glanced back once, made sure she was steady with a hand to the counter. "I'll be just down the hall. Call if you need me."
He closed the door soft behind him.
Steam ghosted against the mirror, softening the edges of her reflection. It didn't blur enough. The bruises at her throat were already rising dark, a band of shadow climbing toward her jaw. Her cheekbone throbbed where the swelling pushed the skin tight; dried blood clung in her hairline like rust. She barely recognized the girl staring back.
Her hands shook as she reached behind for the clasp. The sprained wrist gave on the first try, sending a spark of pain up her arm. She bit her lip, tried again, and the hooks slipped free. The bra sagged loose; she slid it down her arms slow, ribs protesting with each shift, and let it drop to the tile.
The underwear went next, peeled away with more effort than it should've taken. She braced one hand to the counter for balance as she kicked free. Cold air crawled over bare skin, raising a tremor that had nothing to do with temperature.
She turned, one hand on the wall, and stepped into the stall. The first touch of water made her flinch—it stung every raw seam, needled every bruise—but the warmth began to seep deeper, rinsing the blood from her skin in pale threads. She let her head fall forward, eyes closed, the stream drumming steady over her shoulders until the ache blurred into something she could almost bear.
She kept her motions small—soap pressed to her palms, spread gingerly along her arms, down her ribs where the rack had caught. Her wrist flared when she tried to turn it; she hissed, slowed, let the suds rinse away instead of scrubbing.
She should have felt cleaner, but the heat pulled memory up with the steam. Skiv's face, pale under fluorescents, the snap of disbelief when their eyes met. Harp? Like no time had passed. Like nothing had changed.
Her throat tightened. She dragged her hand higher, tried to wash her hair, but the weight of water and the pull in her ribs stopped her halfway. She pressed her palms to the tile instead, let the stream run through her hair on its own.
Skiv—stop— The echo cracked through her skull, his shoulder jammed to her jaw, his voice rasping against her ear. She saw the rack, felt the slam in her ribs, the crush of his arm at her throat. Her own breath snagged, shallow, not enough.
She shook her head hard, water blinding her, but his voice clung, coaxing and cruel at once: Five-count, Harp. Just sleep. Just trust me.
Her chest clamped, panic clawing up fast. She gasped, but the inhale rattled, stuck high in her throat. The steam pressed close, too close, and her palms slapped harder against the tile like she could push the air open. Heart hammering, vision narrowing, she fought to breathe, fought to believe she wasn't still under him.
She pressed her forehead to the tile, tried to breathe through it, to remind herself—it's done, he's gone, you're here, you're safe. But the steam curled hot in her lungs, and memory bled too quick to be dammed.
Skiv's laugh, muffled under a helmet, back in the Vipers' pit. A shoulder slammed into hers in training, his hand yanking her up with a grin—C'mon, Harp, faster than that. The same hand now crushing her wrist to steel, torqueing until tendons screamed.
She blinked water from her eyes, tried to separate the faces. It was the same face. The same voice.
We steadied each other. Trust me, Harp. His words from last night wormed through the older ones, wrong and right all at once.
Her breath hitched, sharp. She pushed back from the wall, arms trembling, and tried to brace her palms against the slick tile. The choke clamped around her memory—forearm across her throat, his weight driving her flat. She felt the air vanish again, the panic chewing the edges of her vision.
"No—" It rasped raw, half-swallowed.
She slipped. One hand skated on soap, the other too weak to catch. Her knees buckled, and she hit the floor of the stall hard, water pouring over her, steam crowding close. A cry rasped out of her throat and broke.
Brock took the door on the run. The hinge protested; he didn't hear it. He was already in the stall, shoes sliding, shoulder pinning glass before it could swing wide. The handle went down under his wrist, cutting the spray to rain, and he dropped into the corner with her—forearm sliding behind her shoulders before the tile could bruise her worse.
He made a frame out of himself. One thigh under her to stop the slow slide. Boot braced to the curb. Ribs angled so he wasn't pressing hers. His palm went flat to her sternum—ground, here, now—while the other lifted her jaw a finger's width, careful to keep her neck midline.
"Harper. Look at me." Not calm—tight, scared.
Her fists found his shirt and locked, fabric creaking under the twist. He snagged a towel with two fingers, dragged it over her shoulders without losing his hold, then set a small rock in his body—steady, deliberate—for her to steal when her own rhythm broke.
"In with me… hold… out."
She couldn't find it. His forehead pressed to her wet hair, his voice close, breathing loud on purpose—slow, countable, something she could chase. "There you go. Again. In. Hold. Out."
His free hand hovered toward his pocket—toward Graves, reflex—but he forced it back. "I've got you. I'm right here."
He kept the corner, the jaw, the rock. Took the ugly sobs as they came and didn't flinch, riding them until the whistle at the top of each inhale eased, until the gasps steadied into breaths he could feel under his palm, until the stall stopped tilting.
