The door hissed open, and Brock dragged Harper across the threshold, the cuffs sawing into her raw wrists. The room swallowed her—bare concrete walls, stains ground deep into the floor, a single chair bolted beneath a cone of light. No table. Nowhere to hide. Across the far wall stretched a pane of black glass, blank and depthless, throwing her wrecked reflection back at her. Blood-smeared, hollow-eyed, bound. Not a mirror. A reminder. She wasn't alone. She was being watched.
Her body stalled before her mind caught up. Boots skidded, knees locking as if that alone could stop him. The sight of that chair under the light turned her stomach—stripped, exposed, waiting. Her pulse hammered against the cuffs as she dug her heels into the concrete, breath catching in her throat.
Brock's grip tightened on the chain. His voice cut low, quieter than a threat had any right to be.
"Don't."
She held a second longer. Then the links snapped taut, yanking her forward. Her ribs jolted with the pull as he dragged her into the light, boots scraping until the chair loomed in front of her. The metal struck the backs of her legs, and before she could catch herself he shoved her down hard. Steel bit into swollen wrists as she hit the seat. Brock stayed on his feet, the chain short in his fist, holding her as though she were tethered to him alone.
She sat rigid, ribs aching against the hard edge, the light drilling into her eyes until she saw nothing but his outline looming over her. This was it. The chair, the glass, the silence pressing down like a weight—every piece of it told her what came next. Interrogation. Not questions alone. Not with Brock. Not when he'd already left her strung up until her body nearly broke.
Her stomach twisted hollow. She locked her jaw until her teeth ached, trying to cage the fear thundering in her chest. But she knew it, bone-deep. She wasn't ready for this.
Brock didn't speak right away. He stood with the chain short in his fist, weight set like he could hold her there all night if he had to. The silence wasn't empty—it was the kind that filled the lungs, pressed in until she had no space left to breathe. Every second told her this was his ground, and she was only here because he'd put her here.
When his voice finally came, it had ice in it.
"Say your name."
Her throat tightened. He already knew it. He'd forced it out of her once before, ground it into her spine until she cried it into the concrete. Why make her repeat it? Because he wanted her to surrender it again. To prove even the smallest piece of her wasn't hers anymore.
"Harper Voss," she whispered.
His jaw worked once, like he was chewing the sound. No nod. No change in his face. The chain flexed in his hand, links scraping faintly, then stilled.
"Who do you run with."
That one she expected. He'd known it from the start. Still, the words burned coming out. To name them was to drag the Vipers into this chair with her, but withholding it—what would that buy her? He didn't care about truth, only obedience.
"Crimson Vipers," she said, raw.
His eyes narrowed for a breath. Not satisfaction. Not even acknowledgment. Just the mark of a man ticking a box. His next question cut in fast, sharp enough to slice the air.
"Where's your hideout."
Her mouth dried at once. The image rose unbidden—the narrow halls of the shipping office, plaster peeling, crates shoved into corners, the stale reek of dust and oil that clung no matter how wide they left the windows. It wasn't much, but it was theirs. If she spoke, that would be the end of it.
Her wrists twisted against the cuffs, instinct tugging against steel. The words refused to come.
Brock jerked the cuffs once, just enough to wrench her forward. Her ribs screamed, her breath broke, and he bent low so the scar along his jaw caught the light. His voice rasped rough, steady, a grind against her ear.
"Answer me."
Her heart slammed hard enough to blur her vision. She fixed her gaze on the black glass, the reflection staring back at her—bloodied, bound, watched. Whoever was behind it could see she was cracking. She swallowed and forced her voice through the tremor.
"I'm not telling you that."
For a moment, he didn't move. Just the refusal hanging between them. His eyes stayed on her, unblinking, until she thought he might let it go.
His free hand shot out, clamping her chin and forcing her face into the light. His grip was hard, thumb pressed against bruised bone, forcing her head up. He bent closer, not just a voice in her ear this time but a presence that crowded the air.
"You think this is a choice."
The words weren't shouted. They came low, leashed, with the grit of a man holding himself steady. His stare drilled into hers, waiting for the crack.
Her throat bobbed, dry as sand. Her shoulders twitched under his grip, pulse hammering against her skin.
Brock shoved her head back sudden, the chain taut in his fist. His jaw flexed once, irritation flickering through the restraint, before he spoke again.
"Try again."
She clenched her teeth until they hurt. No words.
His silence stretched, heavy. Then:
"You're not holding back for yourself. You're holding back for them."
