The bullet ripped across Brock's shoulder—shallow but vicious. It tore through fabric and flesh with a hot snap, spinning him sideways, nerves lighting like a fuse. Not enough to drop him. Enough to piss him off.
His boot slammed down to catch his weight, gravel grinding under his heel. He dragged a breath through his teeth, copper biting the back of his tongue. Warm blood spilled fast down the inside of his vest, crawling sticky over his chest. The sting wasn't clean, wasn't neat—it throbbed, jagged, reminding him with every pulse that she'd touched him.
His head snapped up just In time to catch her.
She came out of the gap in a violent burst—copper hair flashing, eyes wide, body scraping raw as she tore herself free. Her shoulder caught the edge, vest ripping loose with a shriek of metal, and then she was past him—close enough that he felt the rush of her movement—before she hurled herself into the lane.
For a half-second the air between them was charged, her panic colliding with his fury.
Then she was gone, bolting down a row with too few exits and nowhere to hide.
No cover. No backup. Just panic in motion.
Brock staggered once, hand clamped over his shoulder, blood seeping fast between his fingers. The pain roared, then settled into a steady burn—an anchor more than a weakness. He dragged a breath through his teeth, smoke clawing his lungs, then straightened and locked on her path.
She was fast. Faster than he'd pegged her. But sloppy. Already bleeding out, running blind into a funnel that would choke her options one by one.
"Run," he rasped, voice carrying low and raw. "You won't outrun this."
He pushed forward, each step a heavy grind through gravel, his wound answering with fire.
She was panicked. Predictable. And he knew this lane better than she did. It didn't matter how fast she moved—the end was already written.
Now she had his full attention.
─•────
Harper's boots slapped hard against the ground, each impact rattling up her legs like shockwaves. The stitch in her ribs barely cut through the roar pounding in her ears. She pressed forward, weaving through steel towers, shoulders clipping rusted edges, acrid air scraping her lungs with every breath.
Every turn came blind. Left. Right. There was no logic—just flickering light, walls closing in, air thick with gunpowder and scorched rubber. She didn't know where she was going. Only that stopping meant dying.
Then—
A shape sprawled across the next lane. Broad shoulders. Grey sleeves. Boots twisted wrong. She recognized him half a heartbeat before she reached him.
Ollie.
Her stomach lurched. Her chest cracked open. No. Not him. The sight slammed her harder than any round, a cold punch straight through her sternum. His eyes were open, glassy, staring at nothing. He should've been bitching about rations, or cracking jokes about Dante's aim, not lying here discarded like cargo.
Her stride faltered, knees threatening to buckle. Her body screamed to stop, to drop beside him. But momentum betrayed her, shoving her forward on autopilot, betrayal in every step. She vaulted him—cleared the body by inches—and came down hard, pain detonating through her shoulder and spine. The impact echoed off the containers like a gunshot.
She staggered, teeth clacking from the jolt. She wanted to look back. To whisper I'm sorry. But if she faltered, she joined him.
So she kept running, every step peeling another strip of herself away.
Behind her, a shot cracked out—then another. Metal rang. Boots slammed. Voices barked through the haze.
She ran, throat raw, arms trembling as they pumped. The lane stretched ahead like a noose, and still she forced her legs to move. Every inch of her screamed to stop. To grieve. But grief was death, and death was already on her heels.
So she didn't stop.
She ran.
Harper rounded the next corner too fast, boots skidding on loose gravel. Her wounded shoulder slammed into the edge of a container, pain ripping down her ribs and up her neck in a white flash. She reeled off it, vision tunneling—just in time to see him.
One Syndicate enforcer.
Black vest. Rifle already raised.
For a single frozen breath, they locked eyes. Her pistol shook in both hands. His rifle sight leveled steady on her chest.
Then they fired.
The cracks overlapped—hers ragged, his clean. His round carved across her left bicep, opposite the shoulder wound, a searing line that ripped flesh open. The shock jolted her whole arm numb, nearly tearing the pistol from her grip. Blood sprayed down her sleeve in hot streaks. A strangled cry burst raw from her throat.
But her shot struck true.
