Brock surfaced from sleep slow, like the cabin itself had kept him pinned beneath. His eyes cracked open to a timber ceiling, planks bowed under years, a knothole dark as an eye fixed on him. The air smelled of pine resin and stale ash, silence so thick it made his pulse feel loud. He was still in yesterday's clothes — cargo pants creased from the ride, long sleeves damp with smoke and sweat. The bed creaked under his weight, thin mattress stretched over boards that felt like they'd carried winters heavier than he could name.
His body ached with the kind of stiffness that didn't come from sleep but from holding too still too long. A knot burned low in his spine, shoulder blades sore where the frame pressed through the padding. He flexed his hands slow, feeling phantom weight in the right — the imprint of a pistol grip still burned into his palm, memory of recoil traveling up his bones. Even with it gone, his fingers wanted to curl, as if steel should still be there.
The cabin's hush wasn't peace; it was the wrong kind of quiet, the kind that pressed on his ears until he thought he could hear the grind of his own teeth. No engines idling outside, no boots scuffing tile, no hum of fluorescent light. Just wood settling, the faint pop of something cooling in the chimney. Every sound he was trained to live by had been stripped away. What was left felt alien, almost hostile in its emptiness.
He drew in a breath, slow through his nose, the air colder than he'd expected, sharp enough to bite his throat. His chest rose against the tight pull of yesterday's shirt, fabric stiff with dried sweat. He swallowed, the taste still smoke and gunpowder, like the night hadn't let him go.
The ceiling swam back Into focus, lines of wood running above him like bars. He exhaled through his teeth, a low drag of air that fogged faint against the chill. Morning, but it didn't feel new. Just another weight pressing down.
His mind slid back to last night. Yesterday had blurred at the edges. He'd had to coax Harper through the door first — no dragging, no arguments, just steady words and a hand offered until she stepped inside. Pale under the dim light, her shoulders jolted at each creak of the boards, every groan of wind against the eaves.
Once inside, they all set to work. The five of them moved like workers in a trance, brushing dust from rafters, sweeping corners, dragging musty bedding outside to beat against the porch rail. Knuckles kept them moving with short, steady directions — burn that, clear this — his tone clipped but deliberate, like order alone could keep the roof standing. Harper folded her silence into motion, hauling clutter to the burn barrel he rigged out back, wiping down surfaces until the rag turned gray in her hand. Once her hand slipped, rag falling, and she bent too fast to catch it, breath hitching like she expected the crash of boots behind her. She kept going, but she moved like a ghost, unsteady on her feet, eyes darting to the windows as if waiting for something to break through.
Onyx kept his head down, shoulders hunched as he worked, carrying bedding out to the porch without a word. His hands moved steady, but every so often he lingered too long, grip tightening on the fabric like he had to remind himself it wasn't a body he was hauling. The usual fire in him had gone hollow, motions muted, stripped of force. Kier was quieter still, efficient in the way he cleared corners and straightened furniture, but his gaze drifted often, flicking to Harper before pulling away fast, as though even looking at her too long was another trespass he couldn't afford.
When the cabin looked barely livable, Knuckles unearthed soup cans from the cupboard and heated them on the stove, filling the air with a metallic tang. They ate in silence, bowls more cradled than emptied. Harper sat with them, hands wrapped around hers, but never lifted the spoon. Her gaze stayed locked on the treeline outside, shadows crawling across the floorboards as if those shifting shapes were the only thing worth watching.
When night came, they split the rooms. Brock claimed the largest at the front, Knuckles settling across the hall. Onyx and Kier took the far end of the cabin where narrow bunks lined the wall, neither man raising complaint. Harper trailed Brock into his room without a word, her steps so quiet they hardly seemed to belong to her. She didn't bother with shoes, or with peeling off the clothes that still carried smoke and blood — just folded in on herself, curling small beneath the blanket like instinct alone had guided her. The shape of her body was there, but the weight of her felt gone. Brock lingered in the doorway, watching her vanish into that unreachable silence. He understood — but it didn't make the sight of her detachment cut any less.
