Henderson wasn't the weigh-station. No magnetic decals on their truck this time, no calibration puck in Knuckles' fist, no state kiosk glowing while traffic rolled past. This was older, heavier. The freight depot crouched along the beltline like a structure left half to ruin, corrugated siding patched in rust and grime, chain-link sagging where trailers slouched in crooked rows. Sodium lamps hummed overhead, their yellow wash leeching the asphalt pale, making the dock bays gape like missing teeth with steel lips locked tight behind bolt seals. The air carried a dry tang of diesel that had seeped into the concrete years ago and never lifted.
Brock led them across the yard, shoulders squared, boots rolling silent in the hush. The others fell into step without needing to be told — Knuckles taking the perimeter, Vale pacing closer to the dock face, Harper's fingers brushing her thigh where the knife hung heavy. The weigh-station had been sterile, rehearsed, built on the illusion of order. Henderson felt abandoned to rust, the kind of place that might have gone on working forever without anyone noticing if not for the Syndicate's interest.
The task was clear: slip in, break the seals, open what needed opening, confirm the serials, and lay eyes on the freight itself. Those Maw trailers Harper had tampered with on the highway were here now, logged into Henderson's ledgers, and the Syndicate wanted proof the swap held clean. That meant stepping inside, cutting through shrink-wrap, checking pallets against numbers, and closing it all again so it looked untouched. Nothing theatrical, nothing heroic. Just freight that had to pass as routine when they walked out.
The yard swallowed them as they drew near the first bay. Cameras blinked on their perches, domes glowing a lazy red as if the whole system were half asleep. Brock steered them through the blind spots, small angles of his head giving direction. The trailer loomed in its slot, white sides dulled to gray, corners rust-streaked where rain had pooled and run. Numbers stenciled black across its frame had faded until they looked more like shadows. A bolt seal glinted on the hasp, painter's tape cinched smooth over it, the strip neat enough to pass casual inspection. Brock raised his hand, halting them with the smallest gesture. "There."
Knuckles drifted wide, shoulders loose, his mouth shaping a low whistle that wasn't quite a tune. To anyone watching he looked unbothered, a man killing time, but Brock knew the slack posture disguised a constant read of every shadow, every dome, every path out of the yard. Vale stepped onto the dock plate, leaning in with his weight to test the hinge. Steel rasped under his boot, not loud but cutting through the stillness. Brock felt the noise travel in his chest, a vibration more than a sound, and ground his teeth. Too much of that and the place would start to feel awake.
Harper crouched at the doors, one knee against the concrete, blade angled in her palm. The tape was smooth across the seal, edges crisp, no give to suggest it had been tampered with. Exactly the kind of finish the Syndicate demanded — work that disappeared into routine. She let her eyes catch the stamped number on the bolt, holding it steady until she knew Brock had seen it too. Then she pressed her free hand to the ground, fingers splayed against the grit, grounding herself against the silence pressing down on them. When she cut, Vale would take the latch. And once the latch turned, the trailer belonged to them.
Brock gave a nod. Harper set the blade against the tape, drew it across in a neat slice. The strip peeled away soundlessly, curling against her knuckles as she let it fall to the concrete. Beneath, the bolt seal caught the sodium glow, stamped numbers intact. She flicked her eyes up once, enough for Brock to mark them, then pressed the knife in again. The seal split with a dull snap.
Vale had already braced both hands on the locking bars. The moment the seal gave, he twisted them down, shoulders flexing as the latches broke free with a metallic clunk. He leaned back, pulling the heavy doors wide until the smell of cold freight air spilled into the yard — plastic, dust, the faint chemical sweetness of whatever solvents the Maw had loaded.
"Clear," Brock murmured, low.
Knuckles had drifted closer by then, his loose sway abandoned as he stepped up beside Harper. Vale dropped the dock plate with a clang and steadied it under his boot while Harper climbed inside. The air was colder in there, freight musk heavy with plastic and dust. Pallets rose in rows, stacked tight to the ceiling, their shrink-wrap gleaming in the beam of Knuckles' flashlight as he followed her in.
Harper crouched by the nearest stack, knife angled in her palm. She pressed the tip into the plastic and drew a line, the wrap parting with a soft rip. She peeled it back just enough for Knuckles to angle his light onto the freight tags stapled to the side.