The round caught him high in the sternum, punching him back. He staggered, rifle jerking as his knees buckled. Breath rasped once, sharp and broken, before the gravel claimed him. His body twitched, then lay still.
Harper's hands clenched the pistol so tight her knuckles burned, but her grip still wavered. Blood leaked from both arms now—her right shoulder blazing, her left screaming with every pulse. She swayed where she stood, chest heaving, head swimming. The air reeked of cordite and iron, thick enough to choke on.
Her body begged to collapse. Her lungs clawed for breath.
But she didn't stop. Couldn't.
Her boots staggered forward, gravel spitting beneath them, each stride sending fire through her battered body. Her shirt clung wet and heavy, her vision blurring with every step, black edging in at the corners.
Still she ran.
Behind her, Brock's voice ripped through the corridor—closer now, rough with fury. Hunting. Relentless.
She didn't look back.
─•────
Brock closed fast, shoulder low, boots grinding gravel into sprays. The echo of the exchange still clung to the steel—her pistol's crack, hurried and raw, chased instantly by the clean punch of a rifle. Then silence.
He rounded the corner and saw him.
Keller.
Broad-chested, steady shot, the kind of man Brock had trusted to anchor a line. Now sprawled in the dirt, rifle slipped half from his grasp, a hole punched dead-center through his sternum. Blood spread wide beneath him, seeping black into gravel. His mouth gaped open, frozen like he'd tried to say something—tried to warn—before the air had left him.
Brock slowed, breath grinding deep in his chest. The copper stench hit first, thick and metallic, settling in his throat. He stopped over Keller's body, gaze tracing the ruin once, steady, cold. No flinch. No curse. Just the flat measure of loss.
His Injured shoulder dragged hot with every breath. He rolled it slow, deliberate, blood slipping down his ribs under the vest in a steady crawl. Pain flared, sharp, then dulled into background noise. The kind of hurt you carried.
But the kill—hers—had been clean. Not luck. Not panic. A centered shot, tight and fast, even while bleeding herself dry.
Brock's jaw flexed once, muscle jumping. His hand lifted to his comm, glove streaked red.
"Knuckles," he said, voice clipped, iron-flat. "Outer lane. She's pushing west. Trail's fresh."
Static broke back, a grunt of acknowledgment. Then silence.
Brock stepped over Keller, boots grinding stone, eyes cutting through the smoke toward the lane ahead. He moved slower now—not from weakness, but calculation. Every step measured, every breath deliberate.
She wasn't running blind anymore. She was fighting to stay alive. And that meant he couldn't just let the pack close her in.
This was his hunt now.
─•────
Harper's lungs felt shredded, every inhale thin and wrong, like dragging breath through torn plastic. Her boots struck the ground in uneven bursts, her stride collapsing in stutters as fatigue gnawed deep into her muscles. Thighs locked. Calves screamed. Her body wasn't just running anymore—it was unraveling.
The shoulder wound burned hot, every jolt sending fire lancing down her arm, blood soaking her sleeve until the fabric clung heavy and wet. Her left bicep throbbed with a steady, vicious pulse, each swing of her arm scraping raw edges against each other. Her ribs flared with every breath, each inhale grinding like broken glass.
But she didn't stop. Couldn't.
She banked left, slammed her good shoulder against a rusted ladder bolted to the wall, the impact rattling her teeth. Her vision swam, sweat and blood burning her eyes. The haze thickened, bitter smoke catching sharp in her throat. The yard blurred—walls of steel, broken scaffolding, shadows that shifted and reformed. She didn't know where she was anymore. Couldn't map the turns. Her legs kept moving, but each one felt stolen, a second too slow, a step away from giving out.
Then—something cut through it.
High above, a shape broke the monotony of steel. A crane. Its skeletal frame stretched wide across the lane, floodlight glow catching on cables that swayed in the breeze. She almost missed it—her brain half a second behind her body—but her stride faltered, knees buckling, legs stuttering like instinct had recognized it before her eyes did.
The crane. Her head whipped toward it.