Morning pressed soft through the cracks in the shutters. A bird called once from the trees, and damp air carried the smell of wet earth and old wood. Brock rolled onto his side, and Harper was there facing him, curled close beneath the blanket pulled askew. Her hair was tangled and unwashed across her cheek, a faint sheen of sweat along her temple. Even in sleep her features stayed taut, jaw clenched as if braced for a blow. Shadows carved deep hollows beneath her eyes, leaving her looking worn down to the bone, older than she should. There was no peace in her face. It gutted him — he'd take a bullet a hundred times before he'd choose to see that emptiness again.
He reached to brush her hair back, fingertips grazing her temple. At the touch she twitched, a flinch so small it might have gone unseen, but he felt it jolt through her. His hand slid behind her head, fingers threading into the tangle, grounding her there with him. He leaned in and pressed his lips to her forehead, a quiet mark of presence, not demand.
Her lashes fluttered, eyes opening to his. That hollow look lingered, but he gave her the gentlest smile. "Morning," he murmured, voice rough with sleep.
She didn't answer. Instead, she shifted closer, tucking her face into the curve of his neck, her breath warm and uneven against his skin as her arm folded across his chest. He gathered her in, silent, feeling the tremor in her body as much as the press of her weight. The cabin stayed hushed around them, wood creaking faintly, birdcall fading back into the trees. It wasn't much — but the way she pressed into him, it felt like the first step back from that unreachable silence.
─•────
The kitchen smelled of heat and salt and wood smoke. Knuckles stood at the stove, shoulders squared as he worked a dented pan with the kind of focus he usually reserved for wiring charges. The hiss of something frying filled the cabin, cut by the scrape of a spatula against iron. Steam curled toward the rafters, catching in the slant of pale light through a grimy window.
Kier leaned against the counter barefoot, stripping the label from a water bottle into ribbons, shredding the plastic down to nothing. His energy had nowhere else to go, twitching through his fingers, jaw tight as he worked the scraps into smaller and smaller pieces.
Onyx sat at the table with his elbows planted, methodically slicing a loaf of stale bread with a knife far too sharp for the job. Each cut landed exact, clean, his grip steady but his attention miles away, as if discipline in the small thing might make up for everything else.
Between them, the place looked halfway civilized—coffee steaming in a chipped mug, plates laid out mismatched, silverware rattled from a drawer that hadn't been opened in years. The air was warmer here, alive with movement, but the weight beneath it never left.
The thump of footsteps In the hall turned the others' heads. Brock came first, broad-shouldered presence filling the doorway, Harper trailing a step behind. Her hair hung damp in dark strands against her cheeks and collar, still dripping at the ends. The shower hadn't scrubbed the weight from her—eyes ringed, posture sagged, every step betraying how much it cost her just to make it this far.
She tugged at the sleeve of her shirt like it sat wrong, an unconscious fidget, then slowed at the edge of the room. Her gaze brushed the table—steam rising from the pan, Onyx's knife whispering through the bread—but didn't hold. Wariness flickered across her face, quick and cutting, before she drifted toward the wall instead, hands folding across her stomach like she could shield herself with her own arms.
Brock stayed close at her shoulder, a quiet shadow. His eyes swept the kitchen, a flicker through its corners, before he angled slightly toward her—close enough to steady her if she faltered, but leaving the choice of distance hers.
Knuckles glanced back at them, spatula still in hand. He caught the way Harper lingered a half-step behind Brock, but let it pass without comment. Instead he tipped his chin in greeting and slid another plate onto the counter with a deliberate ease that felt like performance. "Morning," he said, voice rough with coffee and sleep. "You're just in time—found some eggs in the fridge that hadn't walked off yet. Figured we'd risk 'em." The pan hissed as he gave it a shake, his tone steady, filling the space without pressing.
Brock moved forward, past Harper, and pulled out the chair beside Onyx. The legs scuffed across the floorboards as he dropped into it, forearms braced loose on the table. His gaze tracked the knife in Onyx's hand for a beat before sliding toward the stove. The choice was deliberate, a visible show that sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with the man he had nearly out a bullet in wasn't off-limits.
Harper stayed where she was, hands worrying at the hem of her shirt as though she hadn't decided whether to sit or bolt.
"Eggs, huh?" Brock said, voice carrying dry across the table, aimed at Knuckles' back. "Brave man." A flicker of humor threaded the words, but it rode heavier with caution, like he half-expected the pan to fight back.
