Pain was the whole room at first—blunt and merciless, a hot spike jammed behind Harper's right eye like someone had hammered a wedge into the socket. Every pulse dragged the bone wrong. Her cheek was glued to concrete that sucked the warmth out of her face, leaving her skin bloodless. Cold damp leeched through her shirt into her ribs, colliding with the bruising heat in her head. Grit pressed into her palm, biting deep enough it felt like the slab had grown its own teeth to hold her there.
She lay curled on her side, one arm pinned dead beneath her, the other hand splayed open in gray dust. Her eyes dragged open to a blur that punished her, light smearing across joists and block until it all swam. She shivered in a low, uncontrollable tremor, the damp in her shirt working colder with every breath. Copper slicked her tongue, metallic and thick, the taste of it raw in her mouth. When she lifted her head the width of a knuckle, the crusted band at her hairline tore and pulled, fresh wet breaking loose. The walls reeled sideways; her stomach heaved with it, a hot burn firing up her throat until her eyes watered.
A bulb hummed above her—thin, insecty, stuttering against its own filament—and beneath it a deeper drone hollowed the air, patient and indifferent. Her eyes tried to drag the room into sense but nothing would lock: lines split and swam, angles doubling until cinderblock looked like water. A post leaned out of the slab and blurred, edges bending as if it wouldn't decide where it belonged. The smear of a door slid when she blinked, never holding still. Ringing filled her skull, not noise but pressure swelling under thought, grinding everything soft around the edges.
A shiver tore through her without warning, violent enough to snap her teeth together and rattle the ache in her skull. Her body folded smaller in reflex, knees dragging up, arms trying to cinch in around heat that wasn't there. The motion yanked something at her ankle—clean bite of metal, a sudden tug that jarred her still. Links rasped dry across themselves, hard and final. She froze, breath punching out in a mist she barely tasted, heart kicking high against her ribs. The knowledge hit blunt, before fear could even catch up: she wasn't just on the floor. She was fastened to it.
Her pulse spiked hard, panic kicking for space inside her chest. The urge was to thrash, to tear at the shackle until something gave—but even the thought of it made her stomach pitch. She forced herself still, jaw tight, drawing shallow breaths through her teeth to keep the nausea from climbing.
The arm pinned beneath her screamed with needles as blood crawled back, useless for anything but twitching. She lifted the other—shaky, dust streaking her skin—and groped for the ache at her skull. Her fingers found it low at the back, a swollen ridge crusted thick. The clot tore under her touch, wet breaking loose, and pain spiked forward behind her right eye, deep enough to blind her for a breath. She froze in that white flare, heart hammering, holding herself rigid until the throb dulled. Panic begged her to spiral; she strangled it down, refusing to give it what it wanted.
She let her eyes tip upward without moving her head. The ceiling laddered with narrow boards, uneven, like ribs pressing through thin skin. A copper pipe ran along one seam, sweating slow; a bead fattened, dropped, cracked against the slab near her ear. Somewhere below or above, a machine cycled and paused, cycled and paused, its rhythm patient as breath. Farther off, a low vibration rolled through the foundation—deep, resonant, the kind she'd felt underfoot when freight trains cut through East Halworth at night back in the Viper Den. It wasn't close, and it wasn't for her, but the sound lived in the concrete all the same.
Another convulsion cinched her smaller, knees dragging tight against her chest. The cuff pulled in answer, metal biting bone, links rasping across each other with a dry scrape. The jolt tore a noise out of her—raw, low—before she could choke it back. She lay still through the aftershock, chest heaving once, then forced herself to test it again. The chain gave her nothing but weight, enough slack to bruise circles in the dust and no more.
The door at the top of the stairs cracked, and a ladder of light spilled down the treads. Her body wanted to flinch, but she strangled it down. The first touch of it hit her cheek raw, too bright against skin gone numb. She let it crawl across her eyes and tracked the rest by sound: the three-count of boots—one pair unhurried and heavy, wood groaning under each step; one precise, economical, metronome even; one that scuffed, dragging just enough to announce itself. A broad shoulder cut the frame for a second before the door drew shut again, and the bulb overhead kept its thin insect buzz, sinking under the new weight in the room.
Voice and smell reached her first—yard drawl sliding downhill, diesel and wet steel ground into fabric. Then shapes: one broad-shouldered, filling more of the light than the others; one wiry, ink crawling high at the throat; one that moved so quiet the air seemed to tilt around him.
When they hit the slab, the concrete took their weight and the layered stink of sweat, oil, and damp leather thickened the room. Her vision jittered—faces, then glare, then faces again—and she kept them at the corner of her sight without daring more than a breath. The links at her ankle shifted once, a dry scrape against the post, and she prayed the sound hadn't carried.
She tried to make herself smaller—knees edging in, shoulder angling to hide the line of her throat. Concrete carried their weight plain, boots spreading across the slab. The one whose silence pressed heavier than the rest came in close and lowered to a knee. His hand slid into her peripheral and she flinched before she could stop it—shoulder jerking, cheek grinding harder to the floor, breath catching like her body had braced without permission from her head. He didn't grab. Just two fingers, easing sticky strands back from her temple as if clearing a sightline.
"There she is," he said, almost gentle. "Look who's awake."
His sleeve shifted when he moved. Ink rode the inside of his wrist—one long black fang, thick at the root, tapering cruel to a point. The tooth was set in a field of dark shading, as if the flesh itself had been bitten away. Her eyes caught it and held because marks like that weren't decoration; they were allegiance. Black Maw. She knew it cold. He saw the recognition land and let her have the view a second longer, as if stamping the moment into her.
The one in the shadow came farther down, boots slow, weight measured. Light caught his jaw, a slice of cheekbone, then the set of his mouth.
"Harper Voss," he said, flat as poured gravel. Her name sat heavy in the air, deliberate, like he wanted to watch how it landed.
He reached the slab and drifted a hand along the rail, casual, almost idle. "After two of our trucks got conveniently ambushed, I was talkin' to the guy in the reclamation yard." His eyes slid back to her, pale in the hum of the bulb. "Said a while before the trucks got hit, two Syndicate bruisers showed up with a little redhead in tow to negotiate lanes."
He let the pause stretch, watching her, and Harper's throat worked once against the dryness in her mouth.
"Fiery little thing," he went on, almost amused. "Drew steel in the office. Then my boy swore he heard a name get dropped—Voss. Word went around the yard after that, said Silas' girl was runnin' in Syndicate colors."
He leaned a fraction closer, as If sharing a secret that belonged to neither of them. "Except word on the street? You were put in the ground months ago with the rest of the Vipers."
