The fog swallowed Heart Island whole.
Scarlett stood in the center of the Blood Circuit, watching fighters bleed for crowds who'd never know their names. The air tasted like copper and sweat. Like desperation. Like home.
Kai had disappeared into the back rooms.
Negotiating.
Betting.
Playing his own game.
She had six hours.
Six hours to become someone who could breach Blackwood Tower.
Six hours to choose between Jules and the file.
Six hours to become the weapon Vincent had seen in her.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Again.
She answered.
"You're making mistakes." The distorted voice.
Familiar now.
Intimate.
"Enlighten me."
"Kai Nakamura doesn't help. He harvests. Dom Thorne doesn't protect. He possesses. Asher Blackwood doesn't love. He collects."
"And you?"
"I observe. I warn. I wait."
"For what?"
"For you to ask the right question."
Scarlett watched a fighter fall.
Knocked out.
Eyes rolled back.
Crowd roaring.
"Who are you?" she asked.
The line went dead.
Again.
Always.
She pocketed the phone.
Found Kai in the back room.
He sat behind a desk made from a boxing ring.
Wood and rope.
Trophies on every surface.
Championship belts.
Broken teeth in glass cases.
Photos of fighters.
Some smiling.
Some blank.
Some crossed out with red marker.
"Training room," he said.
Not looking up.
"Now."
---
The room was concrete.
No windows.
One door.
A heavy bag in the corner.
Gloves on the wall.
And a woman.
Six feet tall.
Muscular.
Scar tissue where her left eyebrow should be.
"Rosa Voss," Kai said.
"Elena's sister. Former heavyweight champion. Current ghost."
Rosa didn't smile.
Didn't speak.
She tossed Scarlett a pair of gloves.
"You're soft," Rosa said.
"Fast. Smart. But soft."
"I've survived three years."
"You've survived because Vincent protected you. Because Dom watched from shadows. Because no one thought you mattered." Rosa stepped closer.
Close enough to strike.
"They know you matter now. They'll come harder. Faster. Crueler."
"Teach me."
"Can't teach survival." Rosa circled her.
Predatory.
Evaluating.
"Can teach pain management. Can teach how to stand when your ribs are broken. How to see when your eye is swollen shut. How to win when winning costs everything."
"Teach me."
Rosa moved.
No warning.
No telegraph.
Her fist caught Scarlett's jaw.
Hard.
Scarlett stumbled.
Spit blood.
Didn't fall.
"Good," Rosa said.
"Again."
---
Three hours.
Scarlett's body became a map of bruises.
Ribs aching.
Knuckles split.
Left eye swelling.
But she stood.
She learned.
How to block without blocking.
How to hurt without hurting.
How to win.
"You're not a fighter," Rosa said finally.
Tossing her a towel.
"You're a calculator. You see patterns. Exploit them."
"Is that bad?"
"It's different." Rosa looked at Kai.
Something passed between them.
Old.
Complicated.
"Claire was a fighter. Elena's predecessor. All heart. No head."
"She died."
"She burned." Rosa's voice hardened.
"Margaret Blackwood doused her in gasoline. Lit the match. Watched her run."
Scarlett stilled.
The fire.
Three years ago.
The warehouse.
She'd never known the details.
Never wanted to.
"Why?"
"Because Claire found the file. The real one. Not names. Locations. The places where the Seven Houses keep their investments."
"People."
"Assets." Rosa corrected.
"Some willing. Most not. Claire wanted to free them. Burn the records. End the trade."
"And Margaret?"
"Margaret owns the trade. Has for thirty years."
Scarlett wiped blood from her lip.
Thought of Asher.
His platinum hair.
His ice eyes.
His finger tapping the table.
Tell.
Weakness.
Or performance?
"Does he know?" she asked.
"Asher?" Kai answered.
Stepping from the shadows.
"Know what?"
"His aunt's business. The assets. The trade."
Kai smiled.
Dangerous.
Knowing.
"Ask him yourself. Tonight. Blackwood Tower. Sixty-third floor. His private residence."
"He's helping Margaret."
"He's protecting his own."
"Same thing."
"Different motivations." Kai tossed her a keycard.
Black.
Embossed with the Blackwood crest.
"Asher gave me this. Two hours ago. Said you'd need it."
"Why?"
"Because he knows you're coming. Because he wants you to choose."
"Between what?"
Kai's smile widened.
"Between Jules and the truth. Between the boy who loves you and the secret that could destroy everything."
Scarlett caught the keycard.
Felt its weight.
Its trap.