"Numbers line," Knuckles said after a moment, eyes narrowing as he compared them against the ledger sheet he carried. He gave Harper a curt nod, then tugged the wrap back into place, smoothing it so the cut vanished into the folds.
They backed out together, boots thudding on the dock plate. Vale waited until they were clear, then swung the heavy doors shut. The locking bars clinked into place under his hands, steel ringing in the silence.
Harper crouched once more at the hasp, fitting the new Syndicate seal through with steady fingers until it snapped tight. A strip of tape followed, pressed flat, edges smoothed clean. From a step back, the trailer looked untouched — just another container swallowed by Henderson's monotony.
Brock scanned the lane while they worked, his shoulders rigid, eyes flicking from one lazy camera dome to the next. Nothing stirred. No sound but the sodium hum and the distant creak of steel cooling in the night.
"Next," he said.
They shifted down the line, boots rolling quiet over the concrete, their shadows stretching long under the lamps. The second trailer waited in its bay, frame leaned at a tired angle, rust bleeding from the rivets. Its placard flapped weakly in the breeze, corners curling as if it had been pasted years ago and forgotten. The bolt seal on the doors was intact, painter's tape cinched smooth across it, no different to the first.
Vale climbed the dock plate again, testing it with his heel until the hinge gave a muted groan. Knuckles fell back in close, ledger tucked under his arm, flashlight ready. Brock stayed at the edge, eyes cutting across the yard.
Harper crouched once more at the doors. The knife rested in her palm, its weight familiar now, part of the rhythm. She fixed on the number stamped into the seal, then lifted her blade to the tape. A glance over her shoulder was all it took.
Brock answered with the smallest motion, enough. Harper lifted the blade, slipped it under the tape, and drew a clean line. The strip fluttered down, the seal breaking with a muted crack.
Vale caught the bars without waiting, wrenched them loose in one hard pull. The doors swung wide, hinges complaining, and the air that spilled out was heavier than the last — freight musk laced with something sour that stung the throat.
He dropped the dock plate with a clang and steadied it under his boot. Harper followed him up, boots thudding hollow on the metal. Knuckles angled his flashlight beam into the gloom, the cone catching two stacks of pallets lined side by side, shrink-wrap pulled tight to the ceiling. Both bore Maw freight tags stapled low, paper edges curled and sweat-stained.
"Two stacks," Knuckles muttered. "Both need eyes."
Harper moved to the left-hand row as Vale took the right, both of them dropping to their knees almost in unison. Knuckles swung the beam between them, catching the gleam of taut plastic stretched across the pallets.
Harper pressed her knife to the wrap, blade glinting as it bit a straight line. Plastic parted with a dry rip, peeling under her hand. She pulled it back, just enough for Knuckles to angle the light across the freight tags, numbers clear and orderly.
Vale grunted as he drove his blade into the opposite stack. The plastic split jagged, tearing with a violent hiss as a pressurized pocket burst loose. A wave of acrid vapor punched out, chemical and sour, burning the throat before anyone had time to recoil.
Vale caught it full. His first cough was a bark, ugly and wet, bouncing off steel walls. The next ripped through him harder, a convulsion that doubled him over. The knife slipped from his hand and rang against the dock plate. His chest pumped like a bellows with no draw, mouth gaping but no air coming.
Harper's scream tore loose before she thought. "Vale!" She lunged toward him, sleeve over her face, eyes already watering. The stink clawed at her throat, setting her coughing even as she tried to reach him.
Knuckles grabbed her mid-stride, arm clamped around her waist. He was coughing too, teeth bared against the sting, but his grip only locked tighter. "Out—out!" His voice broke ragged, half-lost in a fit that bent him forward.
Vale staggered back into the pallet stack, shoulder slamming plastic, then crumpled to the dock plate. He gagged hard, spit and foam flecking his lips, hands raking his own throat as if he could tear the burn out. His legs kicked against the steel, boots drumming desperate noise into the hollow trailer.
Brock was already moving. The moment the coughing hit, he was up the dock plate in three strides. He didn't hesitate, didn't glance — he clamped a fist into Harper's collar, yanked her off her feet, and dragged her bodily back toward the doors. Her blade clattered against the floor as she twisted in his grip, shrieking to get free. He hauled her clear, coughing now himself, the vapor scratching down into his lungs, eyes stinging.