Her pulse spiked at her father's name, a jolt that drove hot through her ribs, then staggered slow again because fast hurt. Blood welled metallic at the back of her tongue, thick as if the word itself had torn something open. She fixed her eyes on the quiet man's throat, where tendon rose under smooth skin—an instinct, a kill-spot—but the focus only made her smaller. His hand hung loose near the floor, open, steady. He didn't need to touch her; the chain at her ankle already answered to him.
The third man spoke then, voice rough, words dragged slow like weight over concrete. "When our boys moved to take the guns back, there was talk of a tiny little redhead runnin' the lanes—poppin' smoke, giving Syndicate cover." His grin worked at her like a dirty thumb on a cut.
He shifted nearer, shadow blotting the bulb's weak spill. "And just a few days back? One of ours swore he saw you at that old diner. Two Syndicate boys and a redhead ghosting the corner. Came back certain Silas' girl was sittin' with Knuckles and Lawson."
Knuckles. Lawson. Hearing their names out of a Black Maw mouth hit harder than her father's, scraping right under the place her skull hurt most. Her breath clipped in her chest; she shifted just enough to pin her forearm across her ribs, as if pressure there could steady the chaos under her sternum. The chain answered with a faint tick against the post. She forced her eyes to stay on the quiet one's wrist—on the inked tooth stark against tendon—because locking to one thing was easier than letting all the names and stories stack into a weight she couldn't carry.
The second man let the words hang, then shifted his weight, boots grinding grit across the slab. His gaze slid over her slow, deliberate. "Funny, though. Silas' daughter wrapped in their coat. Running with the same machine that gutted him and left your crew in the ground."
The third man's boot scraped close and nudged a curl of old tape toward her fingers. "Pet with a collar," he said, low and pleased, "until somebody yanks the leash." The words crawled under her ribs, the chain at her ankle answering like proof.
The one crouched in front of her didn't have to speak. His head turned a fraction, just enough to mark disapproval, and the third man's mouth shut in the space after the sentence like someone had pressed a thumb to a switch. The silence that followed carried more weight than the words had.
"Save the noise," the quiet man said. He lifted his eyes to hers—level, unbothered—and the steadiness of it made the cold crawl under her skin.
"I'm Kato," he went on, voice flat, measured. "Used to run with the Syndicate. Carried their keys, knew their locks. I know how your friends think—how they count debt, how they answer a knock." He tipped his chin toward the other two, casual, like they were just tools at hand. "Miro. Rigg."
His gaze came back to her, steady as a weight. "We've been scraping for a way to pry at that machine, and then you show up—wrapped neat, sittin' pretty between their two best. You gave us a line straight into their engine without us liftin' a hand."
Her stomach heaved once, then settled into a sick coil. She pressed her cheek harder to the slab, made her breath small so it wouldn't scrape out of her throat. The answer she meant to give—go to hell—burned behind her teeth, but her tongue stuck, dry and thick, and nothing made it out. She shut her eyes against the tilt, against the thought of what they wanted from her, and forced herself quiet.
Kato stacked the proof like weights, each one slow and deliberate. "Yard says a redhead drew steel. Name got dropped—Voss. Diner says the same redhead sat with Knuckles and Lawson. And now here you are, in the flesh." His gaze slid to her shoulder, lingering on the viper head inked there—split clean down the skull by a thin white scar—before coming back level to her face.
"Word out of that diner was Lawson couldn't take his eyes off you." His tone thinned, almost amused. "Looks to me like Silas' girl isn't just wearin' Syndicate colors. You're fucking one of their top dogs and calling it loyalty."
Heat surged into her face and bled out just as fast, anger collapsing into a tremor she couldn't stop. She curled tighter, trying to take up less air. Miro's eyes caught the shift; he flicked a look at her, then back to Kato, smug as if the words had proven themselves on her skin.
Kato's mouth tugged at one corner, the closest he came to a smile. He reached down and stroked his fingers once through her hair, slow and casual, like petting something that didn't need to be asked. Harper flinched, cheek scraping concrete, but his hand had already gone.
"You don't have to talk," Kato said, almost kind. "You're not here for answers. You're here for a message." He shifted a half step, shoulder cutting the bulb's glare from her eyes as if that made it mercy. "We don't ransom you back. We let them hear just enough, and then we set a table. Lawson comes running, thinking he's got a line to you. He brings their best with him, walks straight into the dark. He won't walk out."
Miro's laugh came quick and cruel, too loud for the room. "Pretty little breadcrumb," he said, tongue in his teeth. "Dog'll chase it all the way, thinking he's clever."
Rigg leaned his shoulder to the post, grin lazy. "Won't be much of a chase. Man's already half-blind where she's concerned. You dangle her name and he'll break himself running for it."
Neither looked at her when they said it. They were talking over her, about her, like she was already a piece on the board and nothing more. She locked her jaw until her teeth ached, but it didn't stop the shake in her breath. She pressed her cheek flat to the slab—not to vanish into it, but to anchor herself against the tilt of the room.
Kato shifted his weight, the movement small but heavy enough to draw the others quiet. His voice stayed level, almost idle. "Lawson doesn't usually keep women close. Not his style. So either you're a prize worth bleeding for…" His gaze held hers, unblinking. "…or you're just a good fuck he doesn't want to share."
The words crawled cold through her gut, leaving her stomach twisting hard enough to sour her mouth. Pain clawed at the back of her skull when she moved, but she forced her head to tilt anyway, dragging her eyes up to him. Her jaw shook with the effort, breath catching, but she spat it out all the same—hoarse, raw:
"Go fuck yourself."
Kato's smile softened, almost fond, as if she'd pleased him. "Oh, honey," he said, voice pitched low, coaxing. "I don't need to do that, when you're right here."
His hand found her shoulder and eased, not forced, like he was guiding her to something inevitable. The slab scraped her ribs as he rolled her onto her stomach; she fought the turn, teeth gritted against the spike in her skull, but the chain at her ankle and the weight in his grip left her useless. Her protest broke raw in her throat, no louder than a scrape of air.
Miro's laugh clipped close, laced with glee. Rigg added a grunt of approval, boots shifting off the post as if to crowd her tighter.
Kato's palm settled between her shoulders, the press steady, almost reassuring. "Easy now," he crooned, sweet as sugar. His other hand slid down, fingers catching at her waistband. "We'll have a little fun with you before we start."