Her stomach lurched. He'd nailed it in one line. She tried to still her face, but she knew he'd seen the flicker in her eyes.
"They're not here," he said. "You are."
Her silence was answer enough.
His fist drove into her ribs, merciless and exact, landing on the spot already wrecked. Pain flared through her chest, ripping her breath out in a ragged gasp. The chair rocked, metal screaming against concrete.
Her vision blackened at the edges, the world tipping sideways. For a moment she thought she'd go under, collapse into nothing—but air scraped back into her lungs, jagged and wet. She clung to it, trembling.
Brock didn't wait for her to steady.
"Who runs the Vipers."
Faces crowded her mind—names, voices, every person who mattered—but she locked them down. Sweat stung her eyes as she forced the words past her teeth, hoarse and uneven.
"I won't give you that."
The chain tightened in his fist, the links grinding against themselves. His voice came again, harder now, patience stripped away.
"Who runs the Vipers."
Her lungs burned. Her shoulders jerked against the strain, a sound breaking in her throat before she clamped it back. She shook her head, quivering.
"I won't."
His eyes narrowed. This time he didn't lean close—he released the chain and circled behind her chair, his steps slow on the concrete, voice dropping low from just over her shoulder.
"You think they'd bleed for you the way you're bleeding for them? You think any one of them would sit in this chair and choke down pain to keep your name clean?"
Her chest heaved, every breath fueling the agony in her ribs. Her jaw locked, teeth gritted, as she kept the words buried.
Brock let the silence stretch, the cuffs carving deeper into her wrists, dragging the truth out of her one nerve at a time. Then he eased back into view, eyes flat, assessing.
"Fine. We'll circle back."
The chain shifted as he took it back in to his fist, a small reminder of its weight. His next words landed with the same blunt certainty.
"Who supplies you."
Her chest hitched. The question caught her off balance—smaller, less obvious than leadership, but just as dangerous. To answer it was to draw a map straight to the Vipers' door. She shook her head weakly, lips pressed tight.
The chain twisted. Pain shot down her arms, raw wrists screaming as steel dug deeper.
"You think silence makes you strong?" His voice stayed low, steady. "All it does is carve you open for people who won't even notice you're gone."
Her vision swam. She forced herself to look past him, back to the glass. If they were watching, she wouldn't let them see her break.
"Who. Supplies. You."
Her silence stretched, heavy in the air. Sweat slid down her temple, but she kept her jaw locked.
The answer was nothing.
Brock's hand snapped before thought could catch it. The back of his fist cracked across her face, rattling her teeth. Her head whipped sideways, cheek blazing, a hot line splitting across her nose. Blood spilled fast, sliding over her lip and to her chin. The chair skidded an inch, metal scraping loud in the silence.
His voice came harsher now, clipped and spitting.
"You think this is strength? Sitting there, bleeding for people who won't even know you're gone?"
Her chest heaved, breath catching sharp as she pulled against the cuffs, wrists screaming raw. Blood tracked down her chin in steady lines, pattering dark on the floor.
Brock shifted closer again, not crouching this time but standing over her, words dropping heavy from above.
"Your father tried the same thing. Died clutching secrets that bought him nothing. You want to follow him into the ground?"
The name cut colder than the strike. Harper froze, blood pounding in her ears, fear and rage colliding hot in her chest. She forced herself not to look away, though her vision blurred red at the edges.
Brock watched the silence break across her face, every flicker giving him more than words would. He reached out, thumb dragging slow along her chin, smearing the blood across her skin. He studied the red on his fingers a moment, then let his hand fall back to his side.
"This is all you're buying with your silence. Pain. More of it, until there's nothing left of you but the same kind of corpse your father became."
Her breath snagged, blood bitter on her tongue.
Brock straightened, the cuffs clinking as he shifted his stance. His tone cut back in, harder now, patience worn thin.
"How many Vipers are left."
She kept her silence, jaw clamped, blood thick in her throat.
The seconds stretched.
Then the chain snapped up, yanking her wrists high until her shoulders wrenched and her body pitched forward. His other hand drove into her already-bruised ribs, knuckles deep enough to tear the air from her lungs. A broken cry slipped out before she could choke it back. The chair rattled under her, her frame curling against the pain.
Brock held her there a beat, breath harsh through his nose. His fist flexed once, like he wanted another strike—then stilled.
He released the chain slow, letting it clatter against the cuffs. His voice came flat, colder than before.
"Enough."