She'd clocked it before—through the van window, just a flash behind glass smeared with grime. Half-hidden by a collapsed forklift and warped pallets. But she'd marked it, filed it away, because she always did. Always mapped the exits, even when no one else noticed. Especially then.
If she was right—if this was the same crane—it marked the western fence. The access gate.
A way out.
Her chest seized, breath tearing ragged. The thought slammed through her with more force than hope, almost as painful as her wounds. But it didn't matter what it cost her body now.
It was a fucking exit.
She turned hard. Her boots slipped on the gravel, and she nearly went down, momentum dragging her sideways. Her feet caught—barely. Knees buckled, teeth clenched against the scream clawing up her throat. Her left side throbbed like a live wire, the soaked fabric of her shirt clinging to raw flesh, every jolt ripping the wound wider. Her vision doubled, then snapped back—sweat and blood stinging her eyes. Her lungs shrieked for air that didn't come. But none of it mattered. Not now. If she could just reach that gate, she'd be out of the yard. Out of the slaughter. Out of his reach.
Behind her, Brock's voice tore through the air—serrated, unrelenting, like a blade dragged down rusted metal. She didn't hear the words. Didn't need to. It was him. Heavy footfalls. The churn of gravel. That pace—relentless, inevitable, coming fast.
She didn't look back.
Her jaw locked. Teeth ground so hard her temples flared with pain, but she drove forward. Her right arm pulsed with each step, hot and wrong. The muscles in her thighs screamed for relief. She gave them none. There wasn't time to falter. There was only forward.
Harper burst out of the lane and the yard opened ahead, steel falling away like the walls of a cage peeled back, the fence rising in the distance—chain link dark with rust, sagging beneath a shredded tarp that flapped limply in the breeze. And there it was. The gate. It was tucked in the far corner exactly where she'd remembered it, shadowed and crooked, barely visible beneath the wreckage leaning around it. She couldn't see the gap from here—not clearly—but it didn't matter. She knew it was swung open; she saw it perfectly earlier. Two hundred yards, maybe less, and just beyond it, parked at an angle like someone had left it behind in a rush, sat a city bus. Its lights were off, its doors closed. It was empty, but it might as well have been glowing to her. It didn't need to be running. It didn't even need to be real. It was streets beyond this cage. It was alleys. It was other people and noise and everything that wasn't this. Somewhere to disappear. Somewhere human. Somewhere he wouldn't be.
Freedom clawed at her from the other side like a promise she couldn't afford to lose, something bright and jagged just out of reach, and she ran for it with every ruined piece of herself, boots hammering pavement, breath catching wet in her throat, blood sticking the fabric of her shirt to her side. Her knees gave with every stride, threatening collapse, but she forced them straight again, curses tearing soundless from her throat. Her chest sawed open with each gasp, every breath splintering through her. Her body didn't want to move. Her chest felt like it might rip open. But she gave it no choice. She drove herself forward, legs screaming, vision tunneling.
And she didn't stop.
Her boots skidded in the gravel and she slammed into the gate with her whole weight, the crash ringing through steel, hands catching rough metal, chest heaving. Her knees folded and she crashed into it, forehead bouncing hard against cold steel. Pain exploded through her skull, white and dizzy, and a raw sound ripped from her throat—half scream, half sob, jagged and broken. The jolt tore through her ribs like a second wound, stealing her breath, leaving her clinging there with fingers curled into the chain so tight her knuckles bled.
It was sealed. Barred. Mocking.
They'd seen it too.
They'd chained it shut.
This had been her out. Her whole body had rallied around this one thread of escape, every broken step carrying her to this point. She had trusted it. She'd built everything around it. And now it stood locked in front of her—immovable, indifferent—a few feet of steel turning her last hope to ash.
Her pulse slammed through her skull, loud enough to drown out everything else. She yanked once, twice, a third time—so hard her shoulder screamed fresh fire. The chain didn't shift. The padlock didn't even rattle. Dark pressed in at the edges, white sparks bursting at the center as her body trembled in place.
She was trapped.
She whipped around, pistol jerking up on instinct—Brock was coming fast, boots hammering, eyes locked like iron sights. She pulled the trigger.
Click.
Nothing.
