The Suburban hounded the Tahoe into the gray, a black weight muscling through lane ruts and sleet haze, wipers sawing a smear that never cleared. Salt dust turned the light to glare; plow berms rose like frozen surf, crowding turn pockets and swallowing curbs. The Tahoe bulled cars aside, twitching sideways whenever the driver forced a direction change; its tires flung a filthy rooster tail that slapped the grille and hissed along the fenders. The city narrowed to essentials—red wash, white plume, the clatter of chains on a box truck somewhere ahead, a stale green going amber at the last blink—until there was nothing but pursuit, speed, and the raw animal sound underfoot.
The Suburban's rear stepped once on polished ice and snapped back with a low, tendon-deep flex from the frame; a traction icon pulsed orange and vanished, the engine holding a hungry note that vibrated through the firewall. A bus loomed, dead-stopped at a drifted shelter; the Suburban threaded the gap between its flank and a delivery car nose-deep in a snowbank, mirrors ghosting inches from steel. Steam feathered from manhole grates; overhead, lines sagged with rime and street signs trembled in the slipstream. The Tahoe's taillamps drew twin wounds across the afternoon, staggering through slush as both rigs hammered for the next intersection, the road ahead corrugated with plow seams and the wind full of salt and cold.
A cyclist shot from between parked cars—poncho flapping, front wheel wobbling in the rut—and Brock carved left with a grunt, missing the handlebars by a hand's width while the rider's shout dopplered into nothing. Harper sucked air through her teeth; Kier's boot hit the seatback.
Inside, the Suburban felt too small for the noise—heater fan on high, defroster fighting the fog, the staccato tick of salt off the undercarriage. Harper popped her belt and leaned into the window, gloves skidding on the wet sill as she shouldered the rifle up from the footwell; wind knifed in, flinging cold across the dash and lifting loose receipts. Brock saw the muzzle angle toward the Tahoe's glass and shot a hand across, fisting the back of her shirt and hauling her in hard enough that the seat groaned. "Armored," he said, eyes never leaving the brake lights ahead; his voice was low and steady over the engine, the one fixed thing in the racket. "You'll just feed it noise."
Harper's jaw set; she let the rifle drop to her lap, exhaling fog into the cabin while the wipers hammered a wet metronome. The sling bit into her shoulder, circulation pinching off; her fingers began to tingle. Kier's boot tapped restless floorpan, Knuckles' palm rode the grab handle, and the whole truck surged and settled as Brock threaded a slush ridge, steering smooth while the rifle's strap carved a groove across Harper's thigh and the Tahoe's wake kept ghosting their glass.
They reeled the distance down to three car lengths—grille full of red wash, the Tahoe big in the glass—when it hooked violent right without brake flash, ramming through a slurry berm and knifing across a side street that doglegged toward the bypass; the Suburban plowed the same ridge a heartbeat late, fishtailed, recovered, and lost those taillamps to a curtain of spray. Lanes widened, traffic thinned; storefronts gave way to salt sheds, half-plowed park-and-rides, wind-stunted pines crouched behind chain-link. Sodium lamps fell off behind them and the sky opened—flat gray over fields scored with drainage ditches and fence lines, a water tower shouldering up like a ghost. The city sloughed away faster than it should have, buildings giving up to scrub in what felt like seconds; the road grew long and empty, speed climbing with it, and somewhere ahead the Tahoe ran the shoulder where the plows hadn't bothered, kicking a dirty wake along the county line.
Harper watched the taillights vanish and come back like a lure and turned to him, voice tight over the fan and tire hiss. "What are we going to do then?" She thumbed condensation off the glass, rifle angled across her knees. "They're just going to run us back to the compound—have us zip-tied in a basement before the sun drops—and that's the end for all of us." Her gaze held on his profile for an answer he hadn't given, fog pluming thin in the draft from the window seal, the cabin thrumming as studs worried the frozen seams of the road.
Brock exhaled a short fog across the wheel and lifted his eyes to the rearview; Knuckles was already there, steady, a silent check that snapped into a fractional nod. "They aren't going to make it back to the compound," he said, voice even as he rolled back onto the throttle. "Hold on."