Knuckles huffed a laugh, rough and a little too easy, spatula flashing as he flipped the pan. "Well, good news," he said, "we're all about to be brave—'cause everybody's eating this."
Kier peeled another strip off the bottle label and flicked it toward the trash. "Yeah, and then we'll need supplies," he said, voice casual but carrying the weight of necessity. "Food, clothes… we're all still wearing the same shit from yesterday." His gaze ticked around the room, landing on scuffed boots, wrinkled shirts, Harper's damp sleeves.
Brock leaned back in his chair, humor gone from his face. "Agreed. But first we figure out exactly what we've got to work with. Everything." His hand tapped once against the table. "Pockets, SUV, what's stashed in the cabinets. We need an inventory before we burn daylight."
"I'll check the Suburban," Harper said quickly, her voice thin but steady. The scrape of the chair legs hadn't even settled before she was moving, tugging the damp ends of her hair back over her shoulder as she crossed to the door. The cabin air felt suddenly tighter with her gone, the thud of the door closing behind her leaving a quiet no one wanted to sit in.
Brock didn't move, but the urge to follow dragged through him hard enough to lock every muscle tight. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding as he forced the impulse down. Only his hand betrayed him, knuckles whitening where they pressed against the table edge.
Knuckles' eyes lingered on the door after it closed, the spatula drooping forgotten in his hand. When he finally looked back to Brock, there was no challenge in it, only concern cutting clean through the silence. His voice came low, steady, carrying more weight than the words alone: "Is she okay?"
Brock didn't answer right away. He reached across the table and tore a piece of bread from the stack Onyx had been cutting, working the crust in his hands until the motion felt like something he could hold on to. "I don't think any of us are okay," he said at last, voice low. "We all lost Vale. But she's… she's barely holding on."
He swallowed, words dragging like gravel behind his teeth. "You have to remember what she's already been through — what we did to her. Knuckles and I set the trap that tore her out of her life. We killed her crew and dragged her here in chains. We put her in that fucking interrogation room and broke her down, and she bled for it while we stood there and called it work. Then we made her watch the rest of her people die — every face she knew, her best friend, the boy she loved — gunned down at her feet by us. We left her nothing."
His jaw locked, crumbs cracking beneath his fingers. "And somehow she kept breathing. Somehow she let herself be remade into one of us. She lived in our routines, fought our fights, sat at our tables. She started to believe it could hold."
Brock's tone dropped, rasp scraping low in his throat. "Then the Maw got her. Took what was left and nearly finished it. They put her through hell until she was a breath from gone, left her in a coma for weeks. And when she clawed her way back, she still showed up. Scarred, shaking, but she kept running jobs with us. She trusted what little ground she'd found here."
He shook his head. "That's why Vale mattered to her. We gave her rules and work, but he gave her something human. He was one of the first who even looked at her like a person, not a prisoner. He made space when no one else did, and she held on to it. Out of everyone, she was closer to him than most. And now he's gone."
The loaf cracked under his fingers; crumbs scattered like small confessions. "And losing him left her wide open for Vex to strike. The footage, the phone, all of it twisted into a noose around her neck. He couldn't stand that she was finding her place here. Couldn't stomach that after everything we did to her, she was still strong enough to carve out a space and make us see her as one of us. So he built a lie and threw her to the wolves, just to prove she'd never belong."
His jaw worked hard, teeth grinding as he forced the words out. "And it worked. Every eye in that room turned on her like she was already condemned. And I was the one holding the gun. She looked at me and thought I'd be the one to put her down. She was shaking, terrified… and even then, when I told her to close her eyes, she did it. She trusted me with her last breath."
His chest rose once, sharp, like the words cost him. "And instead of ending her, I ended Vex. One shot and the Syndicate broke open — the rules, the chain of command, everything she'd been forced to survive by. Gone in an instant. And before she could even breathe, Onyx had his barrel jammed against her skull."
Onyx's knife paused. He didn't look up, but the quiet around his jaw did the talking for him.