─•────
The elevator doors groaned open, spilling them into the residential floor. Brock stepped out first, two cups balanced in his hands—one black, still steaming, the other sweating cold under its plastic lid, ice ticking against latte. Knuckles came behind with his own cup hooked in his fingers, a paper sack swinging from the other hand, grease and sugar already bleeding through. The air up here still held a trace of cool, the hush broken only by the measure of their boots.
They walked the hall in step. Knuckles blew steam off his coffee, glanced over. "Twenty minutes to shower, get pretty, then we're down with Cole, Price, and Briggs. Intel won't brief itself." He hitched the sack higher, caught Brock's door with his shoulder, and swung it open for him. "Don't take too long, lover boy. Quickie's gotta stay quick if you want that intel on time."
Brock snorted, adjusting the cups. "She's probably still asleep. But, don't blame me if I'm late."
Knuckles' chuckle followed him through. "Wouldn't dream of it."
Brock nudged the door shut with his boot and let the quiet of his quarters take him. The place smelled faintly of coffee grounds and soap—hers, not his. He set the cups on the kitchen island, lids ticking the counter, then stretched out the tightness in his shoulders before heading down the short hall.
The bedroom door was pulled shut. He rapped once with a knuckle and pushed it open.
The room was empty. The bed lay neat, sheets squared and smooth, the kind of order that meant no one had touched it since morning. A window sat open an inch, cool air drifting through and stirring the curtains just enough to shift the light across the floorboards. No Harper.
Brock sat down on the edge of the mattress, dragging a hand over his face. His watch caught the light—almost lunch. Maybe she'd gone down to the cafeteria on her own. The thought didn't ease the pull in his chest. He'd left her to herself all morning while he was off hauling steel and coffee, and now the silence made the absence sharper.
He pushed back up and turned for the kitchen. Halfway across the room something caught his eye—a slip of paper on the far end of the island, folded square and waiting.
He crossed to it, set his palm on the counter, and drew it close with two fingers. Her handwriting met him, tidy and deliberate, the letters small but steady.
Gone for a run. I'll probably be back before you are, but if you're reading this, I won't be long.
The words left a pang in him. In a few minutes he'd be locked into hours of briefing with Cole, Price, and Briggs; by the time she came back, all she'd find was a note on the counter and her latte waiting in the fridge, watered down by melted ice.
He turned the note over, dug out a pen, and braced the paper flat. His hand left the lines quick but clear:
Stuck in meetings this afternoon. Sorry I missed you. Coffee's in the fridge. I'll be home for dinner. I'll make it up to you ;)
He tapped the note once with his fingertip, folded it back along the same crease, and set it down square on the counter where she'd find it.
─•────
Rigg's palm cracked across Harper's backside before he hauled her shorts up in one rough drag. His hand stayed a moment longer, pressing down hard on her hips until her body flattened against the concrete, chest and stomach grinding to the slab. Then he shoved off and rose, boots scuffing as he stepped back.
Harper rolled to her side as soon as the pressure lifted, a raw sound slipping out before she could choke it back. She curled tight, arms pulled in, the cuff at her ankle tugging until the links rasped against the post. Every breath scraped her throat, and the cold of the floor climbed through her bones faster than she could stop it.
Rigg stepped back into line with the others, boots grinding grit as he went. He tugged his zipper up, thumb hooking his belt back into place, and let out a low, pleased breath. "Sweet little thing," he muttered, grin tugging wide. "Could get used to that."
Miro's smirk dragged as he looked her over where she curled against the slab. "Damn shame we didn't find her first. Girl like that could've kept the boys calm for weeks."
Kato's head tilted, his eyes fixed on her with that calm that made the words land worse. "Felt good, didn't it? The way she shook. Pity we can't keep her around."
A tremor ran through Harper's body, small but merciless. Her muscles ached from being held down, ribs tight against the slab; every shift of her hips carried a raw throb between her legs that made her bite the inside of her cheek. The sting there was sharp enough to pull at her breath, and damp still clung where it shouldn't, leaving her sick with the knowledge of it. Her stomach knotted so hard it pressed her closer to the floor, cheek flat to concrete, because moving would only break her further.
Harper heard metal answer metal—small, certain—as Miro drew the slack out of her chain, links tightening where her cuff ran to the support post sunk into the slab. His palm pressed her shoulder, another her hip, rolling her flat before levering her back toward the post. A rough sound slipped from her throat as her ribs scraped grit, stomach grinding to the cold. Then his forearm drove under her arm, hauling her upright until her knees tucked under her, chest dragged away from the floor.
The shift left her swaying, balance gone, every tremor threatening to spill her forward. Miro's boot pinned the chain tight to the post, holding her there, and her breath came shallow and uneven against the strain of being forced to hold herself up.
"On your feet," Kato said.
Harper tried to rise, pushing against the floor, but the cuff bit her ankle and her legs gave before she found balance. Her stomach lurched; bile stung her throat. Miro didn't wait—his fist closed on the back of her jeans, the other clamping her arm, and he hauled her upright in one rough pull.
He twisted her toward the post and drove her forward until her sternum struck it, the jolt knocking the breath she'd managed clean out. Her cheek scraped wood as he shoved her face aside for air. Ankles were wedged tight against the base where the chain tethered her, links clattering short. Her wrists were dragged behind and cinched hard with nylon webbing threaded through a ratchet buckle. Miro pitched the free length up and over a joist above, then worked the lever until her arms drew high, stretched enough she couldn't fold.
The first crank only took the slack. The next hauled her wrists higher, elbows climbing until her shoulders flared hot and wrong. The ratchet ticked in short, efficient clicks, each one stealing ground until she was locked: torso angled into the post, cheek pressed to flaked paint, arms wrenched up behind her like wings bent backwards. The shortened chain at her ankle held her close, cuff biting bone, toes barely brushing concrete so her calves had to burn to keep her knees clear of the slab. If she let herself sag, the strap cinched tighter and the shackle tore at her ankle. Every breath came in shallow slivers, the posture itself a punishment.
She fought for a breath that didn't scrape and then saw Kato step into view, the light catching across his shoulders as he came around the post. "Eyes."
Two knuckles slid under her chin. She flinched at the contact, but he tipped her face up until her gaze locked with his. His eyes were steady, unhurried—no heat in them, no satisfaction, only the cold attention of someone who meant to set her in place and keep her there.
"Good," Kato murmured, soft as if he were praising a child. "You don't have to say a word. Just stay where I put you." His fingers drifted to the strap above her wrists, brushing it like he might straighten a ribbon, then gave it a testing pull. The ratchet answered with one clean click, enough to make her shoulders jolt.