The slide stuck half-open, jammed with blood and grit. Her hands shook so badly her grip wasn't clean, her wounded shoulder dragging her aim wide. For a fractured beat she just froze, chest buckling, brain refusing to process the silence where the blast should've been. The pistol wasn't just useless—it had betrayed her.
Panic surged in her chest. She wrenched at the slide, tried to rack it with slick, trembling hands, but the steel refused, clogged and stubborn. "Fuck—fuck!" The words ripped out of her throat, raw and high, as her vision narrowed to a tunnel of motion and noise.
She hurled the pistol. Not strategy. Not defiance. Just the last ragged gasp of resistance. The gun spun end over end and struck him above the eye with a brutal crack. His head snapped sideways, blood cutting a line down his temple. For half a breath his stride faltered, weight hitching, boots losing rhythm. It wasn't much, but it was enough for her pulse to seize on it—enough to make the fence look possible.
Her body lurched before thought could catch it. She turned and flung herself at the chain link.
Her fingers caught metal—slick with her own blood, trembling so hard the fence whined under her weight. She climbed fast, wild, every haul upward tearing fire through her wounded arm, her ribs screaming with each kick of her boots. The wire split her palms open. Her shoulder burned with every jerk. Her body was failing, piece by piece, but she dragged it anyway.
The top rail scraped her fingertips. She stretched higher, nails clawing for purchase, lungs tearing open with each gasp.
Then Brock's hand locked around her ankle. Iron. Absolute.
Her whole body jolted, a scream ripping out of her throat. She kicked down, heel smashing into him hard enough to draw a grunt, low and pained. For a heartbeat, she thought it might've been enough.
It wasn't.
"Let go!" she cried, voice shredded, still clawing higher even as blood slicked her grip. The fence rattled under her trembling arms, chains groaning like they already knew she wouldn't win.
His grip crushed tighter, grinding bone and tendon until fire shot up her calf. His voice rose from below, steady and merciless.
"Fight all you want. It won't change how this ends."
Before the words had cooled, his free arm locked around her waist. He wrenched back—hard.
Her palms tore loose, wire ripping skin until blood striped the links. For a breath she was weightless, the world spinning as the fence dropped away beneath her. A scream tore free, raw and hopeless.
Then she slammed into him—shoulder to his wounded one. His grunt tore ragged, sharp with pain, but his arms only clamped tighter. Momentum dragged them both backward, tangled together, gravity ripping them down in a violent sprawl.
The ground smashed up at them. Grit burst beneath, tearing at clothes and skin. Harper hit flat on her back, air crushed from her lungs in a jagged wheeze. Her ribs lit like firecrackers, her mangled shoulder screamed, her palms seared with fresh agony. The cry that burst from her was broken, half-swallowed under his weight.
Brock crashed down on top of her, his bulk driving her deeper into the gravel. His injured shoulder struck hard and he bared his teeth against the pain, but his grip never loosened.
They landed locked, her body pinned beneath his, her every thrash smothered by his mass. In her head, one thought slammed louder than pain, louder than breath: caught.
But she didn't stop.
Panic clawed her forward even as his forearm pressed across her chest, crushing her ribs, stealing air. She bucked, twisted, boots scraping for leverage. Her hands flailed through dirt, fingernails splitting on stone—until her palm struck steel.
Cold. Solid. A knife. His. It must've shaken loose in the fall. Her fingers closed around it before thought could catch up, the hilt still warm from his body, as if it carried his violence.
She didn't hesitate. Couldn't.
With a ragged cry, Harper drove the blade up between them. It punched through fabric, then deeper—resistance, then give.
Brock's snarl burst guttural as his body jerked, blood spraying across her arm and cheek in a hot arc. His grip faltered, weight shifting, pain twisting through his face.
"You little—" he spat, voice fractured, but it broke off in a hiss as she slashed again, feral and fast, both hands shoving the blade in low.
The knife sank, tore, and he staggered back off her, one hand clamping over his ribs as blood spread fast through his shirt. He was still looming. Still alive. Still too close.
But she was already moving.
