Harper ducked under his swing and slammed an uppercut into his ribs before he could reset. His grunt snapped out of him, almost surprise. Knuckles swung back with a weight that would've floored her if it landed, but she slid just out of reach, bare feet skidding across the mat. He was bigger. Stronger. Every step a threat to end the round with one clean blow. She kept circling, sweat dripping into her eyes, waiting for the sliver of space.
When he caught her wrist and yanked her chest-first into him, the air ripped out of her lungs. She answered with a knee into his thigh, heel of her hand raking across his cheekbone, fingernails scraping skin. Dirty. Desperate. The only way to shake free.
Knuckles barked a laugh, rough and half-feral, even as he rubbed the sting from his face with the back of his hand. "You fight dirty," he growled, voice ragged around his grin. His teeth showed, wide, wolfish. "I like it." He lunged mid-word, shoulder crushing into her midsection, driving her down.
The mats burned her back as she hit. His weight crashed over her, forearm pressing her throat until her vision sparked. She thrashed—hips bucking, ribs screaming—clawed at his arm until she slid halfway free. He let her scramble up, only to cuff her across the jaw with a fist that spun her head sideways. Copper bloomed in her mouth, teeth aching.
Her jaw throbbed. She forced her stance steady and met his charge again. He swung wide, hammering for her skull, and this time she didn't clear away. She slipped inside, caught his arm, pivoted. His momentum dragged him past, balance tipping. She rammed her elbow into his spine as he dropped a knee.
The mats shuddered under his weight. She didn't hesitate—drove her shoulder into him, sent him sprawling flat. For an instant she stood over him, chest heaving, spit stringing from her lip, sweat stinging her eyes. The rush of knowing she'd dropped him buzzed hot in her veins.
Knuckles pushed up with a low chuckle. Fierce grin, eyes alight with something half pride, half threat. "That's more like it."
From the sidelines, Brock leaned against the wall, arms folded tight, letting the thud of every hit sink through him. She'd been different since that night in the cafeteria—since Vex had cut her open in front of all of them. Longer hours. Harder rounds. Never stopping when he told her enough. He'd tried to talk her down, told her she didn't owe proof to anyone, least of all him, but she'd only doubled down. Watching her now, blood bright on her lip, moving like the mat was the only place she could breathe, he wondered if this was less about strength and more about silence. A way to keep the noise in her head from catching up. A way to outrun the feeling of a target painted between her shoulders.
Then Knuckles came at her harder, no grin, no half-pulled weight. His fists hammered the air, each swing meant to split her guard wide open. Harper blocked one, felt her forearm scream, then ducked the next—too late. His knuckles clipped her temple and the room tilted, sweat flying off her skin as she staggered. He didn't let her breathe. A low growl in his throat, he drove her back step by step, until the wall pressed cold at her spine.
She braced, saw the shoulder drop, and moved. Slipped low, teeth clenched against the flash in her skull, and twisted under his arm. Her elbow snapped up, cracked square into his jaw. His head snapped sideways, spit arcing, and for the first time his chuckle sounded more like a curse.
Knuckles wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grin gone, eyes hard as stone. He drove at her again, each step thunder on the mat, fists and shoulders snapping in with enough force to rattle her bones. Harper blocked one, slipped the next, but his weight kept bearing down until her lungs burned and every strike she threw back looked like survival more than sparring.
"Enough."
Brock's voice cracked across the room, cutting through the clash like a blade. He pushed off the wall, boots heavy on the floor. "That's it. Cut it. We need you both breathing tomorrow—not tearing each other apart tonight."
Knuckles froze mid-step. Just like that. The heat drained off him in an instant, shoulders rolling loose as if a switch had been thrown. The change was so sudden it made the room feel quieter. He let out a bark of laughter and closed the distance, clapping a heavy hand to Harper's arm. She flinched from the contact, chest still working fast, but Knuckles only grinned wider, ignoring it, roughing his hand through her damp hair like they were back in the cafeteria trading insults.
Her jaw tightened, but she forced herself to stand steady, to accept it, to breathe past the twitch in her muscles. A beat later she pulled in a slow breath and rolled her shoulders back until the fight finally started to bleed off her frame.