Brock's gaze stayed on the crumbs scattered across the table. "She's carrying all of it at once — Vale's gone, the people she trusted turned on her, my gun pointed at her, Vex bleeding out, Onyx's barrel grinding into her skull. Minutes, that's all it took to strip away every anchor she'd managed to hold. And now we're out here playing house like a stove and a stack of plates can pass for safety."
His hand opened, then closed again against the table, restless. "She hasn't had a single breath to lay her grief down. No time to decide what any of it means, no room to believe in anything solid. It's been one blow after another, each one landing before the last could even settle. No wonder she doesn't trust the ground under her feet. I don't know how to give that back to her."
Kier shifted against the counter, the shredded strips of plastic scattering at his feet. His gaze slid to the window, out toward the treeline where morning light pressed pale against the glass. His jaw flexed once, hard, like he'd bitten something back, but the words never came. He looked hollowed, the restless twitch in his hands the only thing left to betray him.
Onyx's knife had already stilled, blade resting flat against the breadboard. He leaned back in his chair, arms folding slow across his chest, eyes lowered to the table as if the grain of the wood might hold an answer. His silence wasn't indifference—it carried a heaviness, the unspoken acknowledgment of everything Brock had said.
Knuckles finally set the spatula down, the metal clink faint against the stove. He leaned back against the counter, arms folding in, his gaze fixed steady on Brock. "You don't have to fix it," he said, his voice low, sure, the kind of tone that cut through without needing volume. "You can't. None of us can. What she needs isn't somebody patching cracks — she needs to know the ground won't drop out from under her again. That when she looks down, we'll still be there."
He let the silence stretch a beat, his jaw working, before he went on. "She's tougher than she feels right now, tougher than most of us in this room. We've all seen her bleed and still get back up. But right now?" His arms tightened across his chest. "Right now she doesn't need another fight. She needs to know she's not alone in this one. You hold steady, the rest of us hold steady — she'll find her way back. Might not look the same as before, but she'll get there."
His eyes stayed on Brock, unflinching, the weight of best-friend honesty in them. "And until she does, we carry it with her. That's the only way it works."
Brock's reply to Knuckles stuck in his throat, the weight of the words pressing heavy in his chest. He drew a breath, ready to speak—
The door shoved open.
Harper stepped back inside, arms stacked with gear — a duffel slung heavy off one shoulder, a battered med kit pinned against her ribs, a rifle case balanced awkward but firm at her hip. The load looked enough to stagger anyone, but she carried it steady, jaw locked, movements clipped and businesslike.
She came straight to the table and let it all slide down to the floor in one hard motion. The duffel hit first, thudding against the boards, rattling silverware against plates. Dust curled up in lazy spirals. The med kit dropped beside it with a dull smack, the rifle case following to lean against the heap like an unspoken accusation.
Straightening, she flexed her hands open and closed, shaking off the weight. Her voice came quick and flat, words tumbling like she'd been reciting them since she left.
"Couple rifles, two sidearms, six full mags." She nudged the duffel with her bare foot, zipper gaping to reveal steel inside. "Med kit—tourniquets, gauze, morphine. Box of protein bars, two half-crushed water bottles. Jackets, gloves, blankets. Rope, duct tape, zip ties. One burner phone with charge left, stack of cash in the glove box—maybe five grand. Body armor, two plates—one cracked, one good."
Her gaze flicked up, skating across each of them, before dropping back to the pile at her feet. "That's what was in the Suburban."
─•────
The cart's front wheel snagged every few tiles, rattling through the drone of the overhead lights. Harper kept her hands locked on the bar, grip bone-tight, eyes dragging across racks that looked more like props than clothes — jeans folded into perfect towers, rows of shirts in every color, mannequins frozen in cheerful poses. It all felt wrong, like she'd stumbled onto a stage set instead of a store. The aisles were too wide, the lights too harsh, the colors too loud. The people drifting between racks — a mother with a child, a man comparing socks — might as well have been shadows, moving through a world she didn't belong to.
She slowed near an endcap, the cart clattering to a halt. Her fingers skimmed over shirts that smelled faintly of dye and plastic wrap, the fabric slick and untouched. She tugged one free, a navy cotton thing with tags stiff against her palm. She tried to imagine wearing it, walking out with something so new, so whole. The picture wouldn't stick. It slid away like water. She frowned and set it back, the hanger snapping against the rack loud enough to make her flinch.