Harper rolled to her side, gravel tearing at her skin, then forced herself upright with a lurch. Her boots skidded, legs catching, body screaming—but she got them under her. And then she ran.
Her lungs dragged fire. Her arms burned. Blood poured from shoulder and bicep, the knife still clenched like part of her hand. She didn't know where she was going. Didn't need to.
She just ran.
She veered along the fence and into the yard's exposed edge—cracked pavement yawning out in all directions, scaffolding leaning like rusted bones, floodlights carving harsh, angular shadows across empty ground. For a breath, there was nothing. No footsteps. No movement. Just space. Just silence. A fragile, false momentum strung so tight it felt ready to snap.
Then a voice—low, cold, too close—cut across from the left.
"Nope."
Her head snapped toward the sound. A silhouette stepped into view near the edge of the last container stack, broad-shouldered, rifle already leveled. Bigger than Brock. Steadier. Precise in a way that set her gut to ice.
The shot cracked, deafening.
The round slammed into her chest dead center. The vest stopped the bullet, but nothing stopped the force. It hit like a sledgehammer swung straight into her sternum. Her ribs folded inward, pain detonating through her chest as her breath was stolen wholesale. A raw, airless sound burst from her throat.
Her legs buckled. The last scraps of momentum snapped and she went down hard, back slamming pavement. The impact rattled through her spine, then her skull cracked against concrete, vision sparking in white fractures. The knife flew from her grip, skidding away in the dark.
There was no blood. No gaping hole. But that didn't matter. Her lungs refused to work. Her chest felt crushed from the inside, ribs caging tighter with every pulse. She clawed at air that wouldn't come, body seizing as the weight of the shot tore the ground out from under her.
She was still trying to roll to her side, chest caved and vision swimming, when Knuckles was on her.
Boots pounded once—then his shadow swallowed hers. A fist locked in her collar and yanked her upright before her legs even found the ground.
She barely managed a gasp before he spun her and slammed her face-first into the fence.
Steel chain tore her cheek open. Her teeth cracked together. The mesh flexed, then snapped back, blasting what little air she had left out of her lungs. Her hands fluttered uselessly for the links, but a thick forearm drove across her back and pinned her flat.
Then the weight hit. Heavy. Absolute.
Her chest crushed against the wire until her ribs screamed. The vest cut into her, biting high under her sternum like it meant to fold her in half. Her knees buckled and didn't come back this time. His body kept her there anyway, locked hard against the fence, grinding her into it until her breath rasped wet through blood and grit.
She tried to twist, boots scraping, but her strength was gone. The effort died in her arms before it even reached her hands.
Knuckles didn't taunt. Didn't bark. He just held her pinned, breath slow and steady against the side of her face, like this wasn't even a fight. Like this was routine.
Footsteps pressed closer—measured, deliberate, gravel crunching under weight.
Brock emerged at the edge of her vision, floodlight glow catching him in shards. His shirt was torn, ribs soaked dark where the knife had gone in. Blood streamed heavy down his side, thickening at his waistband, each step forcing it wider. His frame stayed straight, but his shoulder dragged low, taut with strain. He moved like a man refusing collapse by sheer will.
He stopped just shy of her—close enough she could feel the heat of him, far enough that Knuckles' forearm never eased.
Only then did Knuckles glance over. His eyes tracked the sodden patch at Brock's ribs, the angle of his arm. A low grunt escaped him, practical more than worried. "You're bleeding bad."
Brock's pale gaze cut to him, voice low and hoarse, ragged at the edges but steady. "I'll live."
Then his attention slid back to Harper. And stayed there.
The yard went still—just her ragged breath against steel, and the slow patter of his blood dripping into gravel.
Harper shifted her weight—subtle, measured, like she was giving out. Her right foot slid back against his boot.
Then she stamped her heel down. Hard.
Knuckles grunted, a low, guttural sound, his grip jolting just enough to loosen the crush across her spine. Not broken. Not gone. But shifted.
She dropped instantly, letting herself fold like dead weight. Her knees buckled, her shoulder twisting inward beneath his arm. For a half-second she was wedged awkward against his hip, ribs screaming under the angle—then she shoved backward, low, desperate, clawing space where there shouldn't have been any.
