The door's hiss hadn't even died when her stomach lurched. Brock was bad enough—broad frame filling the slab, chain coiled in his fist—but Knuckles beside him was worse. His grin cut sharp in the wash of light, the same grin she'd seen before he'd driven her into steel and left her ribs screaming. Her wrists jerked hard against the cuffs, skin tearing fresh, body folding instinctively away though there was nowhere left to go. The bulb buzzed overhead, painting both men in jagged shadow as they stepped inside.
The chain clattered free, and without it she pitched forward, cuffed hands scraping concrete. Brock caught the front of her vest before she split her face open, yanking her back upright. Knuckles' laugh cracked off the walls as he hooked an arm around her ribs, pinning her tight against his side.
"Look at her," he said, voice thick with amusement. "Can't even stand and still thinks she's a fighter. Ain't that sweet?"
Together they hauled her toward the threshold. Her bare feet skidded raw on grit, toes catching, heels dragging. Every stumble jarred her ribs until sound leaked broken from her throat. They kept her moving anyway—Brock's fist welded to her vest, Knuckles shoving her along like a sack—down a corridor that stank of rust and wet concrete.
Knuckles leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. "Don't worry, Voss. We'll prop you up real nice when it counts."
At the next turn a steel door loomed, black glass inset high enough to throw their reflection back at her: two shadows carrying something broken between them. The lock shrieked as it unsealed, loud enough to make Harper flinch. Brock hauled her through first, his grip locked hard in her vest, while Knuckles kept her upright with a bruising arm cinched under her ribs. Her bare feet dragged and slapped against the concrete, cold biting up her legs with every stumble. Together they pulled her into the light, and the door slammed shut behind with a mechanical clunk that cut the world away.
This wasn't an interrogation room. Not in any way that resembled procedure or law. The walls were smooth concrete, seamless and cold, stained near the base where fluids had run and dried in uneven streaks. In the center, a drain gaped wide and slotted, ringed with rust, like something animal had bled out there and been rinsed away too many times. Above it, a floodlight burned white and low, mounted directly into the ceiling, its beam fixed and merciless. Everything beyond its reach sank into shadow, but not enough to hide the track built into the concrete above—a heavy steel rail embedded in the ceiling, shackles clipped to runners, designed to slide and lock at intervals. One dangled already, its chain short, thick, waiting.
To her left, a metal shelf sat bolted into the wall. Nothing labeled, nothing hidden—just tools set with intent. Cloth folded clean. A coil of rubber tubing. A pitcher filled to the halfway line with water. A heat-scored length of steel. Zip ties. Restraints. Everything placed like it had already been chosen. The only chair sat welded beneath the light—steel, unpadded, its surface curved just enough to force posture. Leather straps hung from its arms, its back, its legs. The seat was stained—the kind of dark that didn't come out with bleach.
The room hit her like a blow—no sound, no movement, just the shape of it, cold and coiled, waiting to be used. Every detail pressed inward. The walls didn't echo. The air didn't stir. Even the silence felt deliberate, engineered to bury her beneath it. Her stomach turned, breath catching shallow and uneven in her chest. She hunched forward, cuffs drawn tight across her torso in a hollow attempt to guard herself. It did nothing.
They hauled her into the center of the room, the floodlight above burning down like judgment, fixing her in place. Brock stopped first. His fist still clenched in her vest, he held her steady a beat longer—then without a word, he let go. Not a shove. Not a retreat. Just absence. The weight of his hand lifted from her back and the connection broke, abrupt and final. Knuckles' arm stayed cinched around her ribs, the only thing keeping her upright. The shift in pressure was dizzying, and for a moment she felt like she might drop straight through the concrete.
She stayed still, silent. Barefoot on slick cold, the drain yawning beneath her toes like a mouth that had tasted too much. Her pulse thudded in her throat. Her eyes wouldn't leave it. It gleamed wet beneath the light—like it remembered.
Brock stepped back. A single pace. Then another. Circling her, slow, boots ticking over concrete in a rhythm too measured to be anything but intentional. She didn't track him with her head. Couldn't. Her body was locked rigid in Knuckles' grip, every shallow breath trembling against the hold, every nerve bracing for whatever was coming next.
When Brock stopped again, he was behind her. Close. Not touching, but near enough that the heat of him bled through the cold, that awful masculine stillness pressing into her spine. The longer he stood there, the less she could tell if she was bracing for pain or pleading for it to be over.
"You understand where you are now?" he asked. His voice was low. Unmoved. Not cruel. Not even angry. Just steady. Certain. Like he was reading from a script he'd never once questioned.