Her hand lingered on another — softer, gray, ordinary. She pressed her thumb into the fabric, almost comforted by the give under her skin, almost convinced she could hold onto it. But the glare of the lights pressed in, the aisle too wide, the choices too many, and she felt herself hollowing out again, weightless.
Then a hand settled at her waist, firm and certain. She jolted, shoulders tightening, breath catching like she'd been grabbed too fast. But before panic could take hold, she registered the weight, the steadiness — Brock's arm sliding around her, his presence too solid to mistake. The racket of voices and motion dulled under his warmth, pulling her back from the edge.
"Pick what feels right," he murmured, low enough no one else would catch it. His breath brushed her temple, steady, his hand at her waist warm and unyielding. "Doesn't have to be perfect. Just has to be yours."
For a moment her chest clenched, the aisle tilting beneath her. The clothes, the lights, the endless choices — none of it felt real. The only thing that did was him: the weight of his hand, the steadiness in his voice, the warmth pressed close.
She leaned into him before she thought to stop herself, shoulder fitting against his chest. His arm drew her closer, slow but certain, like he'd been waiting for her to allow it. The hum of the store faded, drowned beneath the quiet thrum of his presence. For the first time since the cabin, she let herself stay, breathing steady against him, holding onto the faint scent of him — soap, dust, smoke — instead of the static storm that hadn't let her go since the muzzle against her skull.
Brock reached past her with his free hand, plucking the gray shirt from the rack and dropping it into the cart without ceremony. Then another — a plain black one, soft cotton — followed, landing on top of the pile already forming. "These'll work," he said, tone casual, like picking clothes in a department store was no different than checking gear before a job.
He steered her down the aisle, his arm never leaving her waist, stopping here and there to tug something off a rack — jeans in a darker wash, a pack of socks, another jacket with the tags still crisp. He didn't ask, not out loud. He just kept moving, filling the silence with action, letting her fingertips brush across fabric while he made sure the cart didn't leave empty.
When she stalled in front of a rack of denim, eyes lost on the rows, he pulled a pair free and tossed them in with a finality that left no room for argument. "You'll figure out what feels right later," he murmured, just for her. "For now, this'll get you through."
But then her hand closed around something on her own — a faded flannel in soft red and gray. She tugged it free, the hanger bumping the bar, and dropped it into the cart without looking at him.
Brock's mouth tipped faint at the corner, approval warming his tone. "Good pick," he said, quiet but sure. He brushed his thumb over her hip, the praise a weight as grounding as his arm.
They moved on, the cart's wheels humming over tile. Harper let her fingers drift across passing racks — denim, cotton, flannel — and once or twice she caught on something, tugging a shirt or a pair of sweatpants down herself. Each time, Brock's hand squeezed at her waist, a silent acknowledgment: yours.
A sudden bump clipped their back wheel, jolting the cart sideways. Harper's head snapped up. Knuckles leaned into his own cart, steering like he'd meant to do it all along, the corner of his mouth tugged up in the faintest smirk.
"Watch your lane," he said, not bothering to hide the amusement as he clipped them again for good measure.
His was already a mountain of contradictions: sacks of rice and pasta crammed against packs of socks and underwear, canned beans clattering against folded towels, a pillow still sealed in plastic teetering over bottled water. A set of sheets sagged sideways across the top, threatening to slide off with every turn. Batteries, toothpaste, and a shower caddy wedged into the gaps made the whole mess groan like it shouldn't stand but somehow did. He steered one-handed, the other pressing a bag of trail mix back down before it could escape.
Knuckles' mouth quirked as he wedged the pillow into place. "Figured we'd want more than soup next time," he said. "And beds that don't feel like they've been rotting since the seventies."
It wasn't much, just a dry jab tossed into the fluorescent air — but it tugged something out of Harper she hadn't felt for days. A small smile ghosted across her face, quick and unguarded, softening her features before she even knew it was there. The kind of smile that felt almost foreign, like she'd forgotten how until it slipped free.
Brock's arm at her waist tightened, just slightly, like he'd caught the rare spark and wanted to keep it lit.