Her shoulder clipped his thigh as she wriggled through, gravel shredding her palms when she hit the ground. She didn't rise clean—she scrambled, half-crawling, boots skidding until her legs somehow caught and lurched her upright. Bloodied, off-balance, empty-handed.
But she was free. Out of his grip.
Not for long.
Knuckles pivoted fast, boots grinding, already squaring to close the distance. His shoulders rose, fists ready, intent written in every hard line of his frame.
"Don't."
Brock's voice cut across the space—low, final. Not barked. Not asked. Just dropped like steel.
Knuckles froze mid-step. His breath flared once through his nose, his stance still coiled. He didn't answer. Didn't drop his guard. His eyes stayed locked on her, steady, waiting.
Brock didn't need to step forward. He was already there. Watching. Waiting.
"Let her," he said.
One arm clamped tight against her ribs, hand pressed hard over the soaked sleeve where the bullet had carved its shallow line. Blood ran from her elbow in uneven drops, spattering down her forearm and wrist, soaking her palm until it slipped against her own grip. Higher up, older smears darkened her throat—Sykes' still wet along her jaw, Rico's dried to a stiff streak below her collar. Hers. Theirs. All of it on her.
Her face was wrecked—cheek split, lip swelling, grit ground into raw skin. Shrapnel cuts ran through her brow, blood still leaking into one eye until it blinked in slow, stinging spasms. The skin around the other was puffed and dark, purple blooming fast. She didn't look like she was holding ground. She looked like her body was collapsing in pieces, muscle memory the only thing stringing her upright.
Her gaze flicked between them—Brock, blood thick down his ribs but eyes locked like a scope; Knuckles, planted and solid, the kind of man who didn't need to move to threaten violence. She didn't need to weigh the odds. One wounded. One fresh. Both enough to break her.
Her legs trembled, a constant jitter just short of giving. Not just fear. Not anymore. Shock had set in—cold under the sweat, blood loss buzzing her limbs until they barely answered. Her arm throbbed against her ribs, the pain gone electric. Every inhale rasped like her lungs had turned to glass, cutting on the inside as they fought for air.
Her throat closed. A sound broke loose anyway—raw, fractured, half-breathed. Not a sob. Just the last scrap of her leaking out, refusing to stay contained.
Brock looked at Knuckles. No nod, no word—just a shift in weight. Knuckles held.
Then Brock moved. Slow. Precise. Like time answered to him alone. His stride carried the heaviness of his wound, the pull of blood down his ribs—but it never faltered. No rush. No mercy. Just certainty.
She didn't flinch.
She watched him come the way you watch a gun barrel swing toward you—vision narrowing, every nerve screaming to move, but her feet holding. Her jaw clenched until it ached. And somewhere beneath the ruin of her body, something steadied.
Not defiance. Not hope. Just the refusal to fall first.
He stopped close. Closer than he needed to. Heat came off him in waves—sweat, blood, that faint trace of cologne burned almost clean by smoke and fire. His shadow drowned her out. The world tilted around the space he filled.
He didn't reach for a weapon. Didn't even lift a hand at first. Just looked.
Brock's stare held her like a verdict waiting to be spoken. He was deciding whether silence was enough—or if he had to break her himself.
Harper—cut, trembling, chest sawing ragged—didn't look away. One arm clutched tight to her side, blood soaking hot down her sleeve. Her other curled at her hip, nails digging into her own flesh just to stay upright. Her chin lifted, not proud, but refusing to give him the last inch.
"You don't know when to quit," Brock said. His voice landed low, iron dragged through gravel.
Her breath caught. Her lips parted, then pressed shut again. She gave him nothing.
He studied her. Long. Unblinking. The air stretched taut.
Then his hand snapped out, faster than her battered body could register—
—and the punch landed.
His fist cracked across her jaw—fast, brutal, final. Her head snapped sideways, light bursting behind her eyes. Blood filled her mouth, hot and metallic. Her knees buckled, the ground tilting—yet somehow she stayed up, swaying, teeth bared through the blood.