He stepped back, rolling his shoulders once as if shaking the weight from them, then looked past her to the black glass. Whatever signal passed, it was silent, but his stance said it plain: this wasn't going anywhere.
Brock leaned down one last time, voice pitched low for her alone.
"Think about how much more it'll take before you talk."
Then he straightened, chain taut in his grip, and pulled her up out of the chair.
Her legs gave the moment she rose. Strength drained, knees buckling under her own weight. She crumpled, hitting the floor hard, breath tearing out in a wet gasp. For a second she stayed there, folded on herself, the cold concrete seeping into bone.
Brock didn't move to catch her. He stood over her, chain still looped in his fist, watching her sag in the shadows. One minute. Two. Long enough to make it clear this was no mercy—just another lesson.
Brock hauled her upright with a snap of the chain. Her legs staggered beneath her, but his stride was set, dragging her out of the room before she could steady herself. The hall stretched endless in the harsh light, each step jarring through her ribs, each stumble met with a wrench of steel that tore her wrists rawer. Blood ticked down her face, dripping from her chin to the floor in a trail she couldn't hide.
The elevator swallowed them whole, its walls throwing her reflection back in fractured pieces—bloated eye, split lip, red smeared down her throat. Brock didn't look at her once. He held the chain short, silent, while the cab dropped into the earth.
The doors opened on the sour air of the basement. Her boots dragged, scraping concrete as he pulled her down the corridor. The black steel door waited ahead, scanner pulsing green like an eye that never blinked. A hiss split the silence, the hydraulic lock breaking. The slab groaned open.
He shoved her through the door, the stink of bleach and rust closing in like a fist. This time he didn't waste movement. The chain dragged her to the back wall, cuffs clipped low into a steel loop at chest height. Her body folded awkward, arms pulled forward, ribs crushed against the strain. Too low to stand, too high to sink—caught in the cruel middle.
Her knees quivered, already sliding toward collapse, but the cuffs held her upright, forcing her weight back into her chest until each breath cut shallow and wet. Blood still dripped from her nose, speckling the floor dark.
Brock didn't linger. He released the links and turned, the door sealing behind him with a final hiss. No glance back. No word.
The cell swallowed her whole. The bulb buzzed overhead, painting her shadow crooked on the wall as her body shook against the pull of steel. There was no rest in it. No air. Just the long stretch of pain waiting to outlast her.
─•────
The compound's top floor carried a different weight. Quieter, softer at the edges, as though the walls themselves knew who lived here. The air didn't stink of bleach or gun oil, didn't hum with the fluorescent buzz that haunted the barracks. Up here, the lighting was warm, the floors poured smooth, hallways wider. This wasn't for the rank and file. These suites were for the Syndicate's chosen—the men who'd clawed their way high enough to sleep above the noise.
Brock's door hissed open at his touch. The space beyond was spare but deliberate, not barracks, not luxury—something carved between the two. The entry opened wide into a combined kitchen and living space. A long island dominated the kitchen, steel base and dark stone top. Cabinets in matte black lined one wall, appliances gleaming beneath the overhead lights. A fridge hummed steady, its surface scrubbed bare.
The living room spread beyond, divided only by a shift in the flooring—slab tile giving way to a heavy rug. A low leather couch faced a mounted screen, wires hidden, every line clean. No photographs. No keepsakes. Nothing but function.
At the back stretched a short hall. One door led to his bedroom, another to the spare he rarely touched. A third opened into his office, the door kept shut more often than not, and at the end lay a washroom tiled in slate. Every room connected, but none cluttered. Space without warmth.
Brock crossed to the kitchen, pulled a bottle from the cupboard, and poured amber liquor into a glass. Ice cracked when it hit, the sound sharp in the quiet. He leaned against the island, sipping slow, letting the burn settle.
Outside, voices drifted down the hall. One of them he knew instantly—Knuckles, the gravel in his tone carrying even through steel. The other voice faded, steps peeling away, until Knuckles' boots drew closer.
The panel hissed, and Knuckles walked in without pause. Broad frame, easy grin, the swagger of a man who treated locks like decoration. "Place is still too clean," he said, sweeping his eyes over the room. "Feels more like a catalog spread than somewhere you actually sleep."
He cut across the room, grabbed a beer from the fridge, cracked the cap on the counter edge, and leaned his hip against the island as if it were his own.
"You're still stiff," he said, eyes snagging on Brock. "Don't tell me you're healed up—few days doesn't patch stab wounds and holes in your shoulder."