From the corner, Brock caught it all—the way Knuckles could flip the fire on and off without a thought, and the way she had to drag herself out of it inch by inch. Watching them side by side left something tight in his chest: Knuckles treating it like training, Harper like survival. And he knew which one would cost more in the long run.
Harper dragged her feet off the mat and crossed the room, hands planted on her hips, sweat slicking her ribs as she came up on him. Her breath still came sharp, but her eyes stayed locked on his like she dared him to tell her to quit again.
Brock's arms uncrossed as she closed the distance. The edge in his stance eased, shoulders lowering, the hard line of his mouth softening into something only she ever pulled out of him. He reached for her before she could speak, one rough hand catching her waist, the other brushing damp hair back from her temple. His thumb caught the streak of sweat and blood at the corner of her mouth, swiping it clean.
"You don't have to keep proving it," he murmured, pulling her in just enough that she could feel his breath against her skin. "Not to me."
Harper didn't answer him. Her hands stayed on her hips for another breath, body still trembling with the leftover fight, and then she tipped forward, letting her forehead land hard against his sternum. The exhale that left her was shaky, more admission than words.
Brock stilled, then curved his arm around her back, holding her there. His chest rose under her cheek, steady where hers still shuddered. She didn't need to say it. He felt the truth in the way she pressed into him, in the way her body slowly eased against his. She knew.
─•────
The SUV hummed low as Brock eased it off the interstate, tires whispering over the rumble strip before settling onto the exit ramp. Sodium lamps threw their sickly orange wash across the hood, turning the white paint into a dull bruise of light. From a distance it looked like every other tired state fleet vehicle that prowled highways—anonymous, disposable, forgettable. Up close, the Syndicate's quick work showed: the magnetic DOT decals slapped on the doors quivered whenever the wind caught them, edges curling like cheap stickers peeling from a locker, the state seal printed just slightly off-center. The windshield carried a film of dust they hadn't bothered to wipe, and the faint smell of rubber cones and solvent seeped from the cargo bay. Nothing about it screamed Syndicate. Nothing about it screamed threat. Just another ghost in the convoy of government leftovers.
Knuckles rode shotgun with the calibration case wedged between his boots, the orange lid already marked with black scuffs from the ride. A hi-viz vest threw reflective bands across a short-sleeve work shirt, collar bent, a blank patch stitched above the pocket like it once carried a name. His badge dangled crooked at his chest, laminate blurred from handling, clip frayed to wire. Steel-toe boots planted wide, he slouched deep into the seat, tapping thick fingers against the case in a restless rhythm. "Eight minutes," he muttered, watching the green glow of the weigh-station sign. "Any longer and this guy's calling his supervisor."
"Careful," Brock said from the wheel, voice flat. "That'd be me."
His vest sat zipped neat, reflective striping catching every streetlamp. Beneath it, a state-gray button-down with the collar pressed flat. His badge hung straight, squared on his chest, clipboard balanced on the console beside him. Everything about him read tighter, straighter, like he could walk into that kiosk and pass for a foreman who actually gave a damn about drift reports.
His eyes cut to the rearview. Harper sat braced in the back with the cone pack balanced across her knees, the nylon strap biting against her palms where she gripped it too hard. Safety yellow caught the edges of her ball cap, brim pulled low to shadow her face. Her ID was tucked into the vest pocket instead of hanging loose, forgotten in the fold. She looked like she could've passed for any junior tech on night rotation—if not for the steel in her jaw. She hadn't spoken since they left the compound, her gaze fixed on the reflection of the weigh-station lights trembling across the glass, as if the job were already unfolding in her head beat by beat.
Beside her, Vale shifted the flare kit against the door, boots knocking the plastic case with a hollow thud. His vest sat crooked, half-zipped, reflective tape skewed across his chest like he'd put it on in a hurry. A faded ball cap shadowed his eyes, the bill sweat-stained from long shifts behind a wheel, and his badge hung bent on a twisted clip. He flicked it now with one finger, letting the laminate spin and catch a weak reflection from the passing lamps. The state seal was blurry, undersized, obviously fake if you studied it longer than two seconds.