Then he moved past her shoulder, coming around until he stood in front. His hand closed over the chain between her cuffs—steady, final. Knuckles gave a hard shove from behind, forcing her a half-step forward so Brock could drag her bound wrists up into the waiting runner above. The mechanism snapped closed, steel biting over chain. It ratcheted to life at once—metal scraping metal, hoisting her higher, dragging her arms until her elbows strained and her ribs stretched tight.
Her heels left the floor. Toes brushed concrete—just enough to tease stability, not enough to offer it. Fire ripped through her shoulders, down her spine, around her lungs until breath caught sharp in her throat. Pain surged fast and full, then settled into a relentless pull, every joint screaming in its socket. Her body shook against the tension, vision swimming as the system held her there, suspended in that brutal in-between.
Brock stepped out of her line of sight. She heard his boots shift behind her—one step, deliberate—then silence.
The floodlight bore down like a weapon, white and merciless, flattening the world to glare. Sweat prickled along her skin, stung where it slipped into the raw graze on her shoulder, burned in the cut along her arm. Her wrists throbbed in the cuffs, flesh already swelling where steel bit deep. The chains creaked overhead as her weight pulled down, shoulders jerking with the strain.
Knuckles stayed close, propped against the wall, his stare dragging over her like sandpaper. Every time her body shuddered or sagged, he let out a low chuckle. "Don't look like you're built for hangin' long," he muttered. "Bet you fold quick."
Time unraveled. Seconds stretched until they lost shape. Her arms quivered almost at once, elbows screaming, ribs tearing fire through her chest with every shallow breath. When she shifted, her left shoulder gave a sick little twist and pain shot down her side like lightning through wire. She bit the inside of her cheek until blood flooded her mouth. It grounded her. Barely.
The room held its silence like a trap, tight and unnatural. The light erased shadow, bleaching her to bone beneath its steady, surgical heat. Her legs shook hard, feet sliding damp against the concrete. Her body wanted to crumple, her spine to fold—but the hold gave her nowhere to go. No ground to catch her. Only the stretch and the fire.
Then Brock spoke. His voice came from behind her, low and composed, the kind of calm that didn't need to be forced. It wasn't barked or whispered or sharpened into cruelty—just spoken plainly, like it belonged to the walls more than her. "This is how it starts." There was no buildup, no pause to let it settle, no theatrical shift in tone. Just certainty. Flat. Bored. Like a process drilled into bone—automatic, inevitable.
She didn't lift her head. Her eyes stayed locked on the floor, on the slatted mouth of the drain blooming rust at its edges like something left to rot. The lines bent and warped with the pounding behind her eyes. Her mouth was dry. Her arms burned. Her shoulders screamed. She stayed silent, hanging between his voice and what was coming.
Knuckles shifted against the wall, the scrape of his boot loud in the hush. He chuckled low, a sound meant for her as much as for Brock. "She'll start cryin' before long," he said. "They always do."
"You'll give me the location," Brock said, his tone unchanged. "The Viper hideout. Names, if you've got them. Could be now. Could be later. I don't care either way." The air behind her stirred—one step, deliberate, measured, letting her feel the shape of him close again. Her skin prickled.
"You'll break." Not a question. Not cruel. Just fact. Gravity. Time.
Still, she didn't answer. Didn't twitch. Her jaw locked. Her throat worked once, swallowing something dry that stuck halfway down. Not defiance—just preservation. The silence between them stretched, thin and brittle as glass. Every second made the floor feel farther away. Made her body heavier in the chains.
Then Brock spoke again, quieter this time, voice pitched low like it didn't need to carry. "All right."
The sound came first—a breath drawn in behind her, measured and controlled. No grunt. No threat. Just a quiet intake of air.
Then came the blow.
His fist drove into her side, low and brutal, just above the hip. No warning. No shift in tone. Just impact—blunt and surgical, exploding through her kidneys like something inside her had torn loose. Her body jackknifed forward, chain biting her wrists, shoulders tearing as the rig yanked her back upright again—violent, mechanical. A raw cry broke free, hoarse and involuntary, not a scream but close, more sound than will. Her legs kicked once, weak, instinctive, searching for ground, but found only slick concrete and air. She swung a fraction, then the weight of the system pinned her still.
Brock didn't follow it with a threat. He didn't say anything at all. He just let the silence breathe, letting the aftermath settle, as if the strike had done exactly what it was meant to.