She swung back. Weak, clumsy, her good arm barely carrying the weight of her fist into his ribs. It didn't move him. Didn't even register past a grunt. But she threw it anyway, because stopping felt worse than falling.
Brock barely absorbed it before she lurched again—wild, half-blind, grabbing his vest and ramming her forehead into his nose. The crack jarred her skull more than his. His grunt came sharp, blood flashing at his nostrils—but his stance didn't break.
Her knee came up next, desperate and off-angle. It clipped, enough to wrench a hiss from him, his torso curling by instinct. For a heartbeat, she felt the smallest win—air in his throat, weight shifting—
—and that's when the freight train hit.
Knuckles slammed in from the side, all speed and mass, his forearm driving into her ribs. Pain tore through her chest, ripping a raw scream from her before her legs collapsed. Dirt caught her knees, skin tearing open as she crashed down.
He didn't let her fall forward. A fist in her collar wrenched her upright, jerking her spine back until it arched. His other hand crushed her wrist, forcing both arms behind her in one brutal motion. She fought, boots skidding, body thrashing—but his knee rammed into the crook of her leg, pinning it until it folded. The other buckled with it, slammed down under his weight.
She was down. Forced to her knees.
Knuckles locked her there, one massive hand grinding her wrists up between her shoulder blades, the other gripping her vest tight. Her back burned with the pressure, every wound screaming open. Grit bit into her shins. Her chest heaved shallow, the vest cinching tighter with every ragged pull of breath.
She bucked once—just once—but his weight pressed down until resistance turned to shaking.
The hold wasn't clean. It wasn't neat. It was savage, humiliating, final. He'd put her where he wanted her—kneeling, trembling, broken open under his grip—and the only thing she had left was her jaw, clenched until it hurt, the scream still caught behind her teeth.
Brock crouched in front of her, blood slicking his vest, knuckles split wide, chest rising slow. Silent. Studying. No words. No weapon drawn. Just his eyes—leveled, unsparing—raking over her like he was peeling her apart from the inside. Not to taunt. To take stock. To see what was left.
Then his hand slid into her hair. No ponytail anymore—just tangled strands, sweat and grit clinging in knots. His fingers combed through slow, almost gentle, like a man soothing a stray before caging it. Then his grip closed. Twisted tight. Her head snapped back, forced up, her chin rising only because he dragged it there.
Her eyes met his. Bloodshot, lashes crusted red, one brow split and bleeding down into her eye. Still, defiance burned there—flickering low but alive, the last coil of fire that hadn't gone out.
His breath dragged heavier now, steady but weighted. She felt it against her face, hot and close. He didn't look away. His gaze swept her bruises, the swelling at her eye, the cut on her cheek that still seeped, cataloging each mark like proof of what she'd endured—and what hadn't broken her. He let the defiance hit him, let it burn across the silence between them.
So she spat. Blood-mixed, thick, hitting his cheek in a wet streak. The last thing she had left to give.
Time snapped taut.
His hand didn't flinch. It stayed twisted in her hair, anchoring her head in place, unyielding. But his other hand came fast—merciless. The backhand cracked across her face, brutal enough to rattle bone. Her neck whipped, but the hair-grip held her locked, no give, no escape. Pain ignited across her cheek, compressed and inescapable.
Her breath hitched. Vision swam. Jaw clenched against a cry. Knuckles' hold at her back kept her from collapsing, Brock's fist in her hair kept her head upright. She sagged anyway, spine bowing under the hit, but they pinned her there—restrained, burning, unable to fall.
"You lasted longer than most," he murmured, voice like stone dragged over steel. Quiet. Measured. Not cruel. Not kind. Just cold—dangerous. Respect honed into a blade. "Fought harder, too."
Only then did his grip ease from her hair. Slow. Deliberate. Like setting down a sentence already passed. He rose, boots grinding grit, each step behind her measured and final. She didn't turn. She didn't need to. The shift in the air was enough—the weight of him sliding closer.
A beat.
Then Knuckles' hold shifted away. No signal. No word. Just gone. Her arms snapped forward an inch, muscles trembling in the sudden absence, her body rocking like a wire cut loose.