The squeak of shoes on tile carried ahead of Onyx, his arms stacked high. He moved without hurry, shoulders squared around the weight of a shrink-wrapped bundle of firewood, a box of long matches tucked under his chin, and a coil of heavy rope looped over one arm. When he reached them, he dropped it all into Harper's cart without ceremony. The cart jolted under the thud, and Harper's fingers twitched on the handle at the noise.
"Basics first," Onyx said flatly, already reaching to shift the bundle so it wouldn't topple.
Kier followed in contrast, juggling a mismatched collection — a frying pan, a bag of coffee beans, a deck of playing cards jammed under his elbow, and a pack of cheap folding knives snagged from a discount rack. He let the pan and coffee clatter into Knuckles' cart, then tipped the rest into Harper's with a grin that didn't quite hide the nerves under it.
"Essentials," he said, deadpan.
Knuckles snorted, eyeing the jumble as he shoved it aside to make room. "Yeah, nothing says survival like poker night and a bargain-bin blade set."
Harper's gaze caught on the two carts rattling side by side, piled high with food, clothes, coffee, firewood, even playing cards. The chaos stacked and teetering looked absurd. Domestic. For half a breath it felt almost ordinary, like they were just stocking up for a weekend cabin trip instead of fugitives piecing together a life out of scraps. The shelves, the carts, the fluorescent wash — all of it felt borrowed from someone else's world, a place she didn't belong to but couldn't look away from.
Knuckles gave his cart a shove, the weight of it groaning under the load. He caught her eye as he shifted a bag of rice back into place, the faintest grin tugging at his mouth. "We'll be eating better than we have in months," he muttered, voice low but sure. He made it sound like a promise, not just an observation — a little slice of certainty in a life that had none.
Kier trailed restless, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes roaming the displays without focus. Every so often he flicked a hanger or rattled a tag, more noise than intent. Onyx kept quieter, arms folded, gaze sweeping over the racks and the people moving between them. Neither touched the cart. Neither said a word.
The longer Harper stared at the piles, the tighter her chest pulled. Blankets and ramen jammed against batteries and socks, coffee perched on top like a crown. Her hand cinched the bar until her grip ached, her throat closing like she might choke on air. She couldn't tell if she was about to laugh or break. Blood on tile, Vale's eyes going slack, Vex crumpling to the floor — and here they were, buying sheet sets and beans like any other strangers on a Tuesday.
They funneled toward the front, carts rattling in tandem, the noise of the store pressing louder as the checkout lanes came into view. A couple ahead of them argued softly over cereal; a kid whined for candy at the endcap. The ordinariness of it scraped at Harper's nerves, every sound too loud, every motion too close.
At the edge of her vision, a cashier leaned over a register, watching their carts with mild disinterest, but the glance still made her skin crawl. Cameras blinked red from the corners, their dots steady and unblinking. Kier muttered something under his breath about blind spots, and Knuckles angled his cart just enough to block the view, his movements so practiced it didn't look like effort.
Brock's hand found the small of her back, steady and warm. "Not bad," he murmured, low enough for her alone. "Almost looks like we belong here."
─•────
"Bullshit," Kier said flatly, tossing his cards onto the table like they'd burned him. "There's no way you pulled that hand legit."
Knuckles smirked around the lip of his bottle, leaning back in his chair with one knee propped against the table leg. "Luck favors the prepared," he drawled, dragging the pile of bottle caps and crumpled snack wrappers closer like they were high stakes.
The table was a battlefield of clutter — cards scattered across scarred wood, an open bag of trail mix between them, crumbs worked into the grooves. A dented deck box sat by Onyx's elbow, empty chip bags slouched at Brock's side. The overhead bulb hummed faintly, its yellow glow painting their faces in tired light, shadows stretching long across the cabin walls.
The place smelled of pine smoke and damp wood, a draft sneaking under the door every time the wind shifted. The stove ticked as it cooled from dinner, a faint warmth still bleeding into the air. Someone had left boots drying near the hearth, their leather stiff, the faint hiss of the fire lending a rhythm beneath the shuffle of cards.
Onyx kept his gaze fixed on the hand in front of him, impassive as ever, a stack of peanuts lined neatly in front of him like soldiers waiting to be cashed in. Brock sat across, solid and still, forearms braced on the table, the corner of his mouth twitching as he flicked his cards shut against his chest.