At her side, Miro checked the rig—strap drawn tight, chain shortened to the post—his motions efficient, almost bored, like a mechanic signing off tolerances.
Rigg drifted a step too near, his shadow sliding across her shoulder, grin working at her strain.
"Give us space," Kato said without looking.
Boots scraped grit as Rigg shifted back, the smirk still in his mouth. Kato reached past the post until his hand found an outlet; a fan behind her stuttered awake, its thin motor drawing a cold line down her spine.
Harper's legs had started to shake, weight sinking inch by inch toward the pull at her wrists.
"Up," Kato said.
She forced onto her toes, calves screaming, the cuff biting hard at her ankle. Cold air from the fan skimmed sweat down her spine, raising a shiver she couldn't fight. A broken sound slipped out before she could choke it back.
"Higher," Kato said, flat as if he were asking for a tool.
She strained, shoulders on fire as the tether carved deeper, breath hissing between her teeth.
"Good girl," he murmured, almost gentle. "Now hold it."
Miro dragged a hose out of the dark and thumbed it open, a thin stream cutting across her collar, shoulders, the ladder of her spine. The first hit stole her breath—ice running sudden under fabric, chasing heat off her skin. She jerked against the tether, gasp breaking before she could swallow it, and the webbing bit deeper into her wrists. The water lingered, soaking the cotton until it clung heavy and cold, each drop pulled deeper by the fan's steady draw until the chill settled in her bones. Her shiver ran wild, every muscle firing, body trying to shake free.
"Don't fight it," Kato murmured softly.
The water ran down her spine, icy threads pooling at her waistband. Her knees sagged half an inch before the tether wrenched her upright again.
"Higher," Kato said.
She forced onto her toes, calves screaming, teeth clicking with the tremor she couldn't stop. Breath caught high in her chest; her eyes squeezed shut against the cold tearing through her.
"Open your eyes for me, Harper," Kato said, gentle as if he were asking a favor.
She forced them open. His face was close, expression almost kind, gaze steady on hers. He watched her pupils as though he were measuring something precise, patient in a way that made the moment worse than cruelty.
Miro thumbed the hose shut and let it fall slack, water dripping onto the slab. His eyes tracked Harper's trembling shoulders. "She'll shake herself hollow if you keep her like this."
"That's what I need," Kato said, calm, almost mild.
The fan worried at every seam until the cold became a weight of its own, pressing through shirt, skin, bone. Her calves quivered with the strain, knees wanting to fold, but the chain and strap made the choice for her. Each tremor ran deeper, rattling her teeth, scraping the air from her lungs until even breathing felt borrowed.
Her hands were past feeling, wrists raw inside the webbing. Cotton plastered to her back turned cruel, heavy and clinging, each drop pulled deeper until she couldn't tell sweat from water. Shivers came in waves, jarring her head against the post. She tried to steady it, tried to hold still, but her body answered the cold all on its own.
"Let it ride," Kato said somewhere above her, like he was calling measure on a gauge. Miro shifted against the wall, arms folded, watching her tremors set their own pace.
Minutes blurred, marked only by fire in her calves and the hollow shakes that stole her breath. The fan dragged the wet colder, grinding it into her bones until her body felt more like the room's than hers. Her shoulders screamed where the tether held them high, but sagging wasn't an option; the post punished every inch she tried to steal.
Kato let her hang there long enough for silence to become its own pressure. Then he moved, unhurried, to a shelf along the wall. Metal scraped faintly as he pulled something down. When he came back into view, a small canister sat easy in his hand, turned just enough that she could see the label before the light caught the nozzle.
The hiss came without warning, a sour citrus-chemical bite curling across her cheekbone and flooding her eyes. The burn hit brutal and instant, blooming savage under her lids until her vision shattered into water and grit. Tears poured whether she willed them or not, dragging the sting wider, hotter. The smell coated her tongue—bitter orange, solvent, acid—until every swallow tasted poisoned. Her lungs rebelled, sucking in a ragged breath that clawed its way down her throat and came back as a cough she couldn't choke off. Another followed, harsher, ribs jolting against the post. Breath snagged high, glass-raw in her chest, the fan tugging the bite deeper until it owned her face, her lungs, her skin.
Instinct pitched her to turn, to grind her face against the post and scrape the burn clean. The wood bit her cheek rawer before Kato's hand closed at her jaw, steady, holding her still.
"Blink it," he said, voice calm, almost coaxing. "Let it ride."
Her lashes clumped; every blink dragged the burn deeper until it felt like it lived behind her eyes. The coughing fit had left her throat raw—each breath now a scrape she couldn't smooth. Her knees sagged under the tremors, calves quivering, legs begging to fold, but the tether snapped her back upright, keeping her straining against it.
"Easy now… up you go," Kato coaxed, as if he were helping her to her feet instead of grinding her down.
She pushed higher onto her toes, calves screaming, the cuff gnawing at her ankle. The tether creaked tight; she shook with the effort. His hand steadied the strap above her, firm but gentle, guiding instead of forcing.
"That's it," he murmured, almost kind. "Hold there. You're doing fine."
─•────
Brock pushed into his quarters, shoulder taking the weight of the door. The place met him in darkness, windows drowned in evening shadow, the air stale with the kind of stillness that came after hours left shut. He thumbed the switch; light spilled across the room in a flat wash that only made the quiet feel heavier. For a beat he half expected Harper on the couch, legs tucked under a blanket, hair falling loose while she pretended not to wait for him. The cushions sat smooth, untouched, no indent where she should have been.
His eyes tracked to the island. The folded slip of paper still lay where he'd left it, edges squared neat against the counter. His blocky scrawl glared back at him in the glow, unchanged, unanswered.
A frown pulled at him. Maybe she'd come back hours ago, seen the empty place, and decided he wasn't worth waiting up for. Wouldn't be the first time she'd gone to bed in a huff. The thought settled heavy, part guilt, part resignation. He sighed, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck as he turned from the island and started down the short hall toward the bedroom.
"Harp—" he started as he pushed the bedroom door open, voice low in the hush.
The word died in his throat. The room was empty. Sheets squared, window still cracked an inch, the air cool and thin where it drifted in.
He stood a moment in the doorway, pulse edging up, before backing out and crossing the hall. The spare room—where she used to stay—waited the same way. Bed smooth. Air still. No Harper.
Brock's eyes cut down the hall. The bathroom door yawned open, light off, mirror dark inside. No sound, no sign she'd been there.
Dread crawled up the back of his neck, fast and cold. He turned on his heel, crossing the quarters in long strides and shoving out into the hall. By the time he reached Knuckles' door, his fist was hammering—quick, hard, nothing polite.