She dragged one more breath, raw but whole. "Skiv," she rasped, the name all corners.
His face shifted—one quiet flinch—and held.
─•────
The briefing room was dim, only one strip light humming overhead. Brock sat hunched at the table, elbows planted, fingers pressed to his brow like he could squeeze the fog out. The coffee in front of him had gone cold hours ago. His eyes were rimmed red, his shoulders heavy, the kind of tired that lived in bone.
The door swung open on a low creak. Knuckles came in fresh—hair damp, shirt clean, the sharp bite of soap still clinging. Two cups rode his hands. He set one in front of Brock, kept the other, and dropped into the chair across the table.
"You look like shit," he said, straight-faced.
Brock huffed, more breath than laugh, and wrapped his hands around the cup. "Barely slept."
Knuckles sipped his own coffee, watching him over the rim. "How's she doing?"
Brock dragged a thumb along the seam of the cup. "Slept most of the night. I woke her when I was supposed to—checks were rough at first, but she got quicker each time. Better by morning." His jaw worked, eyes flicking low. "Got her into the shower. She—" he exhaled slow. "She panicked. Hard. But I got her calmed, back down. She's steady now."
Knuckles leaned back, lips pressing thin. "Christ." A shake of his head. "Not surprised, but still—fuck."
Brock stared into the steam, then lifted his eyes. "She said a name. Skiv. Think that's who he was."
Knuckles gave a short nod before answering. "I grabbed his wallet on the way out. It lines up. Cole ran the intel this morning—data we pulled puts him on the Black Maw roster about two weeks after we burned the Viper den." He took another swallow of coffee. "She didn't freeze on the fight. She saw a ghost."
Brock sat back, the chair creaking. His jaw set hard. "Makes sense." A pause. "Doesn't make it easier."
The door opened again, firmer this time. Vex came in sharp as ever, jacket squared, eyes taking in both men before he even shut it behind him. He didn't sit at first, just crossed to the table and set a folder down flat.
"Walk me through last night." His gaze flicked from Brock to Knuckles, landing on the latter.
Knuckles straightened, coffee set aside, tone clipped. "Started routine. We got in clean—no alarms, no eyes. Voss went up into the vent like planned. Brock and I cleared the hall. Server room had one hostile—she was already overhead, and we couldn't warn her down in time." He leaned forward, elbows to the table. "She dropped into the room, froze a second. He took her quick."
Vex's face didn't move. "And then?"
"Door was magnet-locked. Took a minute to kill the circuit, but we forced it. By the time we got inside, she'd already turned it. He was down. She was beat up, barely conscious, but alive." Knuckles' jaw tightened. "We got her out clean. She's sore, rattled, but Graves has her stable. She'll be fine."
Vex's eyes narrowed. "Why did she hesitate?"
Knuckles didn't flinch. He pulled a photocopy of the ID from the folder and slid it across the table. "Because it wasn't just some Maw grunt. Pulled his records. Cole traced it this morning. Ex-Viper—Skiv. He showed up on their roster two weeks after we burned the den." His voice stayed flat. "She got dropped in against an old friend."
Vex nodded once, slow. His eyes slid to Brock. "I thought we tagged all the Vipers."
Brock's jaw worked. "One slipped through." He leaned back, voice low but firm. "Doesn't matter. She froze, but she fought through. She stayed with us. She finished it."
Vex studied him a moment, gaze steady, measuring. Then he turned back to Knuckles. "The data?"
Knuckles lifted a small drive between two fingers. "Got it all. Rosters, shipment logs, movement schedules. Enough to gut half their network. Cole and Price are still sorting, but it's clean. More than enough to choke them down."
A flicker of satisfaction touched Vex's face. He took the drive, turned it once in his hand, then pocketed it like it already belonged there. His eyes cut back to Brock.
"First of two jobs down for Voss," he said. "That counts as a success." His tone stayed even, but there was no mistaking the verdict. "In a few weeks, we will be moving the stolen weapons shipment out of the city. I expect resistance. That will be her last job, assisting with the escort. I'll call it then."
Brock's mouth set, but he gave a single nod.
"In the meantime," Vex went on, "get her healed. Get her stronger. Back into training. I want her ready when the call comes."
The room held quiet—the scrape of chair legs, the faint hum of the light overhead. Vex gave one last look at each of them, then turned and left the way he came, the door clicking shut behind him.
─•────
Brock eased his bedroom door open with his shoulder and let the hinge close on its own hush. Afternoon light slanted through the blinds, cutting a pale stripe across the floorboards and the slope of the bed. Harper had shifted since he left her. The pillows had slouched low, the cold pack slid off, hanging half against the quilt. Her body had folded small, knees drawn, hands tucked to her throat like even sleep hadn't convinced her it was safe. The quilts covered uneven—one foot buried, the other dangling bare at the seam of the mattress.