The Suburban lunged, transmission kicking down with a savage, hungry lurch that pinned everyone into fabric and foam; the speedo climbed and the gap collapsed, their grille drinking the Tahoe's mist until the world was only red lamps and dirty sleet. He eased left, then right, testing the slipstream, reading the stagger in the Tahoe's rear as it fought the rutted crown. Shoulders widened to scrub pasture and drainage swales; a guardrail fell away to open ditch, then to bare field where the plows had thrown their spoil—room to spin something big without bouncing it through traffic. He trimmed a car width off, set the bumper just shy of the Tahoe's right rear quarter, and held there, matching its wobble, waiting for the road to arc and the tires to lighten—one clean moment, a blink-long window between ruts, before he'd take the weight and turn it.
The sleet thickened, visibility collapsing to fifteen feet of smeared gray. Brock's knuckles blanched around the wheel, fingers going numb.
He eased in to take the quarter and the Tahoe hammered its brakes; the gap vanished, and the Suburban's bumper kissed high into the passenger front door with a hollow, metal-on-frame thunk that cracked up through the column and into his wrists—a shockwave he felt in his molars. Both rigs slewed—Tahoe's tail whipping left, Suburban's nose dipping, ABS rattling underfoot as tires hunted for bite. The door skin wrinkled and the window flashed stress like ice under a boot. Brock came off violent, let the truck straighten, hissed a curse through his teeth, and rolled back in, rebuilding the run-up while the Tahoe clawed forward, its exhaust throwing gray across the lane.
"Too fast for this," Knuckles warned, voice flat but loud enough to cut the engine's drone. "You stuff them at this speed, we all yard-sale."
Brock's grip tightened; he bared his teeth without looking back. "You got a better idea?" The Suburban drifted a half-foot in the ruts and he caught it, jaw working. "Because letting them deliver him is not on the menu."
His peripheral vision darkened, tunnel narrowing to the Tahoe's quarter panel and the slim margin between control and catastrophe. For half a second he saw it—both trucks crumpled into a smoking tangle, bodies twisted in the frames—and shoved the thought down with a snarl.
He worked the bumper back to that frail slice off the Tahoe's right rear, half a car length tucked in and riding the wobble; when the brake lights flared he was already on his own pedal—nose dive, weight forward—then he came off and turned into it, a decisive shove at the quarter. The impact was a deep, cable-snapping thud; metal screamed, a bass-heavy note that sang through the frame and up into his hands. The Tahoe kicked sideways, its tail snapping across the lane, throwing a sheet of slush as it fishtailed toward the shoulder. The Suburban skated on the load shift, rear going light; Brock fought it with quick countersteer and a jab of throttle, felt the chassis slew, catch, slew again—white lines strobing under the hood—while he kept it out of the Tahoe's spinning arc and wrestled back to straight.
The Tahoe hopped the shoulder and buried its nose in the frozen ditch—an ugly, whole-frame clout that tripped the mass over itself; tail pitched high, left wheels flashed sky, and the truck tumbled. It went clean over, roof skin creasing along the rails while the pillars held; laminated glass crazed white but didn't let go, powdering at the edges. Curtain bags blew with chalk dust, a mirror scissored off, and the underbody showed—salt-furred crossmembers, a driveshaft lash—before it slammed onto its roof and slid, steel bowing but not caving, tearing a black wake across the white field. The horn caught and droned, a single flat note sawing the air; a door seam pinched shut on rebound; run-flats whirred at the sky as it ground to a stop inverted, wheels ticking on, steam feathering from the grille while coolant hissed into the cold.
The horn cut. The silence felt wrong, too big, like the aftermath of an explosion.
The Suburban canted nose-out and two doors flung in the same instant—Harper clearing the hinge with a brutal plant to asphalt as Kier spilled from the rear behind her, both sucked into the cold like divers hitting black water. She already had the rifle slung high so the strap bit under her coat; he hooked a palm on the roofline to sling himself around, boot skidding on salt grit. Harper hit the berm at a sprint and dropped into the ditch, palms slapping frozen weeds; she slid, caught, and vaulted up the far side with a grunt, snow shelling under her soles as she arrowed for the field. Cold clawed her throat raw with the first gulped air outside the cab. Kier crashed into the ditch a heartbeat later—ankle wobble, curse, a clawing scramble by fistfuls of grass—then he was up and after her, a half-stride off her shoulder, lungs burning white into the gray. Stubble lashed shins, and her tracks stitched a line across the crust that he chased, both of them driving for the Tahoe like there was nothing else left to run toward.