The next hit didn't come from Brock. Knuckles shoved off the wall, fist driving into the center of her back, right between the shoulder blades. Not wild. Not punishing for its own sake. Just brutal weight in the exact place to snap her chest forward and wrench her arms high against the cuffs. Her body bucked in the restraints, a spasm that cut through every muscle at once, fire blooming from her shoulders down her ribs. A short, broken moan tore out before she could choke it down.
The rig yanked her upright again, arms twisting in their sockets, wrists biting raw. Breath came sharp and uneven, scraping her throat raw. Her legs dangled beneath her, quivering once, then again, refusing to hold.
Knuckles stepped closer. She didn't see it, but she felt it—the shift in the air, heat bleeding off him, the subtle change in pressure as he squared up behind her. Her body twitched, a reflex more than choice, useless against what was coming.
Then he moved. Boots scraped concrete as he stepped around her side and into view, his frame cutting into the harsh white light. She didn't raise her head, didn't meet his eyes—just stared downward, body shaking, waiting for the next pain to land.
The third strike came without pause. His fist drove upward, angled into her gut with brutal force, and the air ripped from her lungs in one hollow, fractured sound. Her body folded midair, spine bowing forward, but the chains yanked her back again—hard—snapping her upright and tearing fresh fire through her shoulders. She gagged once, twice, stomach knotting as bile surged into the back of her throat. Nothing came. Just the taste. Just the burn. Her vision blurred. Her head sagged limp.
She hung there shaking, mouth open, chest jerking with shallow, broken gasps. No words. No scream. Only the rattle of breath dragging out of her, wet and uneven, echoing faintly off the concrete.
Knuckles snickered low, wiping his fist across his thigh. "You'll remember that one."
Knuckles shifted off her, boots dragging as he peeled away. She heard him move somewhere behind, still close, but out of sight. The space in front of her filled quick.
Brock stepped forward. No rush, no wasted motion—just the creak of leather, the scrape of boots, his frame blocking out the glare. She didn't lift her head. Couldn't. Her neck hung heavy, chin dropped to her chest, hair falling loose across her face.
His hand rose, deliberate, and caught her jaw. Fingers pressed beneath her chin, steady, impersonal, forcing her face upward. He angled her toward the floodlight until the heat burned through her eyelids. Her spine arched against the pull of her arms, shoulders stretched raw, ribs sparking with pain.
"You want to speak now?" His voice came low, close, almost level with her breath. Each word fell into the silence with weight, certain and unshaken.
She tried to turn away. His grip didn't shift. A sound caught in her throat, thin and broken, more breath than voice. Her jaw stayed locked.
He let go, and her head dropped forward again, too heavy to hold up, chin dragging to her chest. Her arms throbbed, shoulders spasmed, legs trembling beneath her—weak, barely attached, nothing but quivering muscle and raw bone trying to keep shape. Brock stayed in front, still and fixed, his frame anchoring the floodlight.
Behind her, boots shifted. Knuckles moving back into the dark. Her spine pulled tighter with every step she couldn't see. The slosh of water came too late to brace.
It hit her in one fast, heavy pour—striking the back of her head and shoulders like a slap, ice-cold and breath-stealing. The shock punched her lungs empty before she could inhale. She gagged on instinct, sputtering, body convulsing in the restraints as the cold sank instantly through cloth to bone. Her legs kicked once, twice, feet scraping useless against the concrete. The cuffs snapped her arms taut, jerking her back upright mid-spasm, shoulders tearing.
Brock's eyes never moved from her. He watched the convulsions tear through her frame, expression unchanged, voice quiet when it came. "You feel how fast the body betrays itself."
A second pour followed almost immediately, angled down her spine, soaking the thin top plastered to her chest. The cold invaded. It dug into her muscles, crawled into her lungs, burned across every raw nerve left open from the last round. Her jaw clattered, teeth knocking as she gasped shallow, air never enough, shivers wracking her until she shook against the chains.
Brock tilted his head, studied her like a specimen under glass. "Doesn't take much."
She sagged, ribs creaking, soaked fabric clinging tight. Her eyes burned. Her stomach churned. Her thoughts scattered and slid.
The room held it. All of it. Like it always had.
And Brock held her gaze while it happened.
The motor clicked overhead—slow, mechanical. The chain lowered by degrees, easing her body down until her arms dropped, loose and shaking, the strain peeling off her shoulders. Blood surged back through her limbs, hot and sharp, nerves firing with a delayed scream. Her feet found the floor, but her knees buckled. She crumpled forward, breath stuttering, muscles giving out all at once.
