I wake up to pain. Not just the throbbing burn in my side where Fox's bullet kissed my ribs — not just the raw scrape in my throat from river water and betrayal — but the kind of pain that lives in the marrow. The kind that sets up a permanent home behind your eyes and whispers nothing will ever be the same.
I push up on my elbows. Cold concrete digs into my spine. My teeth chatter, but the air's not that cold — it's me. My heart. My head. The part of me that stabbed a man in an old warehouse and learned too late he was my father.
I blink. Warehouse — that's where I am. Rust flakes off old iron beams above me. Broken windows. The Chicago skyline, ugly as ever, leaking neon through the cracks.
And him. Cross. My father. Sitting a few feet away, crouched on an overturned crate like a gargoyle. A cigarette burns between his fingers, the ember the only star in this shitty patch of sky.
I push myself upright too fast — pain lances through my side. I swear, clamp my hand over it, and hiss, "What the fuck?"
He doesn't move. He just looks at me like he's seen this moment in a dream a thousand times. Maybe he did — maybe that's what fathers do when they're ghosts for twenty-four years.
"You should lie down," he says, voice like dry gravel.
I laugh. It's the kind of laugh that sounds like someone choking. "Lie down? After what you did? After what I did?" I can't even say it. After I almost killed you.
His mouth twitches like he might say something. But he doesn't — because the shadows behind him shift. And I realize we're not alone.
Three shapes step out of the dark. I swear my pulse actually stops for a second. The warehouse feels smaller, the air tighter. They're young — my age or maybe a little older — but they move like they're older than Cross and twice as dangerous.
The tall one stops first. Black hair, heterochromia eyes. He watches me like he's weighing up what I'm worth — and whether he'd bother killing me if I disappointed him. He holds out his hand.
"Jon," he says. Calm, cold, simple. Like an executioner telling you his name before the blade comes down.
I look at the hand. Look at him. I take it. His grip is warm — not soft. Warm like steel left in a fire.
Next is the blond kid — Draco. He's got a smirk that could cut glass. He gives me this half-assed salute. "Draco. You look like dogshit, mate."
Behind him, the girl — no, not a girl, a woman, no matter how young her face is — steps forward. Her hair's tied back white as snow. She watches me like she's measuring my pulse. "Daphne," she says. And weirdly, she actually smiles at me. Just a tiny flicker. It doesn't help.
I glance at Cross. I hate that my voice shakes when I spit the words. "Who the hell are they? Sloan's new puppets?"
Cross gives this bark of a laugh that sounds like he hates how true it almost is. "They're nobody's puppets. Wesley — meet the Wolves."
I snort. It's that same short, bitter laugh I used to let out when I found another note from Cathy about the rent. "The Wolves? Jesus Christ. What is this, some vigilante cult? You drag me into your midlife crisis, old man?"
Jon's voice cuts through my sneer. Calm. "You know what Sloan is. What he's done to the Fraternity. You know the Loom doesn't lie — men do."
I want to scream. But I can't — because he's right. I feel it in my ribs, right next to the bullet burn. I glance at my father — Cross. The man I stabbed. The man who saved me anyway.
Draco steps up, rolling his eyes like this is all just an annoying group project. "Sloan turned the Loom into a cash machine. Kills for hire, dressed up like fate. He lied to you. He lied to all of us."
Daphne's voice is quieter, but it hits harder than Draco's cocky drawl. "The Loom was never the problem, Wesley. It's men like Sloan. The Fraternity can be fixed — but you have to burn the disease out."
I push myself to my feet. My side howls. Good. I want it to hurt. I want this whole thing to hurt because that means it's real.
"So what?" I snarl at Cross. "You want me to kill Sloan. Put a bullet in him and call it good? What happens after that? I go back to my cubicle? You think I'm your puppet now?"
Cross steps closer. He's got that look — the one I see in the mirror sometimes when I'm shaving and hating myself. Regret wrapped in iron. "You're nobody's puppet, Wesley. Not Sloan's. Not mine. Not theirs."
Jon's hand lands on my shoulder. Heavy. Steady. Like a chain or a promise — I can't tell which. "You get to decide what happens next. You finish what Sloan corrupted. Kill the rot — save the blade."
I want to laugh again — but it dies in my throat. My eyes burn. I hate that. I hate that more than Sloan, more than Fox, more than myself.
"And if I don't?" I whisper. "If I walk out that door and disappear?"
Draco shrugs. "Then Sloan wins. Then your father sacrificed everything for nothing. Then Fox dies for nothing. Then we waste time hunting you down instead of putting a bullet in Sloan's eye socket."
Daphne steps closer too. She looks me right in the eyes — no fear. "You are the cure, Wesley. If you want to run, run. But fate's already got its teeth in you."
I turn back to Cross. My father. The word still tastes wrong. "Why didn't you just tell me? Before. Years ago."
He lifts a hand like he might touch my face — but lets it drop. His eyes shine like wet stone. "Because I was afraid you'd become me. And I was right."
Silence. The warehouse creaks. The Wolves wait.