Harper closed on the inverted truck, steam feathering across her shins, breath burning her throat raw. The driver's door hung crooked a handspan off the ground, bent on its hinges like a broken jaw. An arm in a black sleeve punched out, then a helmeted head shoved into the gray—snow dusted the visor, blood made a string from his brow to his cheek. He writhed belly-up in slow jerks, pistol still clipped in a thigh rig, boots scraping uselessly at sky; her hands came up on reflex just as a single rifle crack split the cold behind her—one brutal, concussive snap—and the enforcer spasmed in place. He thumped out of the mouth of the door and into the stubble, heel drumming once against the frozen earth, the pistol rattling away. The horn's ghost wavered, died, and the silence that followed felt swollen and wrong.
She hit the passenger side at a slide, boots carving trenches, shoulder striking the upside-down door skin hard enough to make her teeth click. Fingers found the handle; she yanked. The door didn't open so much as grind—the top edge plowing packed snow and bent frame, a metal groan climbing through her forearms. Kier flashed past her peripheral, a dark blur cutting around the Tahoe's nose—sling bouncing, breath smoking—angling for the far side. She shifted grip, jammed her glove into the window frame, and hauled outward and up until her shoulder screamed and the gap widened. Inside, an enforcer hung inverted in his belt, face congested and deep plum, cheeks mashed against the bowed headliner, gear clacking against the ceiling like wind chimes. She braced wide, fixed the buckle with a stare, and hammered the release with the heel of her hand. The latch popped; he dropped like wet sand—she caught plate carrier and sleeve in the same breath, boots digging, the pull burning fire up her shoulders—dragged him a body length and dumped him into the drift where steam curled around his helmet and thinned on the wind. A single gunshot cracked flat from the far side—close, final—and the air jumped. She flinched and drove forward anyway, hunching deeper on her knees and shoving her torso through the opening, hands raking glass dust as she shouldered back into the opening. The overturned cabin breathed cold and chalk; glass dust sifted across her sleeves, and the curtain bags hung in slack, powder-streaked folds. Everything read wrong-way up—floor overhead, pedals like teeth above her eyebrows, dome light ticking against its plastic.
Onyx lay crumpled against the crushed headliner, wrists cinched behind him, head listing toward one shoulder. His mouth hung open, a dark slash in the gray; a dried smear of blood striped his cheek, stubborn in the cold, not glazing or melting. "Onyx," she rasped, throat stripped. She got both hands into his collar and tried to lever him toward her, using her ribs against the sill like a fulcrum. He didn't help—pure dead weight—armor biting her forearms, webbing sawing the thin skin at her wrists. His boots snagged on twisted trim. The door's edge kept knocking her hip like a metronome. "Kier! Help me!" she screamed, the sound tearing itself ragged on the way out.
Kier broke from the far side—boots thudding, a dark blur rounding the Tahoe's nose, snow kicking off his heels—then dropped to his knees at her flank and shouldered into the opening until their coats rasped. His breath hit hot against her ear; his hands tunneled past hers to hook Onyx's vest in the cramped tangle. "On three—one, two, three." They yanked together, a full-body, ugly pull—backs bowed, thighs shaking, teeth clenched—dragging him sideways through the stubborn door arc. Plastic screamed. Webbing scraped skin. Onyx's boots hammered the sill, stuck, then tore free; they heaved again, again, and he cleared in a sudden slide that dumped all three into the drift—snow up sleeves, steam lifting off fabric, their fists still white-knuckled in his jacket.
Knuckles and Brock hit the field at a jog, breath dragging smoke; Harper and Kier were already half on their knees in the drift, hauling Onyx out of the Tahoe's sideways mouth, a Syndicate body facedown beside them like dropped gear. Knuckles hooked the enforcer by the vest, dragged him a few feet over the stubble, then ripped at buckles—chin strap first, glove under the rim—jerked the helmet free and flung it aside to clatter on ice. He palmed the balaclava up, pressed the muzzle to the crown, and fired—clean, close, final—before he was moving again. Brock dropped beside Harper, gloves settling on Onyx's shoulders as they rolled him careful onto his side; Kier sawed a blade under the zip tie and popped it with a dry snap. Harper cradled Onyx's head to keep the neck steady, thumbs at the hinge of his jaw, snow freckling her lashes while steam from the wreck drifted over them like breath.
They eased him onto his back in the snow—Harper guiding the head so the neck stayed straight, Brock taking shoulder and hip, Kier catching a forearm when it slid. Knuckles stood over them with his hands on his hips, chest heaving, glance cutting up toward the road and back down like a metronome. "We need to move," he said, flat, already scanning the tree line at the far end of the field.
Onyx's eyes fluttered to slits; his jaw worked and he tried to roll, a ragged grunt scraping out. Brock's palm found his shoulder and pressed him steady. "You're okay," he said, calm against the cold and the steam. "Stay still. We've got you. We'll get you up."