"Cover your mouth!" Knuckles roared hoarsely, forearm pressed across his nose and lips as he dropped to Vale's side. He hooked an arm under Vale's shoulders, gagging as the chemical burn ripped another cough out of him, but he heaved anyway, hauling deadweight toward the plate. Vale thrashed once, a grotesque shudder through his chest, then sagged heavy against him.
Harper kicked against Brock's hold, voice shredded raw. "He's dying!"
"Shut up and move!" Brock yelled, dragging her backwards out of the stink while Knuckles staggered under Vale's weight, both of them coughing until their ribs ached. The air in the trailer was a sour fog now, metallic and heavy, clinging to skin, biting down the throat.
Brock muscled Harper down the plate, her boots scraping metal as she twisted against him. She clawed at his arm, nails catching cloth, body snapping back toward the trailer even as the stench clawed at her lungs.
"Let me go!" she screamed, hacking mid-word, voice breaking into a fit that doubled her over even in his grip.
"Harper, move!" Brock barked, voice shredded, eyes streaming. He half-carried, half-dragged her off the lip and onto concrete, every muscle burning against her fight.
Behind them, Knuckles stumbled out of the trailer with Vale slung against his chest. He'd braced his forearm over his mouth, coughing into it, but it didn't stop the wheeze that tore through his lungs. Vale was deadweight now, head lolling against Knuckles' shoulder, spit and froth slick at his mouth.
"Downwind!" Brock shouted, hauling Harper another yard before shoving her off, planting himself between her and the dock. He bent over coughing, one hand braced to his knee, the other raised to ward her back.
Harper hit the asphalt hard, palms scraping as she caught herself. She scrambled up instantly, eyes wild on Vale. Knuckles had collapsed to one knee, Vale's chest hitching in grotesque spasms as he tried to haul in breath that wouldn't come.
"Don't touch him!" Brock snapped, lunging again as Harper bolted toward them. He caught her around the waist this time, dragging her backward by sheer force. She screamed in his arms, nails raking his forearm, her coughs shredding her throat bloody-raw.
Knuckles tried to force Vale upright, bracing him against his chest. He pressed his forearm harder over his nose, eyes red and streaming. Vale jerked once, convulsed, then sagged so heavy Knuckles almost dropped him.
"Come on, come on—" Knuckles rasped, pounding Vale's back with fists that shook more from his own coughing than strength. Vale's body jolted once under the blows, then sagged heavier, his weight dragging Knuckles sideways toward the concrete.
"Harper!" Brock's voice ripped through the night. He shoved her forward, breaking his own grip. "SUV! Now!"
She hit the ground hard on her palms, blinked once, then scrambled to her feet. Her legs moved before her brain did, boots hammering across the yard. The world smeared around her, lamps streaking in her vision through tears and chemical burn. She could still hear Knuckles behind her, hacking, swearing, Brock shouting over the noise, but it all bled into static.
The SUV loomed like salvation. She ripped the handle open, flung herself into the driver's seat. Her hands wouldn't work — slick with sweat, shaking too hard. The keys slipped once, twice before she jammed them into the ignition. Sobs broke out of her chest, high and helpless, even as she twisted the key. The engine roared alive under her hands, a sound that barely cut through the pounding in her skull.
She jammed the shifter forward, tires spitting gravel as she tore across the yard. Lamps blurred past, shadows skidding across the windshield. She didn't think, didn't breathe — just held the wheel in a white-knuckled grip, aiming the truck straight at the dock.
The trailer loomed up fast. She slammed the gear into park, door half-flung before the SUV stopped rocking. She was out in a sprint, boots hammering the concrete, throat ragged with a sob that ripped itself into Vale's name.
Knuckles was on his knees over him, hands locked, arms pistoning as he pumped Vale's chest. His coughs shredded the rhythm, spit hanging from his lips, but he didn't stop. Vale lay flat on the concrete, head twisted to the side, foam streaking from the corner of his mouth. His chest rose only under Knuckles' weight, each push squeezing out another wet rattle that wasn't air.
"Vale—" Harper dropped to her knees so hard her bones jarred. She reached for him, for Knuckles, anything, tears streaking hot through the chemical burn in her eyes.