Knuckles caught her first, rough hands under her arms, yanking her upright before she collapsed. Brock stepped in, his grip more deliberate, guiding the weight Knuckles held and forcing her toward the steel chair beneath the floodlight. Her spine hit metal with a wet slap. The surface was ice-cold, soaked from her own skin, the shock of it stealing what breath she had left.
Her wrists still hung in the cuffs, skin abraded, fingers barely responsive, the blood returning in pins and needles—until Brock leaned in and unlocked them, the clink of metal cutting sharp through the silence. Circulation flooded back, painful and immediate, her fingers twitching useless against her lap.
Then came the straps.
Knuckles did the first, yanking leather across her chest and wrenching it tight enough to lock her spine into the chair's curve. Her ribs shrieked at the pressure, breath catching against the band. He leaned on it like he meant to grind her into the steel.
Brock followed with the next—measured, precise—securing her thighs flat to the seat. Buckle, pull, cinch. Her legs twitched once beneath his hand before the leather pinned them still.
Knuckles took her arms high across the biceps, jerking each restraint into place with a harsh tug that jolted her body against the frame. Leather cinched over the grazing wound in her arm, grinding pressure into torn flesh. Heat flared, blood wetting under the band.
Her body jolted in reflex, a strangled gasp catching in her throat before she could stop it. The sound echoed small but raw, louder for the silence it broke.
Brock adjusted after, smoothing the angle, tightening the buckles until there was no slack. Inch by inch, they anchored her down until there was nowhere left to shift.
The last strap went across her head. Brock set it himself, lowering the band to press into the crown, drawing it firm until her skull locked against the molded rest. Her face angled up, throat stretched bare, jaw tipped toward the ceiling. Breath came shallow, uneven. She couldn't turn. Couldn't lower her chin. Couldn't escape the floodlight that burned straight through her eyelids.
Brock turned from her, crossing to the shelf. His movements carried no hurry, every step measured. He reached for the folded square of cloth—white, clean, edges crisp like it belonged to a dinner table instead of this room. He held it in his hands a moment, smoothing the fold, then looked back at her.
"Last chance," he said, voice even. "Tell me where they're hiding."
Knuckles let out a low huff from behind her, boots scuffing the floor. "She ain't gonna talk. Not yet. But she'll sing once that's on her face."
Strapped into the chair, Harper couldn't move. The leather across her arms and chest held her rigid, jaw locked, throat tight. She felt her fingers twitch against the restraints, breath catching shallow, panic rising faster than thought. Her body knew what the cloth meant.
A sound slipped out of her—barely more than air snagging in her throat. Panic breaking loose where words wouldn't come.
Brock unfolded the cloth slowly, step by step, until it filled both hands. He walked back across the room, boots steady on the concrete, the square hanging loose at his side. Each pace carried weight, deliberate, closing the distance she couldn't escape.
He stopped in front of her. Her whole body tensed, heart hammering high in her throat. No words. No scream. Just the instinctive brace before impact.
Then he lifted his hands and set the fabric down over her face. Cotton closed off her mouth. Her nose. Her eyes. The world vanished. Light snuffed. Air thinned to a muffled blur. The cloth clung fast to her skin, already damp, sealing to her features like it had always belonged there. Her breath rasped through it, shallow, quick. Heat flushed her. Her lungs bucked. Panic bloomed fast—cold, blinding, animal.
Then came the water.
The stream hit steady, seeping through at once. Her first breath came wrong—sucked through sodden cotton, thick and choking. She gasped again, reflexive, and it went in. Not air. Just cold. It filled her nose, her throat, her chest.
Her body seized, straps jerking taut with every convulsion. The chair groaned but held firm. Knuckles pressed down on her shoulder, adding weight, holding her pinned for the pour. She couldn't twist her head. Couldn't tear the cloth free.
She tried to cough, to scream, but water surged instead, flooding past every barrier. Her diaphragm spasmed, pulse roaring in her ears. Panic detonated, white and absolute.
Her back bowed against the chest strap. Her mouth gaped wide beneath the soaked cotton, gulping nothing. The fabric had become skin, fused to her, a second face that offered no breath. No air. Just water.
Seconds warped, endless. She was drowning. Her body knew it.
The chair rattled with her spasms. Legs kicked once, twice, feet scraping against concrete. Wrists tore against steel, elbows flaring with static pain. Her throat convulsed, failed. No scream. No sob. Only choke.
And still Brock poured. Knuckles' laugh drifted from beside her ear, low and satisfied, filling the space the water didn't.