Knuckles and Brock got under Onyx's arms while Kier took his legs, and they started the ugly haul toward the road—short, stamping steps through crust, Onyx groaning once and sagging again—Brock's hand riding his shoulder to keep him from rolling.
Harper spun back to the upside-down Tahoe and worked fast: she reached into the cabin where everything had settled against the headliner, tore a rifle off a seatback mount now overhead and slung it tight across her chest, then ripped loaded mags from a pouch panel that hung like a ceiling—two, three—jamming them into her coat and cargo pockets until the fabric pulled. The dead enforcer she'd dragged lay at her boots; she stripped his sidearm, yanked two spare magazines from his rig, and pocketed a flat fold of cash from behind his ID sleeve. The inverted console had belched junk onto the roof liner; she raked through it with a glove—found another banded roll and stuffed it away—then snatched an IFAK off a MOLLE strap: tourniquet, hemostatic gauze, trauma shears, all crammed into her pockets until they printed hard through the fabric.
Harper turned from the wreck and started for the road, pockets dragging at her coat, the new rifle snug across her chest. Steam gusted over her calves; she gave the Tahoe one last look—wheels still ticking at the sky, hood caved like a dented can—then broke into a jog. Wind knifed her cheeks. She dropped into the ditch, boots punching through crust, used a sapling to haul herself up the far side, and scrambled over the berm.
Up on the shoulder the Suburban waited with both rear doors flung. They brought Onyx in through the passenger-side rear: Kier backed in first, knees on the seat, shoulders to the headliner, hands bracketing jaw and ears. "Easy—keep him flat," he said, setting a rolled coat under the occiput and lifting the chin to open the airway.
At the threshold Brock took the armpits while Knuckles slid forearms under the shoulder blades for the lift. On Brock's count they fed the top half in to Kier—head and shoulders toward him—while Harper, posted at the driver-side rear, hauled the legs and swung the boots to the floor. Onyx blinked, grimaced; a torn breath scraped out and he tried to curl. Kier stilled him with light thumbs at the jaw hinge. Handoff clean, Knuckles peeled to the front passenger seat; a beat later Brock broke for the wheel.
"Belts," Kier said. Harper dragged the shoulder belt across Onyx's chest and ratcheted it down, then fed the lap belt low over the hips. Onyx's eyes tracked, unfocused, found Harper, slipped, came back; a wet swallow hitched in his throat. Kier planted a steady palm on the sternum. "Breathe with me—right here."
Cold poured through the open doors. Harper caught the interior pull strap and hauled the driver-side rear shut—latch thunk—then leaned in to snug the buckle again. Without breaking C-spine, Kier shot a hand to the passenger-side pull and yanked that door in as well, elbow still pinning Onyx's head steady; the wind sealed out.
"Set," Harper said, meeting Kier's look over Onyx's cheek.
Onyx's mouth worked. "H—" He winced, breath shearing short, fingers twitching against the belt.
"Don't talk," Kier murmured, already counting respirations.
The Suburban squatted as Brock dropped it in gear; tires worried for bite and they rode the first surge—Kier on the head, Harper locking the hips, Onyx blinking hard against the pain but awake.
Heat thundered from the front vents as they lunged down the county road; the rear went dim and close, seatbelts creaking. Kier cupped Onyx's jaw and ear, forearms posted to the seatback to hold the neck straight through each sway. "Eyes," he said, close. "Look at me." Onyx's pupils tracked, slow but there. Harper fished into the IFAK and jammed gauze into Kier's palm; he pressed it to the scalp line above the temple and kept pressure while the truck rocked, his other hand flattening over sternum when Onyx tried to curl. "Slow in, slow out."
The road thumped a seam; Onyx flinched and a sharp sound escaped him.
"Ribs," Harper said, sliding her forearm across his hips to keep him from twisting.
"Hug this," Kier told him, stuffing a folded coat against his own chest and guiding Onyx's hands around it. "Squeeze when it hurts." Blood warmed the gauze; he layered another pad, wrapped a loop of tape Harper tore with her teeth, and palmed it firm. "No spinning, you hear? Head stays with my hands."
Onyx blinked, winced, tried again to form a word.
"Don't," Kier said, even. "Save it. Two breaths. Again."
"How bad?" Brock's voice came back low from the front.