"Back!" Knuckles barked, voice breaking raw as he slammed his palms down again. "Let me work—" His arms shook, his coughs shredding the count, but he kept driving his palms into Vale's chest, each push met with a wet rattle that wasn't breath.
"Enough!" Brock's voice cut like iron as he came down hard beside them. He clamped a hand under Vale's shoulder, the other at his belt. "We're not staying here." He snapped his gaze to Harper. "Hatch. Now."
She scrambled up, legs buckling beneath her, and sprinted for the SUV. Her hands fumbled on the handle, slick with tears and sweat, but the hatch came free with a jolt. She shoved it high, breath tearing out of her as Brock and Knuckles staggered forward under Vale's weight.
They lifted him together, Brock taking the shoulders, Knuckles hooked at the knees. Vale's head lolled back, jaw slack, foam streaked across his chin. His boots dragged twin scuffs in the gravel until they heaved him into the cargo bay. He hit the floor with a heavy thud that shook the frame.
Harper clambered in after him, shoving aside loose gear to clear space, hands flying to Vale's chest again before she could think. Knuckles climbed in too, bracing beside her, already pressing down hard, desperate to keep rhythm.
Brock slammed the hatch shut, the sound echoing across the yard like a gunshot, then rounded for the driver's seat. He threw himself behind the wheel, jammed the shifter forward, and the SUV leapt out from the dock, gravel spitting under the tires as the lamps streaked into blur.
The SUV barreled out of the yard, engine screaming as Brock shoved it down the service road. His jaw was clenched so hard the tendons stood out in his neck, eyes fixed on the smear of asphalt ahead, hands white-knuckled on the wheel.
In the back, it was chaos. Knuckles straddled Vale's hips, arms pumping, shoulders heaving with every ragged push. His own coughs tore through the count, but he didn't stop. "One, two—fuck—come on, Vale—three—" His voice cracked, wet with strain, as foam flecked from Vale's lips under his palms.
Harper crouched against the wall, her body shaking so hard she couldn't hold herself steady. Her fingers kept finding Vale's sleeve, his boot, anything to tether herself to him even as Knuckles shoved her back. "Don't—don't let him—please—" Her words fractured into sobs that clawed her chest raw.
"Harper!" Brock's bark cut across the engine roar. His eyes never left the road. "Phone. Graves. Now."
She fumbled, hands useless at first, then digging into her pocket until the device clattered onto the floor mat. She snatched it up, screen glowing through tears. Her breath came in short, panicked gulps, thumb slipping as she tried to pull up the contact.
"Call—call—" Her voice cracked to nothing. She pressed the phone to her ear, knuckles white around it. When the line clicked, she burst all at once. "It's Vale—he's—he's not—there was—oh God—he's not—"
"Harper!" Brock barked again from the front, hard enough to jolt her spine.
Knuckles slammed his palms down, grunting through clenched teeth. "Tell her chemical—freight—Henderson—he's not breathing!" His cough shredded the last words into gravel.
Harper tried, sobs cutting through. "There was a truck—we opened it—gas, it burned—he's—he's—" She pressed a hand to her mouth, phone shaking against her ear. "Vale's not—he's not—"
Knuckles leaned harder, chest compressions thudding against the SUV's frame, Brock tearing the wheel into a blind turn that threw them all sideways. The world outside blurred, sodium lamps strobing past, while inside the vehicle the only sound was Harper's broken sobs, Knuckles' curses, and Vale's dead weight rattling with each desperate pump.
─•────
The corridors of the compound swallowed sound, every surface too clean, too sterile. Fluorescent lights hummed above, throwing hard white over the scuffed tile. Brock stood with his back to the wall outside the med bay, arms locked tight across his chest, eyes fixed on nothing. His shirt clung damp to his shoulders, streaked with Vale's spit and chemical stink that no one had tried to wash off yet.
Knuckles sat hunched on a bench opposite, elbows braced to his knees, forearm draped across his mouth like he could still taste the freight air. His coughs came rough and shallow, every few breaths shaking him until his shoulders jumped. He kept staring at the med bay door as if he could force it open by will.
Harper was crumpled beside him, knees pulled up, phone still in her hand. Her fingers twitched against it, restless, like she couldn't remember how to let go. Her face was streaked red from crying, throat raw, but her eyes never lifted from the floor. Every time the muffled clang of instruments carried through the wall, she flinched as though the sound struck her directly.
