Moreno's gaze stayed locked on Nikolai, calm but sharp. "Help me? You?"
"Yeah," Nikolai answered.
He forced his voice to stay even, though the blood rushing to his head made it hard to think. Hanging upside down was turning his skull into a drum, but he kept his eyes on Moreno.
Moreno leaned back slightly, studying him the way someone might study a stray dog that started talking. "So tell me… what is it you think I want?"
"Like your boy said—" Nikolai started, but the man who'd been questioning them earlier stepped in, opening his mouth.
Moreno didn't look at him. Just tilted his head once.
The man froze and stepped back without a word.
Nikolai went on, "Like your boy said, someone's stealing from you. I'm very good at getting things back… or taking them in the first place."
A small, dry chuckle passed through a couple of the men in the room. Moreno didn't laugh. He just stared, weighing the words.
"How old are you?" Moreno asked finally. "You don't look a day over twenty-five. And for someone claiming to be 'very good,' your reputation doesn't seem to exist."
From the side, one of the men snorted a quiet laugh.
Nikolai didn't flinch. "Reputation's built where you work. I didn't work here before."
Moreno's eyes narrowed slightly, not convinced, but interested enough to keep listening.
His face didn't change much, but a faint smile touched the edge of his mouth. "Boss, let me shut him up," one of the men said, stepping forward. "He's just talking nonsense."
Moreno didn't even glance at him. "Fear of death makes people say a lot to avoid it," he said quietly, still watching Nikolai.
"I know," Nikolai answered. "So let me prove I'm not just saying it. Give me a test. I'll get it done. If I succeed, I live."
Moreno tilted his head, amused. "And if you fail?"
"You kill me." Nikolai's voice didn't shake. He added after a beat, "And the old man."
That got a reaction. Stewart jerked hard against his chains, head whipping toward Nikolai. "Wait—no! No! Don't drag me into your bullshit!" His voice cracked with panic. "You're just some punk; you can't do—"
One of Moreno's men backhanded Stewart mid-sentence. The slap echoed against the concrete. Stewart went quiet, breathing fast and shallow.
Moreno's eyes stayed on Nikolai, measuring. "You offer your life and his?" he asked, almost softly.
"I'm already hanging here," Nikolai said. "We both are. Might as well make the gamble worth something."
For the first time, Moreno actually chuckled, short and low, but there. He glanced sideways at his men; they said nothing.
"Interesting," Moreno said at last. "Very interesting."
Moreno's eyes stayed on Nikolai for a long beat, measuring him. He didn't say yes or no. Just stared, weighing whether this kid was worth keeping alive.
Nikolai didn't move. It was a gamble. He knew that. He also knew he could handle whatever job came his way if Moreno gave him a chance.
Finally, Moreno spoke. "Get them down."
That was it.
One of the men moved forward immediately, metal clinking as he worked the locks on Nikolai's ankles.
Blood rushed back into his legs in a painful flood; his stomach churned, but he didn't let it show.
He dropped onto the concrete, landing with a grunt and steadying himself before he could stumble.
Stewart groaned as they lowered him too, but no one helped the old man stand.
Moreno turned without another word and headed for the door. His men followed, two of them lingering just long enough to keep their guns aimed until he was gone.
Nikolai's lips curled slightly despite the ache in his head. Moreno hadn't killed them. That meant the game wasn't over, it was just starting.
He flexed his hands slowly, letting the blood return, and glanced at Stewart. The old man was pale, coughing water and shaking, but alive.
"Stay quiet," one of the guards muttered before shoving Nikolai toward the far wall.
Nikolai didn't fight it. He kept his expression unreadable and his mind running. Moreno's "test" was coming, and if he passed, he would not only just survive but also have a way to climb.
They waited until the echo of boots faded and the heavy door clanged shut. The room was quiet now except for Stewart's rough coughing and the sound of chains swinging lightly above them.
Nikolai found his clothes in a heap near the wall and moved slowly, each step shaky as blood returned to his legs.
He pulled his pants on first, then shirt, ignoring the ache in his shoulders.
Stewart sat hunched over, still catching his breath, fingers fumbling clumsily with his own clothes.
When the old man finally spoke, his voice was raw. "Kid… what the hell was that?" He turned his head, eyes bloodshot but sharp with anger and fear. "You just— you just threw both our lives on the line. Talking like you're some big-time fixer. You don't know who that man is. You're just— just a kid."
Nikolai didn't stop dressing. He zipped his pants, straightened his shirt, then finally looked at Stewart. His face was blank, voice low and steady. "Who's fault do you think got us here?"
Stewart flinched at the calmness in the tone.
"You brought his car in. You pushed the job. You didn't tell me who we were messing with. And now we're both alive because I said something." Nikolai's eyes narrowed slightly. "Would you rather I said I could save myself and let him shoot you?"
Stewart's mouth opened, then shut again. No answer.
"You should be grateful I didn't make this just about me," Nikolai said, finishing with the buttons on his shirt. "I gave you a chance you didn't give me when you dragged me into this mess."
The old man's jaw worked, but nothing came out. Finally he looked away, muttering under his breath, "Damn kid… thinks he's smart."
Nikolai slid his shoes on and tied them tight. "Smart enough to keep us breathing," he said quietly.
Stewart didn't respond. He just sat there for a long moment, then slowly stood, still unsteady on his feet.
Nikolai glanced at Stewart, who was still avoiding his eyes.
Stewart was harmless, a small-time hustler who'd gotten himself into a game too big for him. Nikolai had bigger things to worry about.
There were larger pieces moving here, bigger fish to swim with than an old mechanic who'd panicked when the gun came out.
He let the silence hang, adjusted his shirt cuffs, and decided it wasn't worth wasting breath.