I close my eyes. I see the cubicle. The keyboard. The spinning Loom. Fox's eyes when she pulled the trigger. My father's eyes when he said run.
I open them.
"Alright," I breathe. "I'll gut Sloan. I'll fix what he broke. But when this is over — I'm out. You hear me? I'm not your wolf."
Jon's grip tightens once — just once — then lets go. "Noted," he says. A ghost of a grin. "But you're definitely not a sheep anymore."
Draco laughs — sharp, bright. "Welcome to the pack, cub."
I almost smile. Almost.
My father — Cross — just nods. Like he's seeing me for the first time. "I'm proud of you," he says. Quiet. Raw.
It hurts worse than the bullet. Worse than the knife.
But it's real.
And I'm not running anymore.
Fox's POV:
I swear I could hear my heartbeat ricocheting off the marble walls. My boots barely made a sound on the floor, but inside my head, everything was thunder. Sloan's voice. Wesley's voice. The ghosts of every kill I'd done for this lie.
My hand trembles on the cold metal of the column. On the other side, Wesley's voice crashes against me like a wave. His anger. His disbelief. His father's ghost, standing next to him in flesh and blood — Cross, alive. Cross, standing with his son against us. Against me. Or maybe not against me. I don't even know anymore.
My eyes close when I hear the Butcher's scream echo its last. One more corpse stacked on this mountain we call the Code. Maybe this is how it always ends — we carve out pieces of ourselves with every bullet until there's nothing left but gunpowder and regret.
I hear Wesley's boots drag across the floor — heavy, broken. I peek, just enough to see him. Blood slicks down the side of his face, lips swollen from a fight he nearly lost. Except he didn't. He's here. He's alive. My heart lifts, just enough to hurt worse when it drops again.
"SLOAN!" Wesley's roar rips through the library. That's my cue. I'm supposed to step out. Gun raised. Face empty. I'm supposed to prove my loyalty to Sloan, the Code, and the Loom.
Except the barrel of my gun wants to point somewhere else.
I step out anyway. My finger curls around the trigger. My eyes meet his. The man I trained, loved, and lied to. The man who should be running away from me — but there's no fear in his eyes now. Just a grief that splits my ribs wide open.
I don't see Cross until he steps up beside him. He looks like a ghost, half in shadow — but the eyes are real. The same eyes I saw in Wesley's once, before the rage took root. The father and son stand together, and Sloan steps out like a black stain in a perfect suit.
Sloan's smile is precise. Controlled. He sees the two of them as insects to crush. I want to scream when he does that. Like, Cross isn't the blade that once cut deeper than any of us. Like, Wesley isn't the wild card that could end us all.
Wesley's voice cuts through the tension. "My father wasn't a traitor." The words come out low, broken, but they hit like a sniper round. I shift my grip on the gun. My palms are slick. No one notices.
Wesley pulls something from Cross's old coat — the coat he's wearing like armor. A kill order. He tosses it on the table like it's poison.
"And it's got Sloan's name on it."
It's a punch to the gut. Even the Gunsmith stiffens. I hear the others shift behind me — murmurs under their breath like prayers that won't be answered.
I want to speak. To say He's telling the truth. But my voice is gone. My throat is raw from all the screams I never let out.
Wesley's laugh is what cracks me up. He laughs like a man standing on the edge of a rooftop with no plans to jump, just to push everyone else off first.
"You're not an assassin of fate, Sloan. You're just a thug who can bend bullets."
God, Wes. Don't. He's marking himself for death with every word, but I want him to keep going. I want the truth to break these walls apart.
Sloan's hand goes to the file at his back. He does it so smoothly — the way a snake unhinges its jaw.
"Your name came up."
He says it like a death sentence, and it is. The file drops on the table. Papers scatter like bones.
I don't want to look but I do. My name, in that cold ink. Fox. A kill order. My death was printed neat as a ledger line. A shudder runs through me, but my hand stays steady. For now.
Sloan moves closer. His words drip poison. "I saved your lives."
Bullshit. I want to spit in his face, but my gun's still pointed at Wesley. My Wesley. I feel my soul tearing in half — duty on one side, the man I love on the other.
"Is it true?" I croak. I don't even recognize my voice. I'm not asking Sloan. I'm asking Wes. Asking if this nightmare is real.
Wesley's eyes don't blame me. They should. God knows they should. But they just look sad. Shattered. He nods, once, tiny — and everything in me wants to run to him.
But I don't. Because I'm a weapon before I'm a woman. Sloan made sure of that.
The Gunsmith cocks his gun. The sound jolts me back. Wesley lifts his head. That's when I see Cross move — slow, like an old predator. His hand goes to his side, like he's weighing when to strike. But he doesn't have to.
Because the air shifts. A chill runs down my spine. I feel it before I see them.
Three silhouettes by the far door. Black coats, black gloves, the smell of iron and winter. They don't say a word — they don't have to. They stand in the shadows like death itself, watching the final act unfold.
Sloan doesn't notice. He's too busy savoring his power. "Shoot this motherfucker, and let us take our Fraternity of assassins to heights reserved only for the gods of men."
He turns away. He thinks we're all his tools. Even now.