The door swung open to Knuckles with a beer in his hand, brows lifting. "What, I forget something?" he started—then caught Brock's face and the smile dropped. "What's wrong?"
"Have you seen Harper?" Brock's voice came tight, too fast.
Knuckles blinked, confused. "No. Been with you all day. We literally said goodbye two minutes ago."
Brock's breath came short, words spilling faster than he meant. "When we got back from picking up the trucks—she wasn't here. Left a note, said she was going for a run. When I came back just now, she's still gone. No sign she even came back. It's been hours."
Knuckles leaned a shoulder to the frame, beer forgotten in his hand. "You think she'd bolt? New freedom, play the long game—use this as her out?"
Brock's head snapped in a hard shake. "No. She wouldn't run. Not after everything. Not with a note like that."
Knuckles' brow stayed furrowed, but his voice came steady. "Then maybe she's downstairs. Socializing. Games room. If she isn't running, she wouldn't go far."
Brock's jaw worked, doubt clawing, but he gave a curt nod. Knuckles set the beer on the counter inside and grabbed his keys off the hook, falling into step beside him.
The elevator groaned them down, lights flicking past slow. Brock stood stiff in the corner, eyes on the numbers, fists flexing open and shut like he could force the doors faster. Knuckles watched him, silent until the bell sounded and the doors parted onto the common floor.
The games room carried its usual low hum—pool balls cracking, TV glow flickering, cards slapped down on wood. Brock cut through with Knuckles close, eyes scanning every corner. "Harper been through here?" he asked, voice too tight.
Vale leaned against the back wall with a cue in hand. He shook his head once, slow. "Haven't seen her."
At the card table Gunner looked up from his hand, brow drawn. "Not here," he said, like he'd have noticed if she had been.
Brock's gaze went to each face in turn, waiting for something more, but the shrugs and silence stacked into the same answer: nobody had seen her. The knot in his chest cinched harder as he pushed past the table toward the hall.
Knuckles caught Brock's arm as they cleared the games room. "Come on. If she left, there'll be a log." His voice was steady, but the line between his brows was deeper now. He steered Brock down the hall, through the doors, out into the night air toward the guard station at the gate.
Ortiz sat inside, boots up, ledger open. He straightened quick when he saw the two of them approach.
"Check something for me," Knuckles said. "Voss. Did she sign out today?"
Ortiz flipped back through the pages, finger running down the column. "Yeah. Here—10:25 a.m. Signed herself out."
Brock stepped closer, heat crawling up his chest. "When did she sign back in?"
Ortiz hesitated, flipped a few pages back and forth, slower this time. His finger stopped. The line stayed blank. "There's no return logged."
Brock stiffened, shoulders locking tight, the weight of it landing like stone.
Ortiz opened his mouth. "Sometimes we miss the return checks, could be she—"
But Brock was already moving, fast down the path toward the garage.
"Brock!" Knuckles jogged to catch up, boots ringing on concrete. "Slow down—we'll figure it, just—"
Brock didn't hear it. The garage swallowed him in echo and oil-stink, rows of trucks lined under fluorescent buzz. He went straight to the wall, ripped a set of keys down, and stalked toward the nearest Suburban.
"Brock, if she—" Knuckles started.
"It doesn't fucking matter!" Brock snapped, voice raw as he tore the door open. "We need to find her. She wouldn't just fucking disappear."
The keys rattled once in his fist before he jammed them into the ignition.
─•────
Hours bled past without measure but in the ache of her body Harper knew them. The cold had worked itself deeper than skin, marrow-deep, until her shivers had turned weak and erratic, less fight than spasm. Her calves twitched without rhythm, toes barely catching the slab before the tether dragged her up short again. Every muscle ached from the hold—shoulders white-hot where the strap hauled them back, wrists raw and swollen in the webbing, ankle cuff gnawing bone. Breath fogged thin against the post, breaking shallow as if her chest couldn't spare the space.
Bootsteps shifted behind her. Kato came into view, slow, deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to take stock of her breaking. He pinched the tether between thumb and forefinger and rolled it in a lazy circle. Miro answered the cue with one neat click of the ratchet—just enough to steal any slack she had left. Her body lurched against it, a raw sound catching in her throat.
Kato drew a small box cutter from his pocket, rolling it in his palm like a toy before sliding the blade out with a crisp snick. The segment gleamed thin in the bulb's hum. "Just a nick," he said, voice almost gentle, as if promising restraint were the kindness here. His hand found her temple, fingers combing through damp strands plastered to her skin until he'd cleared the scalp behind her ear.
The first kiss of steel was a taunt—cold edge tracing a shallow line, her skin puckering under the threat. Then pressure shifted, and fire split through. It was fine, no deeper than he intended, but enough. Warmth welled fast and slick, running down her neck in rivulets that cut through the chill he'd buried in her bones. The contrast stole her breath; her whole body flinched against the tether.
"Feel that?" he murmured, close enough for his breath to brush her ear. "After hours of ice, a little heat feels almost merciful. Except it isn't." His thumb pressed beside the line, smearing wet across cold skin, and the sting leapt higher, riding into her eye where pepper-burn already lived. Tears streamed heavier, salted and red. The noise that ripped out of her was helpless and raw, a sound dragged from marrow, muffled into the post as if the wood itself could swallow it.
The second cut landed in the tender web between thumb and forefinger, where nerves lit fast and skin always overreacted. The sting jumped up her arm like live wire; her fingers jerked, trying to fist against the pull, but the tether answered with a vicious pinch that dragged her wrist higher instead. Pain doubled back on itself, coil after coil, until she bit down hard on breath that wanted to break loose.
He didn't pause long. The blade whispered again, this time across the soft underside of her forearm. A shallow strike, no longer than a match flare, running parallel to veins he didn't quite touch. Enough to threaten, to remind. Heat surged in a thin line; she hissed sharp between her teeth, the sound cracking through the room. Instinct tried to haul her taller, like standing higher might steal the pain away, but the chain had already stolen every inch she had to give. Her calves quivered, shoulders screaming as the tether dragged her back down into the post's cold grip.
Kato's mouth curved faintly at the corner, like he was measuring her body's rebellion and finding it entertaining. "Neat little lines," he said, low. "Nothing fatal. Just enough to teach you where you belong."
"Bottle," Kato said, quiet as an order already decided.
Miro crouched, twisted a cap, and the sharp scent of alcohol cut through the damp-stale air. He tipped it slow, deliberate, letting it fall in precise coins.