Brock rolled the glass between his fingers, jaw set. "Stitches are holding."
Knuckles laughed, short and low. "That's not healed. You're still moving like every breath drags."
"Doesn't matter."
"It does when you're supposed to keep the rest of us upright," Knuckles said, but the bite was gone, replaced by brotherly irritation. "You can't run on fumes forever."
Brock only took another swallow, the faintest smirk ghosting his mouth before vanishing again.
Knuckles drank, foam streaking the glass neck. "You ever think about adding something in here? Plant, picture—hell, even a rug that isn't the size of a parking lot."
Brock shot him a look over the rim. "You redecorating now?"
"Just saying—four walls, no soul. Man could think you moved in yesterday." Knuckles grinned. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you sneak off to the barracks just to feel something."
"Barracks smell like shit."
"Better than this place smelling like nothing." Knuckles clinked his bottle against Brock's glass. "Cold walls don't keep you warm, brother."
Brock didn't rise to it. He drained the rest, set the glass down, and let the quiet breathe.
It held a beat before Knuckles' grin eased off. His tone dropped, steadier. "Heard you put Voss through her first round."
Brock's gaze lingered on the empty glass, fingers drumming once against the counter before curling into a fist. "She's stubborn." The word carried weight, edged with frustration.
Knuckles tilted his head. "That a surprise?"
"She's not cracking. Took everything I gave her and still kept her mouth shut." Brock raked a hand back through his hair, the movement rough, leaving it standing a little askew before he braced his palm on the counter. "Starting to wonder if it's worth it. Could end this with a bullet."
Knuckles frowned, though his tone stayed calm. "Vex seemed set on squeezing something out of her."
"Cole and Price are running the yard," Brock said. "If anyone's dumb enough to come sniffing, they'll flush themselves. She may not be worth the bruises it takes to drag it out of her."
Knuckles studied him over the bottle, then took a long pull. "This is why we don't take prisoners. More trouble than they're worth."
Brock didn't argue. His jaw flexed, silence saying enough.
Knuckles pointed with the neck of the bottle. "What's it been—two days? Girl's busted up, half starved. She hasn't even had time to grieve or process whatever she lost out there." He shrugged. "Give her a few more days. Starve her out a little longer. Weak gets weaker."
He leaned In, voice lower, the grin turning cruel at the edges. "And next time, let me sit in. Two against one's harder to hold out against. Might even be fun, watching her try."
Brock didn't smile, but something in his jaw eased. "Two against one's harder, yeah. Could work." His gaze dropped back to the counter, voice low. "As long as it gets her mouth open, I don't care how."
─•────
Time blurred.
The bulb overhead never stopped buzzing. Sometimes it flickered, sometimes it held steady, but it gave nothing away—no dawn, no night, no rhythm. Just the same pale wash on four stained walls, the stink of bleach and rust chewing at the back of her throat.
Her knees buckled again and again, each collapse snapping her awake as the cuffs wrenched her raw wrists against steel. Minutes, hours—it had bled into days.
Hunger had gutted her. The sharp gnawing was gone; only sickness remained, a constant rolling nausea every time she tried to breathe deep. Water came once—shoved at her, half of it spilling down her chest when the chain yanked taut before she could raise it. Enough to keep her alive. Not enough to quiet the rasp in her throat.
The truth circled her mind until it carved itself in: the others would think she was dead. Rico, Sykes, Ollie—none had come back. The yard had burned out, and no one walked away from a Syndicate raid. If she wasn't already a corpse, there was no way for them to know. No way for them to find her.
Her chest locked tight, ribs screaming with each shallow drag. She'd never get her date with Dante. He'd be mourning her already, raising a glass to her name, maybe cursing the hole she'd left behind. But he wouldn't come. None of them would.
The thought pressed harder than the cuffs. No rescue. No one searching. Just the flickering bulb, the sour air, and her body ebbing away inch by inch.
Her frame curled inward, shoulders caving, wrists burning until she couldn't tell where skin ended and steel began. Fear wasn't loud anymore. It was quieter, heavier, sinking into her chest like a stone she couldn't heave off.
She wasn't waiting to be forgotten. She was already gone.
The hiss of hydraulics split the silence. Harper's body jerked hard against the restraints, wrists tearing raw. The slab door shuddered open, spilling light across the cell floor. Two shadows stretched long in its glow—Brock's heavy frame, and beside him the bulk of Knuckles.
They filled the doorway without speaking, blocking out everything behind them.