No one spoke. The air stank faintly of antiseptic, too clean, cutting over the chemical reek clinging to their clothes. It pressed in on all three of them, a silence too heavy to hold for long.
The med bay door clicked open.
Graves stepped out, mask tugged down around her throat, lines cut deep across her face. For a moment she just stood there in the threshold, sterile light spilling around her, and then she crossed the hall toward Brock.
Knuckles was on his feet before he knew it, body lurching upright like he could meet the news head-on. Harper scrambled after him, her phone slipping from her hands. It clattered on the tile, screen glowing uselessly as it spun across the floor. She didn't look at it. Her eyes locked on Graves like a lifeline, wide and hollow and starving for something—anything—other than the truth.
Graves stopped in front of Brock, voice quiet but flat with finality. "We couldn't save him." Her gaze flicked between them, and she softened just a fraction. "I'm sorry."
The words detonated in Harper's chest. Her legs gave out before the sound even finished leaving Graves's mouth. She collapsed straight to the floor, crumpling at Knuckles' boots. Her sobs broke loose with a violence that wrenched her whole frame, forehead pressed hard to the tile as if she could disappear into it.
Knuckles froze above her, hands half-lifted, jaw clenched so tight it looked like his teeth might crack. His eyes burned, but he didn't cry. He just stood there as Harper's grief tore through the hall like glass in a blender.
Brock drew in a breath, deep and heavy, like it was the only way to keep himself standing. "Thank you," he said to Graves, voice scraped down to stone. She gave him a slow nod and turned away, her steps fading as the med bay door swung shut again.
Brock moved first. He dropped to his knees beside Harper, arms shooting around her before she could even recoil. She screamed — a ragged, animal sound that didn't sound like it came from her at all. Her fists pounded at him, weak but frantic, hammering his chest, his arms, his jaw. "No! No, no, no—" The words shredded apart until they were nothing but raw sound. She twisted in his grip, heels kicking against the floor, one foot slamming the wall with a crack that echoed down the corridor.
Brock pulled tighter, crushing her to him as if he could hold her body together by sheer force. Her hair stuck wet to her cheeks, her sobs ripping through him with each convulsion of her frame. He bent low, pressing his mouth into her hair, whispering through teeth clenched so hard they shook. "Easy, Harper. I've got you. I've got you." His voice cracked on the last word.
She howled into him, thrashing, choking on her own spit until she gagged. Her hands clawed at his shirt, at her own throat, fingers digging until her nails broke skin. She tried to tear free, to get away from his arms, but he locked her down harder, burying her face against him while his own chest heaved with the strain.
Knuckles dropped hard on her other side, knees cracking tile. His big hand settled at the back of her head, trembling but steadying her against Brock's shoulder. His forehead pressed to her crown, his breath coming in broken rasps that burned out of his lungs. "Let it out, Firefly," he whispered, voice hoarse, barely audible over her screams. "We're here. We've got you."
She convulsed between them, screams collapsing into jagged sobs, sobs into choking gasps. Her whole body shook, her voice tearing raw until nothing came out but air. Brock held her like iron, refusing to let her splinter further. Knuckles stayed close, grounding her with touch alone, braced against Brock's shoulder, his thumb stroking once through her hair before curling tight to hide the shake in his hand.
The sterile corridor couldn't contain it. Her grief ricocheted off tile and steel, raw and unbearable, a sound that split the compound open. It was the sound of something breaking beyond repair, of a wound that would never close.
And there they stayed: one gone behind the med bay door, one breaking herself hollow on the floor, and two men clinging to her, because holding her together was the only thing left they could do.
─•────
The corridor stretched long and airless, every step echoing too loud against the sterile tile. Morning light bled pale through the high windows, but it didn't touch the three of them. Brock moved in front, jaw dark with stubble, shirt pulled on without care, his shoulders carrying the weight of what no sleep could burn off. Knuckles walked half a pace behind, eyes sunk in red hollows, every cough from the night still buried in his chest. Harper trailed close, hair unwashed, her face blotched raw, eyes burning from hours of crying that hadn't bought her a second of rest. None of them spoke. They just followed the summons, boots dragging them toward Vex's office, where the air itself seemed to tighten with each step.