"Holding," Kier answered, eyes on pupils. "Conscious. Breathing." He slid fingers to each wrist, found the radial pulse, then pressed a thumb to each fingernail—blanch, pink, under two seconds. He ran a knuckle along the palm for sensation, flexed the fingers once, twice; the tingling eased despite the ligature grooves. "Good. That's good."
Another seam, another sway; Kier rode it with his shoulders, kept the head parked against the rolled coat, kept his voice steady while Harper locked the hips and the county slid by in a smear of salt and snow.
─•────
"Onyx."
Heat pressed along his cheek and a heavy blanket pinned him to the couch; the stone face of the fireplace glowed, fire whispering up the throat, stove glass humming low. Everything ached in layers—temple, ribs, the top of one shoulder that felt wired wrong—but the room held still, amber and close. He blinked grit from his lashes and found Harper on the floor beside him, hip to the rug, knees drawn up. She smiled when his eyes landed; it softened the worry creased at the corners.
"Hey," she said, voice low like she was afraid to spook him. "Eyes on me for a sec." She lifted a finger, closer than the firelight. "What's your name?"
"Onyx," he managed, the word rough on the way out.
"Gold star." A small grin. "Who am I?"
"Harper."
"Where are we?" Her finger drifted a little to the side; his gaze followed, lagging.
"Cabin," he said. "Fireplace. Smells like… wet wool."
"Yeah," she breathed, like that answer put something back where it belonged. "Okay. Last thing you remember?"
He frowned; the motion tugged his scalp bandage. "Road. Red lights. Then sky turned under me."
"Good." She shifted closer, elbows on the cushion by his shoulder. "Any puke-y feeling?"
"No." He swallowed. "Not feeling sick. Just… waves."
"Okay." She tipped her head, tone light. "Let's surf them and not puke on my rug. Eyes on my finger—don't move your head."
He tracked the slow arc; his gaze slipped once, blinked hard, found it again. She nodded like that was exactly what she wanted.
"Hands." She slid her fingers under the blanket, found his right first and laced in, careful of the chewed wrists. "Squeeze."
He did—weak, steady.
"Left."
Another squeeze, slower. She gave the hidden hand a quick, grateful press and withdrew. "Good. You're you, and you're here."
He licked his lips. "What time is it?"
Harper twisted, leaned over the couch back, squinted at the wall clock through fire-glow. "Two fifty-six," she said, settling again at his side. "A.M., unfortunately."
They sat in silence for a moment before Harper pushed off the couch, palms sinking into the cushion, and padded to the sink; the tap stuttered, then ran cold and bright into a cloudy glass that sweated in her hand. She was back a breath later, kneeling by his shoulder, slipping a palm under the blanket to brace his head and tipping the rim to his mouth. "Small sips," she coached, watching his throat work.
When he settled, she searched his face and huffed a quiet, incredulous laugh. "I'm honestly amazed you're not more wrecked. You should've seen the way that Tahoe cartwheeled into the field."
Onyx let out a groan that tried to be a laugh and failed halfway. "You should've seen it from the inside."
Harper's laugh cracked out, quick and relieved. "I saw enough from out here—three full cartwheels and a bonus bounce like it was trying to swan-dive you."
He blinked at her. "You weren't driving… were you?"
"Please." She snorted, eyes bright. "If I was driving, you'd be zip-tied to a fence post like a festive scarecrow. Brock had the wheel; I just yelled at the physics." She tapped his blanketed knuckles with a finger. "And for the record? If it had been me, I would've left you in that field on principle—because you dropped the bag with my gum. Absolute betrayal." A beat, her mouth tilting. "I mean, I'd come back for you after I collected my gum. Probably."
─•────
Brock surfaced to a dim wash at the window—snow drifting past the glass in slow, weightless threads, the fireplace settling somewhere beyond the wall. He rolled, seeking warmth and the familiar shape beside him, arm sweeping over a cold pillow and rumpled quilt. The absence hit like cold water. He snapped upright; the blanket slid from his shoulders and pooled at his waist. Cold took his ankles first, then climbed as his heels found the plank floor. The room swam once, steadied—the bedside glass with a ring of melt, her hair tie on the nightstand, his watch face a pale eye in the gray—and his gaze fixed on the doorway where a thin glow edged the jamb and the hush of falling snow felt suddenly too loud.