The first drops struck her scalp and turned the shallow cut into fire, liquid searing along the raw edge before the fan dragged it wider, a cold blaze that spread as it flashed off her skin. The burn was so sudden, so total, that her vision went white. She gasped hard, chest seizing, head twitching instinctively toward the post—but the strap wrenched her back square, and the cuff bit clean at her ankle until bone flared.
Another pour found the tender split at her hand. The liquid needled deep, nerves sparking like live wire. She jerked so hard her shoulders rattled against the tether, breath breaking apart into chopped pieces that wouldn't come whole. The alcohol trailed on, thin and merciless, soaking through to every new cut until her body was shaking between cold, fire, and restraint.
Kato watched it bloom across her skin—the flush, the blanch, the quiver—like a craftsman inspecting his work. His eyes didn't gloat, didn't flare. Just measured, satisfied, as if pain itself were the metric he'd been waiting for.
Kato didn't rush. He lifted the hem of her collar with a knuckle, exposing the rise of bone, and drew two quick crosshatches over the sternum—so fine they could've been scratches until breath pulled them open. Her mouth twitched into a half-grimace she couldn't bury, teeth catching her lip, a pulse ticking hard in her throat.
He found the line of the strap across her back and slipped the blade under just enough to carve at the hinge of her shoulder blade, where the pull lived deepest. Her face creased tight, lashes squeezing once, breath leaving her in a hiss she tried to choke silent. Pain rooted there, answering every inhale like it had been built into her.
He caught her forearm next, turning it without hurry, and set a neat stroke inside the wrist bone where a watchband would chafe. Her fingers spasmed open, useless against the tether, nails scrabbling at air like they might find purchase. Then he dropped lower, crouching to draw a short, cruel line just above the ankle cuff. Her jaw clenched, chin trembling as metal ground into it immediately—bite against sting, cut and chain arguing over which would own her nerves.
"Still," he said, almost gentle, when her foot hunted for the floor. "Bottle."
Alcohol fell in cold coins—sternum, shoulder, wrist, ankle—each drop stinging mean under the fan, each one finding raw edges and lighting them up. She tried to bank the noise, swallowing hard, but a sound still broke free—half-gasp, half-moan—hanging in the air between them.
He chose one last place, sliding two fingers behind her other knee, parting the joint until the skin stretched thin, then kissing it with the blade. The leg jolted hard, chain and strap snapping her back into place, and whatever she'd held cracked clean—an involuntary cry, sharp and unguarded, spilling before she could bite it down.
Kato leaned close enough that she couldn't mistake the tone. "That's it," he murmured, coaxing, almost kind. "Breathe it. You're with me now."
He flicked two fingers. "Phone. Wide. Keep me."
Rigg lifted a cell, angling it steady, glass catching her mouth, the cuff, the short drag of chain. The lens hovered, waiting.
Kato stepped in slow, gathering the wet weight of her hair in his hand like it was something precious. Not a yank—just a quiet, deliberate hold that drew her head toward him on the tether until the flinch ran out of room. "That's better," he murmured, tone warm enough to pass for comfort. "Eyes on me, honey."
He set his cheek against hers, close, intimate, so the lens couldn't miss either of them. His thumb smoothed back a soaked strand at her temple as if he were tidying her for a photograph, careful not to graze the blood. "Breathe with me," he coaxed, low, coaxing. "Nice and easy. I'll do the heavy lifting—you just keep those pretty eyes open."
Then his gaze shifted, locking onto the glass. He gave Rigg a small nod. The red dot blinked alive.
Ink at his wrist brushed her cheek as he spoke, voice calm and deliberate. "Brock."
No rank. No title. Just the name.
Kato's smile was small, camera-ready, his cheek still pressed to hers. "Look what we found this morning," he said, voice smooth as if he were showing off a prize. "Wandering without her leash. We've had ourselves some fun since then." His hand stroked the damp hair at her temple like he was petting something loyal.
"She goes quiet when I ask," he went on, almost kind. He kissed her cheek—soft, unhurried, obscene in its gentleness—and kept his mouth near her ear like a secret. "And she screams when I choose."
A slim push-blade settled easy into his free hand—T-grip, ordinary, practiced. "Shh, honey," he breathed into her hair, cheek still pressed to hers. "Just stay with me." On his nod, Miro ticked the ratchet one clean tooth. Kato set the point into the soft shelf where neck meets shoulder—high, lateral to the lung, nowhere vital—and pressed a measured half inch.
The scream ripped out of her whole and raw; the frame shook with it while his own face stayed calm against hers, fingers combing her wet hair like comfort. He held the blade in long enough for the lens to drink it, then withdrew slow; blood welled bright, ran beneath his wrist ink, and traced down the line of her collarbone—red made deliberate for the camera.
"That's my girl," he murmured, almost tender. "Breathe with me. In and out. That's all." He kissed her cheek again, soft, obscene in its care, and steadied her head while her voice shredded itself to pieces.
Kato finally turned his eyes to the lens, tone steady as if reciting fact. "You want her? Come take her. East dockyard, unit twelve—black siding, rusted bay doors. You'll smell the river before you see it." His fingers tipped Harper's chin just enough so the frame took her face, the wet red at her temple, the chain at her ankle, the ink on his wrist striped with her blood. "Come hot, Lawson. I'll be waiting cold. And when you get here, ask yourself—who fucks her better?"
Kato held her cheek to his for a long breath after the words left the room, letting the silence weight the frame. Then his gaze slid past her. A small flick of his fingers, and Rigg killed the recording. The glass went dark.
"Send it," Kato said without raising his voice. "Straight to Lawson's line."
He turned back to Harper, eyes settling on the slow seep at her shoulder where the blade had kissed deep. His smile was almost soft. "That address? Not where you are, honey. But it's where plenty of men with plenty of guns are waiting. He'll come running anyway."
The box cutter whispered open in his hand again, fresh steel catching the bulb. He brought it level between them, expression warm as if offering a gift. "Now," he murmured, sweet as syrup, "where were we?"
─•────
Darkness laid the city flat. Sodium fog burned on the corners, roll-ups down, glass gone dark. Brock drove quiet and fast—the kind of fast that doesn't brag—hands low, wheel steady, eyes chewing through doorways and alleys. He worked a pattern he didn't need to name: the diner's block twice, the cut behind the laundromat, the bus turnarounds, the motel row that never fixed the same neon letter. The dash read 9:47. Inside was old coffee and cold vinyl, the heater fan ticking once each rotation. Knuckles kept his gaze on the right lane and the mirror, jaw set, swallowing words because anything he said would only get in the way.