"You really think anybody looks twice at these?" he asked, grin tight around the words, as if daring Brock to tell him yes.
"Believable at a glance," Brock said. His voice stayed flat, steady. "That's all we need."
Vale snorted and leaned his head back against the window, one hand still hooked lazily on the flare kit, like the whole cover hung together on the hope no one actually cared enough to look close.
The road bent, and the green overhead sign split the lanes: WEIGH STATION OPEN — ALL TRUCKS MUST ENTER. The pull-through stretched ahead under floodlights that turned the concrete a pale, washed-out gray, the inspection bay glowing sterile at the far end, yawning like a mouth waiting to swallow rigs whole.
Knuckles let out a breath, rolling his shoulders. "Showtime."
Brock steered into the service lane, steady, unhurried, like they'd been here a hundred times before. The clipboard and cases were props, the vests and badges a costume, but the reason for the stop was buried under all of it: two Maw trucks inbound, both carrying seals that needed to disappear. The kind of job no one noticed if it went right, and the kind that burned everything if it didn't.
Brock parked the SUV, hazards ticking steady, and shifted the clipboard into his palm as he opened the door. "Stay loose," he said over his shoulder, low enough for the backseat. "Vale, wait for my signal before you cone it. Harper—eyes up. First Maw rig should be close."
Knuckles hauled the orange case out after him, boots clunking the pavement, reflective vest flashing as they crossed toward the kiosk window.
In the back, Harper pressed a palm against the cone pack to steady it, her other hand tugging the bill of her cap lower. She leaned toward the side window, eyes cutting across the pull-through, tracking headlights in the far lane. Vale shifted beside her, elbow propped against the flare kit, watching the same stretch of road with a driver's patience.
The weighmaster sat slouched inside the kiosk, half-lit by the glow of a desk lamp, radio muttering static and country bleed. He looked up slow, one hand still on a Styrofoam cup, squinting at the vests, the clipboard, the case clutched in Knuckles' grip.
Brock held the paperwork up where the glass caught it, clipboard angled so the weighmaster didn't have to lean far. "Calibration ticket that got bounced from Friday," he said, voice even, pitched into that weary cadence that made it sound like just another item in a pile. "They want it closed before audit week."
The weighmaster squinted at the sheet, then at Brock, then shifted his stare to Knuckles behind him. His gaze lingered on the case, on the reflective vest stretched over broad shoulders, suspicion edging into the lines of his face.
Knuckles tipped his chin in greeting, grin tugging under the bill of his cap. He drummed two thick fingers against the orange lid. "Your scale's been drifting," he said, easy and conversational, like they'd already had this talk a dozen times before. "Truckers screaming bloody murder like it's our fault they load heavy."
That cracked the man's scowl. He snorted into his coffee, leaning back in his chair with a wheeze of the old cushion. "Ain't that the truth. They'll swear the ground shifted under their tires before they admit they're overweight."
Knuckles chuckled low, playing along, while Brock gave the clipboard a brisk tap against the glass. "Bay two'll do. Ten minutes tops."
The weighmaster waved them off with his cup, suspicion sliding out of his eyes as quick as it had come. "Knock yourselves out."
Brock tucked the clipboard back to his side, curt nod closing the exchange. Knuckles winked like they'd shared an inside joke and hefted the case higher, boots already carrying him toward Bay 2.
Harper leaned forward in the backseat, eyes cutting toward the curve of the access road. Diesel rumbled low before the lights appeared, that vibration you felt in your ribs a second before the glow hit the glass. "Truck coming," she said, voice tight but steady.
Out front, Brock shifted his stance at the kiosk, clipboard tucked high against his ribs. Headlights cut across the pull-through, chrome grill flashing as a Black Maw tractor nosed toward the bay. Brakes whispered as the driver lined for the scale.
Brock's chin dipped, two fingers brushing the side of his temple like an absent scratch. The signal.
