The days following the convoy ambush had been a blur of recovery and preparation. Though they had successfully intercepted the transport and acquired crucial intel, the cost had been heavy—Raven had barely survived, and the rest of the team had faced the harsh reality of what they were truly up against.
Jeffrie stood in the makeshift training room of their safe house, hands wrapped in tape, throwing punch after punch into a reinforced bag.
The rhythmic sound echoed through the space, but it wasn't enough to drown out the thoughts swirling in his mind. The image of Raven, bloody and broken body at Nick and Mack's feet replayed over and over like a nightmare that refused to fade.
The door creaked open behind him. He didn't need to turn to know who it was.
"You keep hitting that thing like it owes you money, and you're gonna break your damn hands," Ray's voice called out, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. "You've barely stopped since we got back."
Jeffrie didn't stop, didn't acknowledge the words at first. "Not enough," he muttered, sending another brutal strike into the bag.
Ray sighed, stepping inside.
"Brudda, you nearly tore that whole convoy apart by yourself. You think that was just rage?"
Jeffrie's fist paused mid-swing. He turned to Ray, his expression unreadable. "What are you saying?"
Ray ran a hand over his buzzed head, exhaling. "I'm saying... we all saw it. That wasn't just anger, Jeff. That was something else." His voice lowered. "You scared us."
Jeffrie's jaw tightened. He had felt it too—that loss of control, that overwhelming force surging through him, pushing him past his limits. And for a moment, he hadn't cared what happened to himself, as long as he could make Nick and Mack pay.
Trice stepped into the room next, nodding in agreement with Ray. "We ain't saying this to come at you, Cuzzo. We get it. We all wanted revenge. But you? You were ready to die just to kill them."
Jeffrie turned away, shaking his head. "I wasn't thinking about dying."
Trice walked up, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "That's the problem, Jeff. You weren't thinking at all."
Silence fell between them. Jeffrie wanted to argue, wanted to say they didn't understand—but they did. They knew better than anyone what loss could do to a man. And they weren't wrong.
Before anyone could say another word, the sound of soft footsteps approached.
"You're all a bunch of idiots," Raven's voice cut through the tension, laced with its usual sharpness. "Sitting here having a therapy session when we've got a war to win."
Jeffrie turned fully this time, eyes immediately locking onto her. She still had bandages wrapped around her ribs, and her arm in a sling, but she was standing.
A mix of relief and guilt hit him all at once.
"You should be resting," Raven smirked, stepping closer.
"Please, I've been through worse." Her teasing tone faded as she looked at him seriously.
"But you? You lost it out there, Ghost. And I need to know if things go bad again, I don't have to worry about you going off the deep end."
Jeffrie's breath was slow, controlled. He looked at her, really looked at her—the woman who had been by his side since the beginning, the one who had always fought just as fiercely as him.
And the one who had nearly died because of him.
He reached out, brushing his fingers along the side of her face, where a faint bruise still lingered. "I won't lose control again."
Raven searched his face before finally nodding. "Good. Because next time, I'm not letting you fight alone."
Before Jeffrie could respond, she leaned in, pressing her lips against his.
The moment was brief, but it was enough to ground him, to remind him that he still had something worth fighting for.
Ray chuckled, breaking the moment. "Damn, finally.
Thought I was gonna have to lock you two in a room or something."
Trice smirked. "About damn time."
Raven rolled her eyes but didn't step away. "Shut up."
Jeffrie exhaled, his mind clearer than it had been in days.
The battle wasn't over, and the war was far from won.
But in that moment, he wasn't just a soldier, wasn't just a weapon.
He was a man with something to protect.
And he'd fight like hell to make sure he never lost it again.
The days following the convoy ambush had been a blur of recovery and preparation. Though they had successfully intercepted the transport and acquired crucial intel, the cost had been heavy—Raven had barely survived, and the rest of the team had faced the harsh reality of what they were truly up against.
Jeffrie stood in the makeshift training room of their safe house, hands wrapped in tape, throwing punch after punch into a reinforced bag.
The rhythmic sound echoed through the space, but it wasn't enough to drown out the thoughts swirling in his mind. The image of Raven, bloody and broken body at Nick and Mack's feet replayed over and over like a nightmare that refused to fade.
The door creaked open behind him. He didn't need to turn to know who it was.
"You keep hitting that thing like it owes you money, and you're gonna break your damn hands," Ray's voice called out, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. "You've barely stopped since we got back."
Jeffrie didn't stop, didn't acknowledge the words at first. "Not enough," he muttered, sending another brutal strike into the bag.
Ray sighed, stepping inside.
"Brudda, you nearly tore that whole convoy apart by yourself. You think that was just rage?"
Jeffrie's fist paused mid-swing. He turned to Ray, his expression unreadable. "What are you saying?"
Ray ran a hand over his buzzed head, exhaling. "I'm saying... we all saw it. That wasn't just anger, Jeff. That was something else." His voice lowered. "You scared us."
Jeffrie's jaw tightened. He had felt it too—that loss of control, that overwhelming force surging through him, pushing him past his limits. And for a moment, he hadn't cared what happened to himself, as long as he could make Nick and Mack pay.
Trice stepped into the room next, nodding in agreement with Ray. "We ain't saying this to come at you, Cuzzo. We get it. We all wanted revenge. But you? You were ready to die just to kill them."
Jeffrie turned away, shaking his head. "I wasn't thinking about dying."
Trice walked up, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "That's the problem, Jeff. You weren't thinking at all."
Silence fell between them. Jeffrie wanted to argue, wanted to say they didn't understand—but they did. They knew better than anyone what loss could do to a man. And they weren't wrong.
Before anyone could say another word, the sound of soft footsteps approached.
"You're all a bunch of idiots," Raven's voice cut through the tension, laced with its usual sharpness. "Sitting here having a therapy session when we've got a war to win."
Jeffrie turned fully this time, eyes immediately locking onto her. She still had bandages wrapped around her ribs, and her arm in a sling, but she was standing.
A mix of relief and guilt hit him all at once.
"You should be resting," Raven smirked, stepping closer.
"Please, I've been through worse." Her teasing tone faded as she looked at him seriously.
"But you? You lost it out there, Ghost. And I need to know if things go bad again, I don't have to worry about you going off the deep end."
Jeffrie's breath was slow, controlled. He looked at her, really looked at her—the woman who had been by his side since the beginning, the one who had always fought just as fiercely as him.
And the one who had nearly died because of him.
He reached out, brushing his fingers along the side of her face, where a faint bruise still lingered. "I won't lose control again."
Raven searched his face before finally nodding. "Good. Because next time, I'm not letting you fight alone."
Before Jeffrie could respond, she leaned in, pressing her lips against his.
The moment was brief, but it was enough to ground him, to remind him that he still had something worth fighting for.
Ray chuckled, breaking the moment. "Damn, finally.
Thought I was gonna have to lock you two in a room or something."
Trice smirked. "About damn time."
Raven rolled her eyes but didn't step away. "Shut up."
Jeffrie exhaled, his mind clearer than it had been in days.
The battle wasn't over, and the war was far from won.
But in that moment, he wasn't just a soldier, wasn't just a weapon.
He was a man with something to protect.
And he'd fight like hell to make sure he never lost it again.