7:24 A.M. on his watch. She'd taken him off at midnight, promised Kier "a couple hours" with Onyx; she should've been back before four. He stood, shoulders wired, tugged a cold shirt over his head as he crossed the room; cotton snagged at an old ridge of scar and carried the clean-metal smell of yesterday's gun oil. Bare soles bit at the boards; one plank gave its dry little groan. Her boots were gone from under the chair; her jacket hook sat empty. The hallway breathed stove-warmth and iodine and wet wool, that damp tang of gear steaming by the fire. Light spread along the floor from the main room, low and amber. He palmed the latch quiet and stepped out, passing the propped rifle and a coil of sling, fingertips skimming wood as he moved. The narrow run carried the house's small morning noises—the fire settling, a kettle tick, the almost-sound of snow at the panes—and under it all the sense of someone awake, just out of sight. He went toward it, pulse climbing.
He stepped into the living room and found them where the lamplight pooled warm: Onyx stretched on his back on the couch, blanket to his chest, sling cradling one arm, a tidy bandage at the temple gone a little pink at the edge; breath ghosted slow from parted lips. Harper was on the floor, curled sideways against the couch, shoulder pressed to the upholstery, her head tipped close to his—near enough that a stray lock of her hair lay across the cushion by his ear. The fireplace's mouth held a low orange, embers breathing; coats steamed on chair backs, the stolen rifle leaned inside the doorframe with its sling coiled neat. Harper's fingers had caught the fringe of the blanket and stayed there, looped and loose in sleep. Snow murmured at the panes. Brock's shoulders unstrung a notch; he stood in the doorway a long moment and let the house's quiet settle through him.
"I didn't want to wake them up," came soft from behind; Kier sat at the kitchen table in the lamplight, a cooling mug cupped in both hands, and he tipped Brock a small, tired smile when their eyes met. "They both look like they needed it." He glanced at his watch, thumb tapping the face. "Twenty minutes and I've got to rouse him for a concussion check."
Brock nodded to him and moved for the door, shouldering into his jacket and jamming his feet into cold boots by feel. The latch went soft; a seam of air bit his cheeks as he stepped out. Snow fell in fine, steady threads, the porch rail furred white, footprints softening even as he watched. Knuckles sat on the top step in a heavy jacket, rifle across his knees, hood up, breath unwinding in pale ropes. He glanced back over his shoulder at the sound, gave Brock a small tilt of the chin, then returned his eyes to the treeline and the whitening road beyond.
Brock lowered onto the step beside him, boards stiff with cold under his soles, snow whispering down into the yard. "Onyx looks decent this morning," he said, watching the window glow.
Knuckles grunted. "Could've been a hell of a lot worse." He angled a look over, eyes narrowed under the hood. "Quick thinking out there yesterday."
Brock watched the flakes wander through the pines, soft static stitching the dark trunks. "I'd like to think he'd do it for me," he said, voice low. "For any of us."
Knuckles kept his eyes on the trees and gave one slow nod. "He would." The porch popped in the cold; he shifted the rifle on his knees and let a thin white curl of breath slip out. Then he cut Brock a sidelong look. "How you holding up?"
Brock let a breath go through his nose. "Just happy everyone's in one piece right now." A beat of quiet, then softer: "I'm… exhausted."
Knuckles hummed. "Bet you don't sleep worth a damn when she isn't tucked up against you."
Brock's mouth twitched; a quiet chuckle steamed the cold.
Knuckles tipped his chin toward the door. "That girl is forgiving as hell. Not sure I'd be curled up with somebody who nearly put a bullet in my head, if I were her."
Brock slid him a look. "How quick you forget the rest of it—what I've done to her. Even on the same day Onyx had a gun to her, and all the shit before then." He turned back to the trees, watched the flakes wander. "But, yeah. She's forgiving, even when she shouldn't be. She's still young."
Knuckles nodded and let the silence run, porch wood ticking under them, snow whispering in the pines.
"You ever think about leaving this all behind?" he asked at last, eyes still on the trees.
Brock glanced over. "What do you mean?"
"This life," Knuckles said. "Getting out of this fucking city. Finding some small town. Living a normal one."
Brock huffed a laugh that fogged and vanished. "I wouldn't know how to live a normal life. I don't think any of us do—her included."
He sat with it, watching flakes stitch the dark. "But I'm not gonna lie… when we're here, winding down, it feels different. Not like the compound. Feels—free, even if we're still running." He tipped his chin toward the window glow. "Maybe I could get used to normal."
Knuckles watched the treeline a long breath, then nodded once. "Maybe when this is over, we think about it," he said. "Pick a nowhere with bad coffee and a good hardware store. Fix things that aren't bullet holes." He shifted the rifle, mouth ticking. "First we finish this."