Wesley stands alone. Eleven barrels pointed at him. No fear in his eyes anymore. He's ready. God, don't be ready, Wes.
The Gunsmith whispers, "Fuck the code." And suddenly my heart does something I didn't think it could — it lifts. Wesley's eyes meet mine. He knows. I nod once.
Bang.
The first shot cracks the lie wide open. My shot. The Gunsmith drops. Chaos. I pivot. My arm swings. Wesley catches the gun I toss him, and we dance in blood and lead. They scream — they die. This is fate's retribution, and I'm her bullet.
Sloan tries to flee — I see it. The fear. The betrayal. He looks at me and sees nothing left to control.
Then the Wolves step from the shadows. They move like shadows made flesh. The tall one's hand flashes — a silencer coughs. The blond boy drops another with a clean headshot. The girl's blade whispers through Sloan's neck before his last lie can slip past his lips.
Silence. Heavy and warm and dripping.
Wesley pulls me close, his breath in my hair. "It's over," he whispers.
But I know better. The Loom waits. Jon steps past us, his boots echoing on the marble. He pulls the cover from the Loom's gearwork. Cross stands beside him — father and son at last.
I watch the Wolves reset fate with steady hands. No more false threads. No more manufactured targets. Just what is written. Nothing more.
When it's done, Jon turns to me, nods once. "It's yours to protect now."
And for the first time since I was a girl with green eyes and a dead father, I believe it can be.
I'm still kneeling in the blood when the silence starts to weigh more than the corpses. My hand's locked around Wesley's. My heartbeat's rattling my bones. Sloan's empty stare is frozen on the ceiling — mouth half-open like he's got one more lie left in him. But there's no more time for lies.
They came through the storm like ghosts — three figures in black, moving like they'd stepped through the cracks of the world. They didn't speak. Didn't ask permission. One blade to the throat. One bullet to the temple. And the traitor at the heart of it all — Sloan — crumpled like rotten silk.
One of them wipes the blood from his blade with a cloth so white it hurts my eyes. Another stands by the Loom, head tilted like he's listening to it breathe. The tallest one stands over Sloan's corpse, boots planted like roots in stone.
Wolves. That word echoes in my head but it doesn't feel real — not until Cross speaks.
He's alive. Standing right there. Not a ghost. Not a regret. Solid — with his hand on Wesley's shoulder and his eyes fixed on mine like he knows exactly how broken I feel inside.
"You're wondering who they are," Cross says, voice low but strong enough to drown out the Loom's hum. "So did I. Years before I left faternity."
His hand tightens on Wesley — then he looks at me. His eyes don't judge. They forgive. That alone almost breaks me.
"They're the Wolves," he says. "When the Loom's twisted… when men bend fate for themselves… they come to set it right."
I hear old stories — old nightmares — old drunk whispers at backroom tables. Wolves that hunt the corrupt and gut the rot from inside kingdoms. I thought they were stories to scare rookies straight. Turns out they were a promise.
The tallest Wolf finally steps close. Light hits his scarred jaw — eyes like cold iron. He looks at Cross, then at Wesley, then at me. Still not a word — just that look that says: Do not fail us.
Cross squares his shoulders. I see the fire there now — the same fire that got him hunted. "You fix it," he tells Wesley. Then his eyes cut to me — like a blade. "You keep him honest."
I open my mouth to argue — I don't. Not when I see the weight in Wesley's eyes. Not when I feel his hand squeeze mine back.
"And you?" Wesley rasps — his voice shredded, but solid enough. He looks at his father — the man who came back from the grave for him. For us.
Cross breathes out slow. For a heartbeat he looks tired — like a man who's lost too many nights of sleep for too many reasons.
"I stay," he says. And that single word feels heavier than a gunshot. "The Fraternity was my burden once. It's yours now — but you won't carry it alone."
Wesley almost laughs. There's blood on his lips but his grin is real. "What are you gonna do? Be my boss?"
Cross smirks — a ghost of warmth in his flinty eyes. "No, son. I'm going to be your shield."
Behind him, the Wolves stand silent. Watching. Judging. The tallest one — the scarred one — finally steps closer, just enough for me to feel his breath.
"Do what you were trained for," he rumbles — voice like thunder under ice. "Clean the rot. Keep the code. No more kings. No more traitors."
His eyes cut to Sloan's corpse — then back to Wesley. Then to me. I swear I feel my bones vibrate under that look.
"Fail," he says, "and you'll see us again."
No threat. No mercy.
Then they turn. One by one. Shadows sliding out of the ruins like wolves back into the forest. When they're gone, the air feels heavier. Like we're breathing frost.
Cross turns to me and Wesley. There's no orders now. Just truth.
"It's our blood now," he says. "No more lies. No more hidden sons."
Wesley leans against him — exhausted but alive. His father's arm wraps around his shoulders. I step in too — no shame left. My hand finds Wesley's. My other touches Cross's wrist.
A family — built from bullets and betrayal. Stitched together by blood and forgiveness.
The Loom hums behind us. The Wolves' shadows linger like a cold promise.
And for the first time in my life, I know exactly what I have to do.