He crossed the floor quiet, scanning her without thought—lips still pink, breath moving even, bruises darkening but not swelling out of shape. He sat on the edge of the mattress, let his weight slope the bed slow so she wouldn't jolt, and set his hand gentle on her shoulder.
Her lashes flickered. Her eyes cracked a slit, unfocused, then a sharp flinch ran through her—shoulders jerking tight, chin twitching like she meant to guard her throat. For a heartbeat she didn't know him.
"Hey," he said low, steady. "It's me. You're home. You're safe."
Her gaze climbed to his, wary, pupils wide in the stripe of light. Then the recognition hit, her mouth trembling before it stilled. His jaw had gone iron-hard with her first flinch, a muscle ticking in his cheek, but as she eased notch by notch under his hand his face shifted too—tension draining, his brow smoothing, his mouth softening.
Her hands stayed curled to herself, but her eyes clung to him now. The panic ebbed, leaving behind something heavier, rawer.
"Talk to me," he said, careful. "How's your throat?"
Her fingers brushed the bruise at her neck. "Hurts," she rasped, voice shredded but clear enough.
He gave a small nod. "Alright. Dizzy?"
Her eyes slid side to side, testing. "No."
"Good." Softer this time. His palm stayed warm on her shoulder. "Breathing?"
She drew in a breath, winced, let it out. "Shallow. But steady."
"That's enough." His shoulders dropped a fraction. He lifted the pillows back into place so her head stayed clear, pulled the blanket up over her ribs where it had slipped, smoothing it down slow, his hand lingering. His eyes never left her face.
Silence pressed, broken only by the hum of light through blinds. He let it stretch until the weight demanded words. "You did good last night," he said. His voice carried weight but no edge. "You kept your head. You finished it. You made it back."
Her mouth shook. "No," she rasped. Her head snapped once. "I—hesitated. Almost—" the word choked off; she swallowed jagged. "Almost got killed. Almost fucked the job." The apology broke out raw, scraped bloody. "I'm sorry."
"Hey." He cut her before she could bleed herself further. He shifted forward, sliding onto the bed so she had to see him, so she couldn't bury it. "No." His tone locked it. "I heard who he was. Skiv, right? Viper. Old crew?"
Her eyes lifted—wet, rimmed red, fighting like hell against the tears. She gave one small nod and sat forward like the weight was too much to carry lying down.
Brock's jaw ground tight, something hard flaring behind his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said, and the words carried. "I'm sorry it was him. That he was there. That he made you fight for your life against someone you cared about. I'm sorry he left you with that." He leaned in, steady, unwavering. "But you did what you had to. You made the right call. He would've killed you on that floor. Don't twist it into anything else."
Her face crumpled. The tears broke through in a rush, her mouth shaking open but no words surviving it. She shook her head fast, desperate denial, hands clawing up to her face as if she could dam it there. The sound that slipped between her palms was small but jagged enough to tear the air in two.
Brock felt it slam into his chest like impact. His gut twisted; every instinct screamed to crush her safe, but he forced himself careful, steady.
"Hey," he murmured, coaxing, his own voice rough with it. "It's alright. You hear me? It's alright."
Her shoulders convulsed, sobs cracking through her hands. That was when he moved. He caught her wrists—gentle, not holding, just guiding—and eased them down. Then he drew her forward, slow but certain, until her forehead found his chest.
One arm went across her back, the other braced her shoulder so her throat stayed clear. He held her like something fragile and fierce, steady as a wall, while her sobs tore through his shirt. His chest rose and fell slow, deliberate, giving her a rhythm to grab when hers shattered.
Her fists twisted into his shirt, knuckles white, dragging the fabric taut as if she could anchor herself in the seams. Her whole body shook against him, ribs jolting with every ragged inhale.
Brock tightened his hold—not crushing, but firm. One arm cinched across her back, the other slid up to cup her head, his fingers threading into damp strands, anchoring her. His chin rested heavy against the crown of her head. His eyes pulled to the window—like maybe it held an answer, like he'd never had to carry someone breaking open in his arms before.
Then he bent lower, voice brushing her hair. "I've got you," he whispered, raw and certain. "Let it out. You're here. You're safe."
Her sobs tore harder, muffled against him, until they dragged her whole frame forward. Her arms shot up, locking around his ribs, clutching with desperate strength. She collapsed fully into him, clinging like if she let go she'd fall through the world.
His breath broke once before he steadied it, pressing his cheek into her hair. "You did what you had to," he said, each word slow, a ground to plant on. "You came home. That's what matters."
He stayed like that, unmovable, while her tears soaked his chest. Every time her breath stuttered he matched it with his own, patient, steady, until her sobs weakened into tremors, until her weight sagged heavy into him. Only then did his eyes close, holding her through the silence, his arms the only anchor left.