The phone buzzed in the cup holder. Brock slid it over without looking, eyes still on the road. Knuckles thumbed the gray bubble open.
Static light bled across the glass, humming faint, as if the room itself was sick. A chain clinked somewhere off-frame. A fan dragged the air, thin and relentless. Then a shoulder came into view, close enough to swallow the shot.
"Brock." Kato's voice, steady, intimate, breathed straight into the lens.
Knuckles' throat worked. His thumb fumbled the screen, hunting pause, but only smudged the glass. His other hand clamped the handset so hard the case bent. "Fuck," he muttered—not at Brock, but at the man inside the phone.
Beside him, Brock's hand locked tight on the wheel. His foot eased, engine note dropping until the street outside slid by in a hush.
The scream ripped out of the phone—thin, whole, and Brock knew it down to the marrow. Harper.
Knuckles flinched like he'd been struck, phone jolting against his own hand but not slipping. His eyes stayed locked on the screen, seeing what Brock didn't have to.
Brock's body answered first: hands clamping, wheel jerking hard under his grip, lane lines stuttering across the hood. Breath locked high in his chest as he wrenched it straight, slammed them to the curb. Tires shrieked, ABS hammered, both belts cinched bruising-tight.
"Phone." His voice was raw demand, no space for anything else.
Knuckles dropped the phone into his hand. Freeze-frame: Kato cheek to cheek with Harper, her face wet with tears and blood, his wrist ink bright with her cut. Brock hit play. The hair gripped like a leash. The obscene kiss. The nod. The blade sliding where neck meets shoulder. Harper's mouth opening on a scream Brock had never heard from her—raw, helpless—while Kato steadied her like she was his.
Brock killed the clip, thumb shaking white on the glass. The silence clawed worse, so he stabbed play again. The scream broke a second time, nearer, inside him. His jaw tremored hard enough it felt unhinged; cold weight slid under his ribs and locked there.
He shoved the phone back at Knuckles, dropped the shifter, and ripped the wheel in a savage U across dead lanes. Tires howled, snapped, caught. "She's not there," Brock ground out, voice scraped raw. "That isn't a dock. That's a fucking basement. That's a trap."
Knuckles already had calls stacking, voice clipped and awake. "Price—video inbound from an unknown. Trace the sender. I want number path, tower handoffs, relay hits. Give me a circle and choke it to a pin." Another line. "Cole—board up, full wall, maps live. Stand by to plot the moment we get coordinates." One more. "Graves—med team prepped: fluids, blood, blankets, crash cart. Onyx, Keir—gear on, five. We're inbound."
Brock blew through two dead lights, grille spitting back the glow as they knifed past a box truck half-asleep at the curb. The city smeared to yellow and black, wheel creaking in his grip.
"We're going to be too late," he said, eyes locked hard on the road, voice caught between growl and break.
"Not if you keep it straight," Knuckles answered, calm holding weight. "He sent proof of life to rattle you. Upload means he sat still long enough to push it. That buys us minutes." His gaze cut to Brock, steady as a hand on a wire. "Drive. I'll clear the air."
"He put a knife in her." Brock's voice cracked raw, teeth grinding the words.
"I know." No wobble. No pity. Just stone. "Price is closing. We'll have the pin at the gate, and we move."
Brock's fingers clenched until leather screamed under them. "Get me a door."
"You'll have a door," Knuckles told him, mic back up. "Price—tighten the slice. Push the map the second it resolves. Cole—prep ingress off the pin." Then low, just for Brock: "Stay with me."
Gate lights rose fast on the windshield, hard white tearing the dark open. Brock didn't lift. Knuckles kept talking in the voice that threads panic to purpose. "You keep the car out of walls," he said. "I'll bring the where."
─•────
An hour past the send, the basement wore one color. Blood had made its own map across her, a lattice of lines cut just deep enough to weep. The inside of her forearms slicked to the elbows, pooling in the crooks before sliding back along triceps and shoulder blades. Both palms had thin Xs scored into the flesh, dark wells opening every time her fists twitched against the binding. A shallow cross sat at the hollow of her throat, not deep enough to end her but deep enough that every swallow stung; threads leaked down to join the collarbone mark, then chased the sternum into fabric already drowned. Her stomach carried a set of parallel slashes, shallow as a cat's claw but deliberate, bleeding slow under the soaked shirt. The stab at her shoulder hadn't stopped, leaking along her ribs and into the waistband before working down her thighs and calves, dripping to the cuff. Metal turned red; the puddle at her toes spread wider with every drop.
Her voice had been stripped raw—no scream left, only a ragged rasp, the involuntary whine a throat makes when there's nothing left to give. Breath scraped, coughed, failed. The fan pulled cold across every wound, dragging chill through fabric until shivering seemed wired into bone. The strap forced her high, elbows screaming; the chain denied her knees. She hung there inside the hum, body leaking, body shaking, hours measuring themselves in cuts, drops, and tremors.
When her head sagged and black shouldered in, Kato brought her back with the same dreadful courtesies—two knuckles lifting her chin until her eyes found him, thumb brushing wet hair from her temple like she was fevered. When her chest forgot itself he leaned close, breathing for her, setting the rhythm she couldn't. "That's it," he murmured against her ear, soft as a vow. "Breathe with me. You don't drift unless I say."
If she slipped deeper, he lit her awake with cruel tricks: a grind of knuckles into sternum, the knot at her neck, or the stink of ammonia cracked under her nose while Miro steadied her shoulder. She coughed ragged, flinched, tried to turn; Kato's palm steadied her jaw like he was guiding her back into place. Rigg laughed once from the side; Kato waved him off without looking, a hand-shoo like you'd use on a dog near the table.
He kept her cuts alive—alcohol coins along the thin lines, a neat slice behind the knee that set her calves jolting, the hose walked over her until the shirt bit with cold. She hung from the tether, chest fluttering, toes slipping in the red slick at her feet. Each time her body sagged, he coaxed her high again, like spotting a lift she could never finish. "Good girl," he breathed when she obeyed. "Right here with me."
The shivering burned itself out to stillness. Toes that had clawed for height gave up. Drops no longer made rings; they sheeted under her. "Eyes," Kato coaxed, but the lids climbed late, unfocused. "Up." The word took a long walk before the muscles answered, wrong and slow. Breath stuttered, caught, broke; a pink seam slipped from her lip she didn't clear. His fingers pressed her carotid—flutter, faint. His mouth flattened for a heartbeat before he smoothed it away, thumb stroking her temple almost tender. "Stay with me, sweetheart," he whispered, syrup-thick.