Before she could even draw a breath, Brock's hands clamped down. Not tentative. Not testing. Brutal. His grip swallowed her wrists, yanking them back harder than before, locking bone against bone. In the same motion he shoved her down, forcing her to the dirt.
Her cheek split against stone. Dust filled her mouth. Her ribs crushed flat beneath his weight.
Then his knee planted hard in her spine, the other braced at her hip, his whole mass bearing her down until her chest scraped the ground and her arms were wrenched up past their natural line. Pain scalded through her shoulders, her joints straining as if they'd tear from the socket. Her body jolted once, then sagged, useless under the pressure.
She didn't scream. But her vision blackened at the edges, sparks bursting behind her eyes.
And then—
Click. Soft. Mechanical. Certain.
The muzzle kissed the base of her skull. Cold. Centered. Final.
"You took one of mine," he murmured near her ear—low, precise, the kind of quiet that cut deeper than shouting. "Not just anyone. One of my best."
She didn't answer. Couldn't. Her breath scraped shallow through grit and blood, her chest barely lifting beneath his weight. Her body felt stretched to breaking, every joint screaming against the torque. From the corner of her eye—boots. Knuckles. Still as stone. Dust-caked soles streaked with blood, braced wide like he was already watching the ground claim her.
"I want to know the name of the girl I'm about to put in the dirt."
Her heart slammed once. Then again. Each beat rattled her ribs like a drum summoning the end. Her throat locked. Her tongue went slack. The silence stretched—thin, suffocating, absolute.
Then a sound split it. The slide racked—mechanical, cold, final. No bluff. No breath. Just ritual. This wasn't theater. This was her execution.
It was happening—here, in the dirt, with her arms pinned and her breath scraping raw, the muzzle steady at the hollow where skull met spine. Her cheek was split open against the ground, knees shredded by stone. Her body trembled under the weight of inevitability.
No fight left. No tactic. No time. Just the end.
And yet—what rose wasn't fear. It was Dante.
The rasp of his laugh when she stole the last bite. His hand at her back, low, certain, like it belonged there. His mouth on hers—slow, reverent, carrying the promise of tomorrows. A dinner. A quiet night. A future past the gun smoke.
That tomorrow was gone. She would never hear that voice again. Never taste that kiss. Never press her cheek to his shoulder and believe the world could stop.
Brock's grip crushed tighter, ripping her back from memory. No warning. No mercy. His weight bore down until her ribs ground into the grit, her spine bent to the edge of breaking.
Her shoulders screamed, joints wrenched so far they felt like they'd tear from the socket. Her lungs buckled, her vision blurred out. Then his voice cut through the pain, low and cold, rasping in her ear like a verdict.
"Your name. Say it."
She clenched her jaw, held breath, fought to keep it. His knee drove harder into her spine, grinding bone against stone, crushing the air from her lungs until a cry tore out—raw, ragged, involuntary.
"Harper—" she gasped, voice shattered. "Harper Voss."
Stillness hit like a wall, absolute and suffocating. The air thinned. No breath. No gunshot. Just silence—drawn tight as wire, stretched over the raw edge of everything. The weight across her spine didn't shift. The pistol stayed fixed to her skull. But something in the shape of it changed. Not mercy. Not hesitation. A new awareness coiled beneath the pressure—cold, deliberate, dangerous.
His grip adjusted—barely—but she felt it in the wrench of her shoulders, the subtle change in how his weight bore down. Like a man who had just fit a name to a face—and didn't like what it meant.
From the edge of her vision, Knuckles shifted one step, gravel crunching. Quiet. Controlled. His stance sank heavier into the dirt, like bracing for whatever came next.
No one spoke. No one moved. The silence swelled until it pressed against her ribs harder than his knee. Her cheek dragged against grit. Her lungs clawed for air. Her arms screamed in his hold. And still the muzzle stayed, cold and steady against the soft hinge where skull met spine.
Harper didn't twitch. Didn't blink. Just lay there, the static of that pause crawling into her bones. Something had changed. She felt it in the weight of him above her, in the way the yard itself seemed to hold its breath.
The name had landed.
And the silence that followed felt more final than the shot.