The call had come early, too early for any of them to pretend the night hadn't broken them. Vex wanted them in his office, not the war room — and that detail landed heavier than the summons itself. The war room was where failures were dissected, where reports were filed and next orders handed down. His office was different. Private. Controlled. A place where decisions weren't debated, only delivered. As they closed in on the far end of the hall, Harper felt the air thin, her skin crawling with the sense that whatever waited behind that door wasn't going to be a debrief at all.
Brock pushed the door open without knocking, and the three of them stepped inside. Vex sat waiting behind his desk, posture easy, hands folded as though he'd been there for hours. The room was quiet, almost too quiet, the hum of the compound muffled by the heavy walls. Harper barely had time to register the papers and screens laid out before her eyes caught the figures by the door. Onyx to the left, Kier to the right — both planted like fixtures in the wood and steel. Their presence hit like a blow. This wasn't routine. They weren't supposed to be here. Harper felt the air hitch in her lungs as the door clicked shut behind them.
"Morning," Vex said, calm as still water. He didn't rise, just flicked his eyes from one face to the next, cataloguing the exhaustion carved into them. Then he lifted a hand, palm open in a small beckon. "Lawson. Knuckles. Step forward."
They obeyed without a word, boots carrying them toward the desk, shoulders squared out of habit more than strength. Harper stayed by the door. Onyx stood a pace to her left, Kier to her right — men she knew, men she'd trained beside, faces that should have steadied her. But not here. Not like this. Their presence in Vex's private office, silent and watchful, made the hairs at her neck lift.
Vex leaned back in his chair, fingers laced loosely across his stomach. "Tell me," he said, voice steady, deliberate. His gaze fixed on Brock. "What happened last night?"
Brock didn't hesitate. His voice came steady, stripped bare of anything but the facts. "Two trailers in the Henderson yard. First was clean. Second held vapor under the wrap. Vale took the hit full in the face before anyone could pull him clear. We dragged him out, worked him all the way back here. Graves couldn't save him."
Silence pressed in after Brock's words, heavy enough that even the hum of the lights seemed to fade. Harper kept her eyes fixed on the floor, hands knotted tight at her sides. In her periphery she caught the faintest shift — Onyx's jaw tightening, the muscle flickering once beneath his stubble. It wasn't aimed at her, she knew that, but the tension bled into her bones all the same. She kept her head down, forcing herself still, though her throat burned with the urge to look up.
Vex's mouth curved, not quite a smile. "How convenient," he murmured, eyes sliding past Brock to settle on Harper for the first time. "That of the two trucks you worked, only one was rigged. And how convenient," he repeated, his hand moving with surgical ease across his desk, tapping a control.
A screen behind him blinked alive. Grainy weigh-station footage filled it — one of the Maw trucks rolling slow under sodium glare. Harper in frame, crouched at the seal, knife in hand. The driver leaned out his window. A flash of words neither camera nor mic could catch. Then the unmistakable lift of his hand, a two-finger salute cast directly her way before the truck eased back into the night.
Vex let it play twice, then stilled the image with Harper frozen mid-crouch and the driver's hand still raised in farewell. His voice stayed calm, level. "That was the same truck Vale opened. The same truck filled with poison." He leaned back, fingers steepled. "Coincidence? I don't think so."
Harper's stomach dropped so fast it felt like the floor had vanished. Her throat locked, her lungs clawed uselessly for air. In front of her, Brock's shoulders snapped stiff, Knuckles' jaw set hard enough to crack. Brock started to move, his voice tight, cutting through the weight. "She didn't—"
"Save it," Vex interrupted, calm as glass. His hand lifted from the desk, and something gleamed between his fingers. A phone. Her phone.
Harper froze. Every nerve went numb at the sight of it, the cracked case, the smear of her own thumbprint. She hadn't even realized it was gone.
"You left this behind outside the med bay," Vex said, turning it over in his hand like a coin. "Unlocked. Careless. Grief does that." He pressed the screen awake, tilted it just enough for the glow to hit Brock and Knuckles. "And what do we find inside? A conversation. Time-stamped. Cute little exchange with a Maw number."
He swiped once, the screen filling with a thread of clipped lines — coded, vague, but unmistakable in implication. Confirming trailers. Confirming seals. Confirming Henderson.