Harper shoved her door open at the same time Vale cracked his. She swung the cone pack to her chest and stepped out into the wash of the floods, while Vale hefted the flare kit under one arm. Together they crossed the bay, splitting without a word—Harper peeling left to drop cones along the lane, orange bases thudding against the concrete; Vale moving ahead to the mouth of Bay 2, where he planted the fold-out placard square in sight of the driver: CALIBRATION IN PROGRESS.
The tractor rolled past Vale's bored wave-through, easing up the deck. Harper straightened, clipboard hugged to her chest, her next cones already in hand.
Brakes hissed as the front wheels squared against the markers. Knuckles crouched low beside the platform, calibration puck in one hand, tablet balanced on his knee. He tapped the screen with exaggerated precision, voice pitched easy toward the cab.
"Scale's reading a little jumpy tonight," he said, lazy drawl under the floods. "Could be the cold—throws numbers off a pound or two. We'll get it smoothed."
Up in the cab, the driver slouched against his window, one arm dangling, eyes fixed on his phone.
While Knuckles filled the silence, Harper bent at the rear of the trailer, cone dropped clean against the concrete. Clipboard hugged to her ribs, she drifted along the length of the rig like she was logging notes. Pen clamped between her teeth, eyes flicking to reflectors, mudflaps, DOT stickers—until she reached the latch.
She paused, gloved hand lifting her phone for a quick photo—the original seal sharp in the glare. A twist of her wrist and the magnet slid free, palmed smooth. She pressed it under the bumper with a strip of painter's tape, hidden from sight, while Knuckles carried on:
"Two-pound drift," he called, rapping the deck for effect. "Within tolerance. You're golden."
Harper wiped the latch plate clean, pressed the new seal tight, and snapped a second photo. Thirty seconds, start to finish—done under Knuckles' steady patter, his voice carrying easy as if nothing at all were happening behind the rig. She rose slow, brushing grit from her gloves, then tapped the mudflap with her pen as if that had been her reason for crouching. Clipboard hugged close, she drifted forward along the length of the trailer, her pace steady, unremarkable.
At the mouth of the bay, Vale leaned casual against a cone, flare kit propped by his boot. One hand flicked lazy signals to the driver—hold, idle, wait. The other spun his lanyard like he had all night to kill, vest catching every wash of the floods.
From the kiosk, Brock raised his hand in a half-wave, clipboard balanced high against his chest, the set of his shoulders bored, routine. His eyes cut once to the dome cam overhead—just long enough to register the lens had panned a fraction—before sliding back to Harper. She slipped into step beside the drive wheels like she'd never broken stride, nothing in her body betraying the swap she'd just buried under the noise of procedure.
The driver shifted his phone to the dash, threw the rig into gear, and eased off the scale with a hiss of brakes. Vale stepped clear, flipping the placard back to NEXT VEHICLE with a snap of his wrist, cones still hemming Bay 2 in a neat line.
Harper moved in behind, scooping the rear cone back into her pack with a brisk motion before the trailer fully cleared. She straightened, gave Vale a nod, and reset herself at the lane's edge.
Headlights glowed at the mouth of the pull-through before the first truck had even cleared. Another Maw tractor, darker paint, taller stack, idled forward in line. Brock leaned a fraction closer to the kiosk window, clipboard angled just so, keeping the weighmaster's attention with an easy gripe about last year's audit.
Vale shifted the placard, cones steady in their line, and waved the next driver up onto the deck. Knuckles crouched back into place with his puck, tablet already tapping out false drift numbers.
Harper moved down the side of the new trailer, cone in one hand, clipboard tucked tight. She bent to check the reflector, pen scratching quick, then straightened into the glare of the floods.
The driver leaned half out of his cab, elbow hooked on the window frame, eyes dragging over her vest, her legs, the tilt of her cap. His grin glinted under the lights, crooked and damp.
"Didn't know the state sent out models now," he drawled. His gaze lingered lower, slow and deliberate. "Hell, you wanna calibrate me next? Might need a closer inspection."
His laugh cracked off the metal siding, stale breath and diesel smoke mixing as it carried down the bay.