"And if I want both?"
"Then you're exactly who Vincent thought you were."
---
Dusk fell like a blade.
Scarlett stood at the base of Blackwood Tower.
Sixty-three floors of glass and steel.
Wealth.
Power.
Secrets.
Dom's distraction would start in nine minutes.
An explosion at the docks.
Margaret's shipping interests.
Her attention.
Her security.
Ninety seconds.
That's what Kai promised.
That's what she'd take.
The keycard slid through the reader.
Green light.
Elevator doors opened.
She stepped inside.
Alone.
Floor numbers climbing.
1.
2.
3.
Her reflection in the chrome walls.
Bruised.
Swollen.
Determined.
1.
2.
3.
The elevator slowed.
Stopped.
Doors opened.
Not to a hallway.
To a penthouse.
Open plan.
Floor-to-ceiling windows.
Neon Bay spread beneath her like a circuit board.
And Asher Blackwood.
Standing at the window.
Waiting.
"You're late," he said.
Not turning.
"By thirty seconds."
"I expected you to be punctual."
"I expected you to be surprised."
He turned.
Ice-blue eyes finding hers.
Seeing everything.
The bruises.
The swelling.
The blood still drying on her knuckles.
"You've been training."
"Preparing."
"Same thing."
"Different intensity." Scarlett stepped into the room.
The doors closed behind her.
Locked.
She heard the mechanism.
Didn't react.
"You know why I'm here," she said.
"Jules. The file. The choice."
"Where is he?"
"Safe."
"Define safe."
"Alive. Unharmed. Questioning his life choices." Asher moved to a bar.
Poured two drinks.
Whiskey.
Neat.
"He's in love with you. Did you know?"
"I suspected."
"You don't reciprocate."
"I don't discuss."
Asher handed her a glass.
She didn't take it.
"Poison?"
"Paranoia." He set the glass down.
Took a sip of his own.
"Margaret wants the file. The real file. Not the financials. Not the names. The locations."
"The assets."
"Slaves." Asher's voice hardened.
"Call them what they are. My family has traded in human debt for three generations. I thought... I hoped... it was different now."
"Is it?"
"No." He finished his drink.
Set it down.
Hard.
"It's worse. Digital now. Untraceable. People as cryptocurrency. Bought. Sold. Traded. Deleted."
Scarlett thought of the screens in Vincent's basement.
The skeletons at the red table.
The game that never ended.
"Why tell me?"
"Because you can stop it."
"How?"
Asher walked to a painting.
Abstract.
Blue and gold.
Pulled it aside.
Revealed a safe.
Biometric.
Retinal.
He pressed his eye to the scanner.
Waited.
Click.
The safe opened.
He withdrew a folder.
Thick.
Old.
Paper.
Not digital.
"Vincent's original research," Asher said.
"Before he digitized. Before he hid. The locations. The names. The accounts."
"Why do you have it?"
"Because I stole it. From Margaret. Three years ago." He held it out.
Didn't step closer.
"Because I thought I could use it to stop her. To break the trade. To be... better."
"And?"
"And I was afraid." His hand trembled.
Just slightly.
"I was afraid of what she'd do. What she'd take. Who she'd burn."
Scarlett remembered the fire.
The warehouse.
The gasoline.
"Claire," she said.
Asher's eyes closed.
"Claire."
Silence.
Heavy.
True.
"She found out," Asher continued.
"About the trade. About Margaret. She wanted to expose everything. I tried to protect her. Hid her. Lied to my aunt."
"You failed."
"I failed." He opened his eyes.
Ice melted.
Grief exposed.
"Margaret found her. Doused her. Lit the match. I watched from the security feed. Trapped in this tower. Listening to her scream."
Scarlett didn't move.
Didn't soften.
But she understood.
The distance.
The coldness.
The collection of things because people died.
"You loved her," she said.
Not a question.
"I loved who she thought I could be."
Asher set the folder on the table.
Between them.
"The file for Jules. That's the trade. That's always been the trade."
"And if I take both?"
"Then you become what Margaret fears. What Vincent hoped. What Claire died believing." He stepped back.
Arms spread.
Vulnerable.
Exposed.
"Take it. Take him. Take everything. Burn it down. Just... remember that I tried. At the end. I tried."
Scarlett looked at the folder.
At Asher.
At the city beyond the glass.
Her phone buzzed.
Dom's signal.
The distraction.
Thirty seconds.
She moved.
Fast.
Not to the folder.
To Asher.
Her hand found his throat.
Pressed him against the window.
Cold glass against his spine.