Vex set the phone down on the desk, screen still lit, those false words burning against the sterile light. His gaze slid to Harper, unblinking. "You were sloppy, and you got Vale killed. And now you've gotten yourself caught."
Both Brock and Knuckles turned, their gazes cutting to Harper like a spotlight she couldn't escape. It hollowed her chest, every nerve sparking at once. Her throat convulsed, dragging words out broken and panicked. "I—I didn't—" Her voice fractured, raw from the night before. "I never—"
"Enough." Vex's interruption wasn't loud, but it carved the air clean. He didn't even look at her, as if her denials weren't worth hearing. His attention locked on Brock, cool and predatory.
"Mistakes were made," he went on, voice unhurried, heavy with disdain. "The first was dragging a prisoner out of Yard Forty-Two instead of leaving her in the dirt where she belonged. The second was sparing her once she'd served her purpose." His laugh followed, low and merciless, like the sound of something grinding down bone. "And the greatest mistake of all? Believing Silas Voss' daughter could ever be absorbed into the very machine that razed her life."
He leaned forward, folding his hands together as though the conclusion was inevitable, his gaze glinting with cruel satisfaction. "She was playing the long game. And she played it well. Every move, every gesture, calculated. And you—" his eyes flicked to Brock, narrowing—"you let her in. Sliding into your bed, into your trust, into the Syndicate itself. What better way to hollow us out than through the man I trusted to command?"
Harper lurched forward, words clawing up her throat. "That's not—" She didn't get further. Onyx and Kier moved in tandem, sudden and brutal, seizing her arms before she could take another step. One hand clamped her wrist high, the other crushed her shoulder down, wrenching her back against the wall. Her cry split the air, ragged and furious, legs thrashing for footing.
Brock and Knuckles both went rigid, shoulders taut, hands half-lifting as instinct surged. But neither moved. Vex rose from behind the desk, chair whispering back across the tile, and strolled toward Harper with his hands folded behind his back. He didn't rush; he didn't need to. Onyx and Kier already had her wrenched against the wall, wrists twisted, her body jerking in their grip. Vex tilted his head, studying her like she was a curious specimen, and the faint curve of his mouth showed how much her struggle entertained him.
"I suspected you from the beginning," he said lightly, almost as if confessing a private joke. "But I made the mistake of trusting Lawson's judgment." His eyes flicked to Brock, a glint of ridicule in them. "Another error in a long list."
He stopped in front of Harper, close enough that she had to wrench her face aside to avoid his gaze. "And how unfortunate," he went on, voice dripping false pity, "that Vale had to cough his life out before the truth surfaced. One man gone, just to expose you." He let the pause hang, then smiled wider, cruel and deliberate. "Maybe that was the price required."
Vex turned on his heel and faced Brock as if delivering a weather report. "This ends right now," he said, voice flat as wet stone. "She needs to be erased from the map before she does any more damage."
The words landed like a verdict. Onyx's grip on Harper tightened a fraction; Kier's fingers pressed a little harder into her ribs. Harper's eyes flashed up, rimmed and burning, mouth forming protest that never finished. Brock's face folded, hard and immediate — anger, disbelief, something like nausea rolling under it. His fingers clamped once at his side, knuckles paling against fabric. Knuckles was the only one who didn't look away; his stare locked on Brock, searching for the command he'd always followed. Silence stretched thin enough to cut.
Vex didn't move away from her at first. He stayed close enough that Harper could feel his shadow tilt over her, the smell of his cologne cutting through the sweat and metal of Onyx and Kier's grip. Then, with a small pivot, he slid a half-step to the side, not retreating, just opening the space between himself and her so that Brock could see her unobstructed. His hands stayed clasped loosely behind his back, head tipped as if this were an idle conversation.
"Something this treasonous," he said, voice even, almost soft, "deserves an agonizing end. Days, weeks, the kind of pain people whisper about long after it's done." He let the words hang a heartbeat too long, then gave the smallest shrug. "But I find I don't have the patience for it. And I am, after all, a generous man."
He angled his body just enough to catch Brock in his gaze. "So here's my offer to you, Lawson. We can all go downstairs and drag this out…or you end it. Right now. Clean and quick. A kind death. The kind you should have given her months ago in the yard."