Miro's glance checked the burner—clock still running. Kato steadied the tether, leaned close enough she could feel his warmth over the cold. "That's my girl," he said, soft and awful. "Stay right here with me."
He felt it—the pulse thinning under his fingers, the way her lids dragged open late and never caught—and his voice lost a shade of its practiced warmth. "She's going," he said, low, matter-of-fact. His thumb smoothed her temple like he was coaxing her through fever, but his eyes slid past her to Miro. "If she tips over, we don't waste it. We box her and leave her on their doorstep—stamp the name so they know exactly what they lost."
The word box found her even through the fog—cardboard, tape, a parcel dropped on a step—and the thought iced through her chest. A life reduced to freight.
His cheek brushed hers again, gentler than it had any right to be. "Harper," he said, like he was reminding her she still existed. "Not yet. Stay." Two knuckles lifted her chin, his thumb stroking damp hair clear of the cut by the margin of a breath. "Up here with me. Breathe like you're fogging glass."
Her edges blurred gray; names unspooled—Brock, Silas, even Dante—all trying to drift out of reach. Her body followed: fingers gone dumb, toes sliding off the floor, ribs too slow to lift. The weight felt like it was leaving her, lightening into nothing, and for a heartbeat sinking away looked like mercy.
His hand stayed on the tether, not pulling her higher this time, just holding it steady like he meant to guide her down easy. His cheek brushed hers, voice soft as if he were coaxing a child to sleep. "Don't fight it, honey. Let it come. Nothing to be scared of—it's just quieter on the other side." His thumb stroked a damp strand from her temple, slow, indulgent. "Close your eyes if you want. I'll keep hold."
Her knees buckled; the strap caught. Salt touched her lip and slid away. The floor felt too far to matter. Breath came in a thin, rattled sip, not for her but because he asked for it, and because his talk of boxes had already shown her the door.
Her face lost its anchor first—Kato's cheek lifting, his hand gone from the tether—and the strap bit back colder, taking all her weight. Sound thickened, ceiling drowning in water: a chair skidded somewhere above, boards turning under weight, a voice broken into syllables too far away to matter. The men's words stacked out of reach, metal on metal, breath quickening. She tried to pry her eyes open; lashes glued, lids stone. The fan's thin hum went on like none of this belonged to her.
A latch whispered. Air shifted—hallway-cool, dust riding it—and the door swung. Noise crashed in: boots too fast for the stairs, light shaking, flat pops biting the wood. Splinters spat against her lip, grit catching on the wet there. She couldn't lift her head; hands refused. Shoulders and hips surged past, blotting the bulb.
Then something slid in low and right, not pressure but puncture—sharp bloom under the ribs, a fist opening from the inside. Her breath quit without permission. Heat spilled sudden under her waistband, chasing the cold the fan had been making. Yells broke wide, more boots, more cracks of gunfire—but they stood off at the edges, rain on somebody else's roof, while the strap held her upright and the room dissolved back to water.
They hit the stairs as one—Brock driving point, Knuckles on his shoulder, Keir and Onyx stacked tight—and the basement snapped into view: cold, square, wrong. Harper hung from the post, shirt soaked black, toes scraping empty air.
Kato was jammed in close, knife already working low under her ribs, head snapping toward the breach. Brock's sights found him and everything detonated at once—Knuckles' burst punched Rigg flat against the far wall where he sagged and stayed, Brock's three walked Kato backward off the blade until steel clattered on concrete, Onyx dropped Miro mid-step with two flat to the chest.
"Clear!" Keir barked, swinging wide to the doorway, muzzle tracking.
The fan kept humming, steady and thin, like the room hadn't changed at all.
Brock dropped the carbine like it burned, boots sliding in the blood at her feet as he threw himself into the post. His shoulder took her weight, chest against the timber, one hand clawing at the webbing like he could rip it loose by strength alone. "Knux—now!" His voice cracked raw, more plea than order.
Knuckles was already there, knife flashing quick, precise; the strap hissed apart and Harper's arms collapsed, limp as rope. Brock tried to catch everything at once—hip, ribs, head—but her body folded wrong, deadweight spilling into him. The stab wound brushed against his side; heat soaked through, fast.
"No, no, no—" He said it to her, to the room, to whatever god was listening—as if sheer refusal could bend the moment into another shape.
Her ankle jerked, chain snapping her short. "Fuck." Brock eased her down as carefully as panic would allow—one hand cradling the back of her skull to keep it off the slab, the other clamped high and hard on the wound to slow what he could.
Onyx was already moving, boots splashing through the mess, tearing at a pegboard and then the low drawer of a rusted bench. "Got it—cutters." He came back at a run, jaws wide; Keir caught the shackle to hold it steady. One heave—the steel screamed, spat sparks, and gave.
The chain fell away. Brock dragged her in immediately, her weight folding into his lap as he dropped to the floor, his coat shoved under her shoulders, his palm savage against the place that bled. She felt impossibly small like that, slack in his arms. "Stay with me," he said, voice splitting apart, no command left in it. "Harper. Look at me."
Her head lolled against his chest, breath catching in ragged scraps that barely moved her ribs, mouth working for air that wouldn't fill. Lashes clumped with tears that still burned raw at the corners. The fan's buzz finally sounded far away. Knuckles' hands were at her wrists, ripping the last of the webbing free; Onyx shoved the bolt cutters aside and kicked space clear.
Brock pressed harder, shaking with it, cheek bent close over hers. "Right here," he told her, desperate and breaking. "I've got you. You don't get to leave me."
She knew the shape of that voice before it found her name—the rasp that lived at the back of it, the weight of command he never meant to carry. The heat against her was the size of his chest, the smell was his: gun oil, sweat clean under it, winter still clinging to a coat. A hand pressed hard to her ribs, cruel and steady in the way that saves, and cloth slid beneath her shoulder like someone tucking her into the floor.
Not real, she told herself. This is what a body does when it's finished—paints a ghost around the edges so the drop feels shorter.
She didn't open her eyes to prove it. If it wasn't him, she'd shatter. If it was, she would too.
He said stay with me and she let the lie cradle her, cheek turning into his heat because the fan had gone far and the concrete didn't want her anymore. The room thinned to a rim. Under her ear something beat—a pulse she knew better than footsteps, the impatient tick she'd learned in doorways and stairwells. She followed it because it knew the way out. One, another, another—then the count faltered, slipped, as if even that heart had lost her. The dark leaned close and gave her a soft place to fall, and she let go.