Kier slouched deeper in his chair, snatching a handful of trail mix and picking out the M&Ms one by one. "Prepared, my ass. You stacked the deck when I got up to take a leak."
Knuckles barked a laugh, shoving a peanut into his mouth. "If you're dumb enough to leave your hand on the table, that's on you."
Onyx finally moved, slow and deliberate, flipping his cards down with two fingers. A straight, clean as a blade. He swept half the bottle caps toward himself, stacking them with meticulous care. He didn't gloat, didn't smirk, just claimed what was his and sat back.
"Cheating or not, you're still losing," Brock said, his voice even, almost amused. He peeled one card up between two fingers, expression giving nothing away, though the faint twitch at his jaw made Knuckles narrow his eyes.
"You've got a tell," Knuckles said, pointing his bottle cap at him like it was gospel.
"The hell I do."
"Right there. That twitch." Knuckles grinned, leaning forward on his elbows. "Every time you're holding high."
Kier groaned, dragging his palms over his face. "Jesus Christ, you two take this like it's the World Series."
The wind outside pushed against the shutters, the wood creaking back in protest. Inside, the table shook as Knuckles slapped down another card, crumbs scattering. The cabin had seen better years, its walls patched and floors groaning, but in that moment it held laughter, curses, the rustle of cards — four men pretending, for a while, that the night was theirs alone.
Four, but not five.
Harper had drifted to the porch as soon as the dishes were cleared, slipping past the door with a blanket pulled tight around her shoulders. Brock's eyes had flicked that way, following her shape into the dark, but when she didn't look back, he let her go. He stayed at the table, jaw tight, cards in his hands, not arguing when she chose distance.
Onyx hadn't touched his new hand yet. His gaze lingered on the door, the faint draft slipping under it tugging at the edge of his sleeve. He set his cards down face-down, neat, like he'd already folded.
"I'm out this round," he said, voice flat.
Knuckles shot him a look over his bottle. Kier muttered something about Onyx hating to lose, but Onyx didn't bite. He pushed back his chair, the scrape loud against the old boards.
Brock's eyes lifted, following him. "She wanted space," he said, low but edged.
Onyx paused, hand on the back of the chair. His jaw flexed once. "And I need words."
For a breath the room held still — only the hum of the bulb, the shuffle of Knuckles gathering cards. Then Onyx turned and crossed to the door. Hinges groaned as it opened, a gust of cold spilling in before the wood thudded shut behind him.
Harper sat on the porch step, blanket wrapped tight around her shoulders, knees drawn up with her chin resting on them. The forest stretched out in front of her, all black trunks and shifting shadows under a sky thin with stars. She didn't move when the door creaked, only listened to the heavy tread cross the boards.
Onyx lowered himself onto the step beside her, his weight bending the old wood. She turned her head just enough to confirm it was him, her eyes catching on his profile in the dim, then looked back to the trees.
"How's the game going?" she asked, voice quiet against the night.
Onyx rested his forearms on his knees, eyes fixed on the treeline like hers. "Knuckles thinks he's clever. Brock's steady. Kier's loud. Same as always." His tone was flat, almost observational, but there was no edge in it.
Silence settled after that, stretching long. The forest filled it — wind threading through the branches, a night bird calling once, the faint groan of the cabin behind them. The boards creaked under their weight but neither moved. Harper stayed closed off in her cocoon of wool and shadow, as if the blanket was the only barrier she trusted. Onyx sat solid beside her, presence quiet but unwavering, as though simply staying was all he had to give.
Silence stretched, the forest breathing around them. Onyx shifted once, the wood groaning under his weight. His voice came rough, like it scraped on the way out.
"Look—Harper. I'm sorry about—"
She cut him off before the rest could land, her voice quiet but steady. "You don't need to. You were doing your job."
His jaw locked, teeth grinding in the dim. A muscle worked along his cheek as he stared out into the trees, hands flexing against his thighs like he couldn't find anywhere to put them. "That's the problem," he said, low. "I just did my job. Like a mindless dog. And when Brock leveled that gun at you, it—" He broke off, dragging in a rough breath, head lowering slightly. "It killed me. But I believed Vex. I believed him, and when he dropped—when he died—I panicked and—"
"Onyx."