Harper's jaw tightened, but the mask slid into place fast—chin tilted, smile flashing just enough teeth. She let her hips shift as she moved to the next reflector, pen tapping against the clipboard in a lazy rhythm.
"Depends," she tossed back lightly, not glancing at the cab. "You pass weight, maybe I'll put in a good word."
The driver's laugh rolled coarse from the window, his eyes stuck on her as she bent to set another cone. Whatever mutter followed was lost under the idle of the engine, but the tone was thick with suggestion. He never noticed Brock at the kiosk, or the way the man's stance had gone rigid, clipboard clenched just a fraction tighter.
Knuckles' voice carried across the bay, lazy as ever but louder now, pitched high enough to drown the driver's chuckle. "Pound and a half light. Nothing to fix. Deck's tighter than I've seen it all week." He slapped the puck against the scale with a clang, then leaned over his tablet like he was about to scribble numbers onto the concrete.
Harper caught the rhythm and played into it. She tipped her head toward the cab, lips quirking, voice just light enough to hook his attention. "Guess you lucked out, huh? Quick in, quick out."
The driver leaned farther from his window, grin splitting wide, eyes stuck on her as she shifted another cone into place, hips turned just enough to sell the tease. His focus stayed locked where she wanted it—on her mouth, her posture, the sway of her vest under the floods—never on her hands.
She let the clipboard dip, pen tapping the trailer wall, then slid smoothly to the far side. The cab's angle left her in the blind, shadows swallowing her frame. In that cover she crouched, phone snapping the original seal, serial crisp in the glare. Magnet off, palmed clean. A quick stick under the bumper with a tab of tape. Wipe, press, new seal down. Second photo.
Knuckles' voice filled the lull, casual, unhurried. "Reading's green. You're good to roll."
Harper straightened, brushing grit from her gloves, stepping back into the driver's line of sight with a flash of that same easy smile. The swap was buried under the rhythm of cones, chatter, and charm.
The driver revved once, grin still plastered on his face as his eyes swept her one more time. He tipped two fingers off the wheel in a crude little salute before he let the clutch out. The rig groaned forward, stacks belching, headlights smearing across the bay wall as the tractor eased off the scale.
Harper's smile dropped the second his taillights cleared. She bent quick, scooping the last cone into the pack, shoulders tight, jaw working as if she was grinding the taste of him out of her mouth. The cones thudded hollow against each other as she cinched the strap.
Vale snapped the placard closed, muttering about night shifts as he shouldered past the fading diesel haze. Knuckles locked the calibration puck back into its case, tablet clipped on top, the straps creaking as he hefted it.
At the kiosk, Brock closed the clipboard with a bored flick, slid the carbon copy across the counter, and gave the weighmaster a curt nod. No more words needed. He turned, boots heavy on the concrete, and jerked his chin toward the SUV.
The team peeled back together the same way they'd come—unhurried, quiet, nothing to see. Vale slung the placard into the cargo bay with a hollow smack, then dropped into the rear seat, flare kit wedged against his boots. Knuckles set the case on the floorboard up front and leaned back, stretching like the whole thing had been a warm-up.
Harper climbed in last, cones strapped tight to her pack. She slid them onto the seat beside her and tugged the door shut, the echo swallowed quick by the steady idle of the SUV. Sweat slicked her hair to her cap, her jaw still tight, eyes fixed on the window instead of the others.
Brock settled behind the wheel, clipboard tossed onto the console. He checked the mirror once, met her reflection, then put the SUV in gear. The vehicle rolled off the service lane slow, hazard lights clicking steady, white paint catching the flood glow one last time before it slipped back toward the highway.
From the backseat, Vale blew out a long breath, flare kit still wedged against his boots. "Gotta hand it to you, Harper," he said, half a grin in his voice. "Every damn guy we pass can't keep his eyes to himself. Truckers, weighmasters—hell, I bet even the janitor in that kiosk would've drooled if you'd smiled his way. Must get old."
Knuckles huffed a laugh through his nose, case braced against his boots. "Least it keeps 'em from watching what actually matters."
