The morning light didn't filter into the room; it stabbed.
Jax woke up with a crushing sensation against his chest, a literal weight that made every breath a struggle. As his consciousness flickered back to life, he realized he was buried—face-pressed into soft, warm skin marked with the faint, blooming violets of last night's intensity. A sweet, floral scent like osmanthus filled his senses, grounding him in a reality that felt half-dreamt.
He sat up, his head thumping with the rhythmic hammer of a heavy hangover. The room was a battlefield of shredded hemp rope and discarded silk. Beside him, Zona stirred, her lovely body releasing a soft, pained moan as she adjusted to the light. The fragmented memories of their "clash" surfaced in his mind—the broken restraints, the raw power, the total loss of control.
Suddenly, a piercing electronic trill exploded from the nightstand.
Jax flinched, his nerves shot. As he lunged for the device, Zona bolted upright with a sudden, violent start. Her forehead slammed directly into Jax's chin with a sickening thud.
"Gah!" Jax collapsed back onto the pillows, clutching his jaw in agony.
He was still holding the vibrating phone. Zona snatched it from his hand, her eyes bleary but sharp. "Hello?" she rasped.
"Where the hell were you?" A magnetic, authoritative male voice boomed through the speaker, loud enough for Jax to hear every syllable. "Throwing a tantrum is one thing, but staying out all night? Your mother is a wreck. I don't care what you're doing, but do not miss the family gathering in two days. Do you hear me?"
The line went dead with a final, clinical beep. Zona sighed, the tension leaving her shoulders as she slumped back into the sheets. "I didn't expect to lose control like that. Not the first time."
She flipped over, searching through the wreckage on the floor for her clothes. "It hurts like hell," she muttered under her breath, tossing Jax's shirt to him before limping toward the bathroom.
Jax sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. The surreal nature of the last twelve hours weighed on him. When Zona emerged from the bathroom, the air between them was thick—not quite awkward, but charged with a new, unspoken recognition.
"Are you busy today?" she asked, looking down at him.
"No," Jax replied, still finding his voice.
"Good. You're coming with me. I need to get some things."
Ten minutes later, they stood on the ground floor of the nightclub. The heavy iron rolling shutter was pulled tight against the pavement, sealing them in. The club was a tomb of stale air and neon shadows.
"What now?" Jax asked.
"I don't know," Zona admitted, frustrated. "Security is probably dead to the world in the back. I'll call the front desk."
Two calls, zero answers.
"I'm starving," Jax said. His stomach was a hollow pit, the metabolic cost of last night's "battle" finally demanding payment.
Zona shrugged, her own stomach betraying her with a quiet growl. "Unless you have a miracle in your pocket to get that door open, we're waiting."
"Any method works?" Jax asked, stepping toward the door.
"Any," she replied dismissively. "But don't dream of pulling it. This is reinforced steel, specially made—"
SCREECH—RIP!
The sound of protesting metal echoed through the hall. Jax had squatted down, hooked his fingers into the iron pull-ring, and simply lifted. The tracks warped, the mounting bolts screamed as they were torn from the concrete, and the heavy shutter curled upward like wet cardboard.
Jax turned his head, the door now resting at shoulder height. "What were you saying?"
"Nothing," Zona whispered. Her face remained a mask of cool indifference, but her pulse was racing. One man—not three, not a truck—had just manually deleted a high-security gate.
They walked out into the crisp Los Santos air toward the parking lot. Jax reached for the door of his battered jeep, but a sharp chirp sounded behind him.
Zona held up a key fob. Not far away, a golden, angular Banshee GTS—a $1.4 million masterpiece of American muscle—flashed its lights.
"We aren't going to breakfast in that tin can," she said, tossing him the keys. "Drive mine."
Jax slid into the cockpit. The interior was a temple of carbon fiber and hand-stitched leather. "Go to Portola Drive," she commanded. "There's a bistro there that doesn't serve trash."
The restaurant was the height of Rockford Hills luxury. Jax and Zona sat opposite each other, working through high-end steaks.
"If I'd known the portions were this small, we'd have gone for Chinese," Zona complained, though she ate with a focused intensity.
Jax didn't mind. It was free, it was protein, and the coffee was strong. But peace in Los Santos is a fleeting thing.
"Zona?! Is that really you?"
A voice, high and grating, cut through the quiet hum of the bistro. A blonde man in an expensive designer tracksuit, his face a map of freckles and unearned confidence, marched toward their table.
"Damn it," Zona hissed, dropping her fork. "Talk about bad luck."
"Who's the fan?" Jax asked quietly.
"Daby," she whispered. "My father's business partner's kid. A worthless, entitled parasite."
Daby leaned over the table, ignoring Jax entirely. "I went to the club to find you last night, Zona, but the help said you'd 'retired' early. Such a shame."
When Zona didn't respond, Daby's eyes finally drifted to Jax. The fake smile vanished, replaced by a sneer that had been passed down through generations of spoiled blood.
"Really, Zona? A yellow monkey?" Daby laughed, a cold, sharp sound. "Having this at your table is only going to lower your status."
Jax paused, a piece of steak halfway to his mouth. He hadn't said a word, and yet, trouble had walked right up and pulled up a chair.