Her voice cut clean through the dark, enough to stop him. He turned, finally meeting her eyes. The porch light caught on the hard lines of his face, the guilt carved there. For a long moment neither of them looked away, the air between them held taut.
Then she said it, softer now, but certain: "It's okay."
Onyx held her gaze, unmoving. The seconds stretched, the night around them thick with wind in the branches and the faint hiss of the stove inside. Finally, his voice came, lower than before.
"I'm sorry."
She blinked, startled by the plainness of it.
"I'm sorry for all of it," he went on, the words heavy but even. "For what you've had to live through. For what we made you see. For every time you've been forced to fight, and bleed, and keep standing when anyone else would've folded. I'm sorry you've had to carry all of it just to still be here."
Harper didn't answer. Her eyes held his a moment longer, unreadable in the dark, then slipped away. She turned her face back toward the trees, chin lowering to rest on her knees again, the blanket pulled tight around her shoulders.
The silence stretched, filled by wind moving through the pines and the distant creak of the cabin settling. Onyx stayed beside her, steady, not pressing.
After a while her voice came, softer than before, almost tentative. "Can I ask you something?"
Onyx angled his head toward her, his expression unreadable in the half-light. "You can."
Her fingers tightened on the edge of the blanket, knuckles pale where they pressed. "Back…the first day I ever saw you. You and Kier. At the den." Her throat worked as she forced the words out. "Dante—" She cut herself off, realizing the name would mean nothing to Onyx. She swallowed hard. "The man on the porch. The one I was hugging." Her eyes flicked toward him, then away. "Who pulled the trigger?"
Onyx didn't answer right away. His gaze stayed on the treeline, jaw locked so tight it ached. He remembered Brock's voice from that morning, low and raw, talking about her old life, and the Vipers. He remembered the way Brock's hands had torn at the bread like it was penance.
Brock had been the one who pulled the trigger. Onyx knew it. Everyone else knew it. But Harper didn't — and she didn't need to. Not when the man she was clinging to now was the same one who had put a bullet in the man she'd clung to then.
Better she hate him. Better she carry that weight on his shoulders instead of Brock's.
His hands flexed once against his knees, and when he spoke, his voice came blunt, stripped bare.
"I did."
Harper turned her head, really looking at him this time. Her eyes were red and raw in the dim porch light, lids swollen from days of holding back what kept breaking through. She studied him like she was seeing him for the first time, like she was weighing the truth in his face.
Lena. She'd watched him raise the gun and put a round through her best friend's skull. And now Dante too. Both of them gone by his hand.
Her breath shuddered, and for a second her eyes glossed, tears threatening to spill. She blinked them back, hard, and gave the smallest nod, as though settling something in herself.
"I forgive you," she whispered.
Onyx froze, the words hitting harder than any blow. He stared at her, silent, the lines of his face locked tight as though he hadn't heard right — or maybe wished he hadn't. Seconds stretched, the wind stirring the trees, the night heavy around them. He still couldn't find anything to say.
Harper blinked, her lashes wet, her voice breaking softer but clearer this time. "I forgive you. You were doing your job. You were following orders." Her eyes met his again, and the pain in them was so raw, so naked, it made the words ache even as she gave them.
Something shifted in him. Onyx leaned a little closer, moving like he was testing the ground before stepping on it. Slowly, almost cautiously, his hand came to rest on her shoulder. He left it there, waiting, steady pressure instead of force.
She didn't flinch.
After a breath, he drew her in, the motion rougher than he meant, and pulled her against him. His arm locked tight around her, holding her small frame close, as if the strength of it could keep the ghosts back.
Harper leaned into it, slow but certain, her forehead knocking softly against his chest. She let the blanket slip at her shoulders as she folded into the space he offered, not fighting it, not holding herself apart.
Onyx stayed rigid at first, like he didn't know what to do with the trust she'd given him. Then his chin dipped against her head, his grip tightening, anchoring her there against the steady rise and fall of his chest. Neither spoke. The night filled the silence for them, the wind through the trees carrying away everything they couldn't say.