Harper groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "Don't remind me," she muttered, the words pitched with that weary acknowledgment of a truth she hated but couldn't deny. Her head thudded lightly back against the seat, a sigh sliding out of her chest.
Brock's hands tightened on the wheel, knuckles whitening against the leather, but he said nothing. The SUV hummed low as it merged back into traffic, the rhythm of tires against asphalt swallowing the rest.
─•────
The cards were still scattered on the low table, drinks left to warm dregs. The TV flickered low on the far wall, volume turned down to a murmur of commentators and canned crowd noise from some late-night game. The lamp in the corner burned soft, casting the couch in an amber haze that mixed with the blue wash of the screen.
Brock had slouched deep into the cushions, one arm stretched along the back, the other resting steady at Harper's shoulder. She lay on her side across his lap, cheek pressed to his thigh, hair spilling loose across his hand. Every so often his fingers shifted just enough to sweep a strand back from her face, the motion small, instinctive, done without thought. The hem of his shirt brushed her knees as she shifted in her sleep, breaths slow, even, her body stretched the length of the couch.
At the far end, her feet had found space near Knuckles. He hadn't moved them, hadn't said a word about it—just sat planted with his boots flat to the floor, elbows braced heavy on his knees. His eyes drifted from the TV's glow to the stretch of her legs, uncovered under Brock's shirt. The light caught on the faint, pale lines crosshatched into her skin—old scars she usually kept hidden under denim or cargo pants. He remembered too clearly the night he'd first seen them, her unconscious on the gurney while fabric was cut away, her body revealed in a map of slashes no one should have survived. She covered them so well now, moved like they didn't exist, but he never forgot.
Brock felt the weight of Knuckles' stare before he even looked up. His hand shifted at her shoulder, the faintest pull, as if to remind himself she was here, anchored against him. He glanced down—her face pressed into his thigh, brow softened in sleep in a way he rarely saw when she was awake. She hadn't felt the moment pass.
When he lifted his eyes back to Knuckles, his voice stayed low, steady. "She's getting more comfortable," he said, glancing at the bare stretch of her legs, at how she hadn't bothered to cover them. "Least with us. Even a few weeks ago, she wouldn't have sat like this with someone else in the room."
Knuckles' eyes lingered before he gave a slow nod, voice pitched just above the drone of the TV. "How's she really been? Since Vex?"
Brock met his look across the couch, jaw tightening. His thumb brushed once against the fabric at her collar, then stilled. "Besides going too hard in training?" His voice carried a rough edge, half sigh, half frustration. "She's mostly okay. But… she's different. Off. Jumpier than she was a month ago. Back to checking corners, watching doors like she's waiting for something to crack open. Feels like the early days again." His chest tightened. "And I hate watching her go back there. After everything it took to pull her out of it, seeing her slide back under—it doesn't sit right."
Knuckles let out a slow sigh and leaned his head back into the couch, eyes slipping toward the ceiling for a moment. Harper stirred at the sound, not waking, just turning in her sleep. One leg stretched out further, calf draping across his lap without aim or awareness. He didn't move it, only dropped his gaze back to her, then over to Brock.
"Vex said anything to you since the cafeteria?" he asked, voice low, steady under the hum of the TV.
"Not a word about her," Brock said after a moment. "If anything, it's like none of it ever happened." His jaw worked once, slow. "Part of me wonders if that stand in the cafeteria got through. He knows the work I put in, knows what I'm capable of. Maybe he doesn't want to test that line."
Knuckles shifted just enough to glance Brock's way, then let his eyes fall back to the TV. "Then just keep being you," he said, voice even. "Maybe he'll figure it out—that her being here helps the cause, doesn't hurt it." His hand settled without thought against her ankle where it rested across his lap, the touch light, steady, as if to keep her anchored in place.
Brock saw it but didn't acknowledge. His eyes stayed on Harper, the steady rise and fall of her breathing against his lap. "Yeah," he murmured, voice low enough it almost blended with the hum of the TV. "She's the reason half of this works at all."
The room held there—Harper asleep between them, the drone of late-night sports filling the silence, and neither man moving to break it.