Forty-seven floors to the street.
"You set the fire," she said.
Not a question.
A realization.
His eyes widened.
Tell.
Confirmation.
"You didn't watch from the feed. You were there. You held the match. You lit Claire because she was going to expose you too. Not just Margaret. You."
"Scarlett—"
"You loved her because she was dying. Because dead girls can't disappoint. Can't leave. Can't see what you really are."
His hand moved.
Toward his jacket.
She was faster.
The knife.
Vincent's knife.
Dom's knife.
Her knife now.
At his throat.
"Jules," she said.
"Where?"
"Sixty-second floor. East wing. Security office."
"Margaret?"
"Docks. Dom's explosion worked."
"And you?"
Asher smiled.
Broken.
Beautiful.
"Me? I'm exactly what you said. A man who burns what he loves because he can't bear to be seen."
Scarlett pressed harder.
Drew blood.
One drop.
Two.
"Why confess?"
"Because you're the only one left who might understand." His hand found her wrist.
Gentle.
Intimate.
"Because you and I... we're the same. Hollow rats wearing crowns. Pretending to be royalty. Waiting to be exposed."
"We're not the same."
"No?" His smile widened.
Blood on his teeth.
"You've killed. I've seen the files. The fights. The men who didn't walk out. Vincent trained you to calculate odds. But he also trained you to eliminate variables. Haven't you?"
Scarlett's hand didn't waver.
But something inside her did.
The men in the Hollow.
The ones who came for her.
The ones who didn't leave.
Calculated.
Necessary.
Not murder.
Survival.
Wasn't it?
Her phone buzzed again.
Forty-five seconds.
She stepped back.
Lowered the knife.
Pocketed it.
Grabbed the folder.
"You're wrong," she said.
"About what?"
"We're not the same. You burn what you love because you're afraid. I protect what I love because I'm not."
She walked to the door.
Stopped.
Didn't turn.
"The fire. Claire. Margaret. All of it. Goes public. Twenty-four hours. Or I come back. And I won't use the knife."
"You'll use what?"
Scarlett looked over her shoulder.
Smiled.
Cold.
Final.
"I'll use the truth. Worse than any blade."
She walked out.
Doors closing on his silence.
On his brokenness.
On everything he might have been.
---
The sixty-second floor was chaos.
Security running.
Radios crackling.
Dom's explosion.
Perfect timing.
Scarlett moved through them.
Invisible.
Just another body in the panic.
She found the east wing.
The security office.
Door locked.
Keycard.
Green light.
Inside.
Jules.
Tied to a chair.
Bruised.
Bleeding.
But alive.
Eyes finding hers.
Relief.
Fear.
Love.
All mixed.
All wasted.
"Scar—"
"Don't talk." She cut his bonds.
Helped him stand.
Leaned him against her shoulder.
"Can you walk?"
"Run. Yes."
"Then run."
They moved.
Through the chaos.
Through the crowd.
To the stairwell.
Down.
Fifty floors.
Forty.
Thirty.
Jules stumbled.
She caught him.
Carried him.
Twenty floors.
Ten.
Ground floor.
Emergency exit.
Alley.
Fog.
Dom waiting.
Motorcycle running.
"Both?" he asked.
Not surprised.
Evaluating.
"Both," Scarlett confirmed.
She loaded Jules onto the bike.
Climbed behind him.
Dom handed her a helmet.
"Margaret knows."
"Good."
"She's coming for you."
"Let her come."
Dom's gray eyes met hers.
Something new there.
Respect?
Fear?
Hope?
"Where?" he asked.
"The real Red Ace," Scarlett said.
"Vincent's basement. The crown."
"Why?"
"Because that's where it ends. Or begins."
Dom nodded.
Mounted the bike.
Roared into the night.
Three of them.
Hunted.
Haunted.
Armed with a folder.
A key.
A truth that could burn Neon Archipelago to the ground.
Scarlett held Jules tight.
Felt his blood on her hands.
Felt his heartbeat against her spine.
Felt the folder pressed between them.
Secrets.
Names.
Locations.
The assets.
The slaves.
The currency of crowns.
She thought of Asher.
Broken against the glass.
Of Margaret.
Racing to stop her.
Of Kai.
Betting on her survival.
Of Rosa.
Teaching her pain.
Of Vincent.
Dead with her name on his lips.
Of Claire.
Burning.
Of herself.
The last ace.
The wild card.
The girl who wouldn't fold.
"Faster," she told Dom.
And he obeyed.
Into the fog.
Into the war.
Into the final game.