He nodded faintly toward Harper where Onyx and Kier still held her, then back to Brock. "A loop closed."
The words struck her like ice poured straight into her chest. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think—only feel the iron clamp of Onyx and Kier's hands locking her in place. Her eyes shot to Knuckles first, desperate, begging, but his face was carved from stone, his jaw flexing hard enough she thought it might split. She turned to Brock then, her vision swimming with tears, throat too tight to form a word. Her eyes pleaded for him, every ounce of her begging, please, please don't.
He was staring at her. Not away, not at Vex, not at the floor—at her. But she couldn't read him. His face gave her nothing. No promise, no denial. Just his eyes fixed on hers, steady and unreadable, while her world fell apart around them.
Vex's patience snapped like a brittle thing. "I don't have all day, Lawson," he said, voice flat and amused. "If you don't have the balls to put a bullet through your little traitor fucktoy's skull, we'll all go downstairs and enjoy the show together." He let the threat hang, savoring the way it crawled through the room.
Onyx's grip tightened at Harper's shoulder; Kier's forearm dug into her ribs. Harper's pleading shredded into ragged gasps. Her eyes found Brock's again — frantic, raw, the world reduced to the single question she couldn't make him answer with his face. "Please," she mouthed, though the sound that came out was a wet, broken thing.
Brock's fingers closed at his side where the sidearm rested. For a moment he was a statue: jaw clenched, every line in his face pulled taut. Knuckles watched him like a man watching a fuse burn, eyes wet, the raggedness of the night carved into him. No one spoke. The office hummed small and cruel.
Brock moved with the terrible slow certainty of a man forced toward a moment he could never walk back. His hand slipped to his sidearm, drew it clean, the steel catching a bar of sterile light as it came free. Harper's hand jerked toward him, fingers grasping nothing but air. The sound that tore from her chest was no word at all, only a raw cry that scraped the walls.
Vex didn't flinch. He watched with the faint, satisfied smile of someone seeing a plan fall neatly into place. "Now," he murmured, folding his hands behind his back again, patient as stone.
Knuckles hadn't moved except to set his boots wider on the floor. His weapon was holstered at his side, but his hands never strayed toward it. He stood with his arms slack, eyes fixed on Brock, his face cut into something cold, unreadable. No rescue in him, no plea—just the weight of a man watching to see which way the world would break.
Brock's eyes found hers across the space, locking her in place harder than Onyx and Kier's hands ever could. For the briefest instant, something flickered there—something human, something breaking—but then the mask slammed back down, hard and unreadable. Harper's knees buckled beneath her, the weight of it too much, but the men at her sides wrenched her upright, iron fingers biting into her arms until her joints screamed.
Brock lifted the pistol, slow as if it weighed the world. His hand slipped once, the barrel wavering, and in that sliver of movement she caught it—the sheen in his eyes, the tears he couldn't hide fast enough. Her breath tore out of her in a sob. "Brock—please—"
He steadied the gun again, the barrel rising until it fixed on her head. His jaw clenched and unclenched, his eyes blinking hard, like every movement cost him something. When his voice came, it was low, ragged, breaking on the edges. "I'm sorry."
Her sobs ripped through her, her whole body convulsing in Onyx and Kier's grip. "Don't—please don't—" The words shredded out of her, torn and desperate, more breath than sound. Her eyes darted back over to Knuckles, who was still staring at Brock.
"Harper." Brock said her name the way he always did when she was unraveling, that steady, quiet tone he used to anchor her when panic clawed her lungs, when the world tilted out from under her. It had always been the voice that steadied her. Hearing it here cut her in two. Her eyes flew up, locking on his, drowning in them, searching for anything—mercy, promise, love—and finding only pain.
His chest hitched once, and when he spoke it was barely more than a breath, his voice breaking under the weight. "Close your eyes for me, Harper."
Something in her collapsed. Her whole body shook as she obeyed, eyelids crushing shut until sparks of light burst behind them. She couldn't see him now—only hear her pulse rushing in her ears, feel the bruising grip of the hands that held her upright, sense the hollow space between her and Brock. Onyx and Kier shifted, easing back just a fraction, making room for what was coming.
She let out a breath, thin and trembling, and braced.
The chamber erupted, and the world went white with sound.