The water stopped. The silence hit harder than the stream. But the cloth stayed—heavy, saturated, plastered to her skin as if it had grown there. She dragged for breath and found only wet air, shallow and broken, cotton clogging her mouth and nose. Her chest heaved against the straps. Her lungs clawed for space.
Air wouldn't go deep. Every pull caught and stalled, thick with fabric and fear. Water slid down her throat in thin trails, dripped from her chin, from her hair, from the straps binding her down. Her body twitched, convulsions without aim, the animal reflex to move, to escape, to live.
But there was nowhere to go. No leverage. No relief in the stillness. The cloth held fast. Another gasp tore in—jagged, useless—and stuck in her chest.
Somewhere behind, leather shifted. Boots scraped. A door groaned open. Knuckles' voice came low, muttering into the silence—answered by another, unfamiliar, just out of reach.
The cloth peeled back
Light returned all at once. Brutal and white, pouring into her eyes like a flood. Like punishment.
Then came a touch.
Gentle. Slow. Out of place in this room. Two knuckles skimmed the side of her face, brushing a soaked strand of hair from her temple, tucking it back with absent care. It wasn't comfort. It wasn't cruelty. Just movement, tracing her like a survey of damage. After everything, even that light pressure felt unbearable. Her skin flinched beneath it, but her body stayed still.
His fingers paused at her jaw. She felt the weight of his gaze more than the touch.
"Are you ready to talk now?" Brock murmured. Low. Close. No venom, no heat—just inevitability given voice.
Before the silence could stretch, movement shifted at her side. Knuckles stepped in, jerked his chin toward the door. His boots scuffed as he backed off, and Brock's hand fell away. They both moved off together, voices dropping low, carrying into the dark where she couldn't follow.
Steps crossed the concrete again, drawing close. The murmur at the door cut off. Brock stepped back into the light, Knuckles' shadow moving with him. They came to her side together, the weight of their return sinking into the silence.
The strap across her forehead snapped free with a sharp click. Brock didn't catch her head. Didn't steady it. It stayed tipped back into the curve of the molded rest, neck screaming from the angle, face angled into the light. Her eyelids fluttered half open. The glare seared, but the darkness pressing behind her lids was worse.
Brock's thumb traced a slow line from temple to jaw, following the path the water had left. No weight, just the barest drag, clinical in its attention. Her body, wrecked and trembling, almost mistook it for care.
"That's enough for now," he said, voice even, almost soft.
Behind her, Knuckles shifted, his presence looming close again.
Her throat was raw, chest tight. Each breath scraped its way in, shallow and broken, tearing low behind her sternum. Her arms sagged uselessly against the straps, the leather biting harder where her muscles gave out. Water tracked down her collarbone, pooled beneath her spine. Tremors pulsed through her slowly—building in the curve of her back, tugging at her mouth until it quivered.
Her eyes fluttered open, lashes heavy with water, lids dragging. They didn't find his face. Didn't focus on anything near. They fixed instead on the floodlight above—blurred at the edges, blooming with heat, a white halo that meant nothing. Her mouth parted just slightly, lips cracked, like the shape of a word might form. But nothing came. No plea. No protest. Just air—thin, ragged, hers.
She was still here. Still breathing. Still bound.
Brock stepped back in silence, his movements measured, ritual precise. The pitcher met the shelf with a hollow thunk. The soaked cloth was folded again, edges pressed flat as if it belonged anywhere but here.
Knuckles shifted beside her, boots scraping as he leaned in. His hand closed on the first buckle at her chest, leather creaking as he worked it loose.
"Leave it." Brock's voice cut through the space, steady, final.
Knuckles froze. His fingers stayed on the strap a beat longer, then dropped away. A low grunt rumbled from him—frustration, maybe, or just the echo of restraint—but he stepped back, weight pulling from her side.
Brock's gaze lingered on her. Not searching. Not pitying. Just calculation, like he was marking a file he'd return to.
Then he turned, slow and deliberate. Knuckles followed, silent now, trailing him into the dark.
They didn't undo the straps. Didn't look back.
The floodlight stayed fixed above her—white, merciless, unwavering.
And then the door sealed shut, thick as a vault, locking her into the silence. Into the chair. Into herself.
The light never shifted.
It burned down unchanging, white and merciless, an artificial sun with no warmth. It didn't flicker. Didn't waver. Just scorched its way across the hours—unblinking, omnipresent. There were no shadows to hide in. No corners left to recede toward. It washed everything in glare, stripping the world to sterile concrete and blistered breath. Her skin burned where it had dried, froze where it hadn't. Her body existed in layers—chilled muscle beneath sweat-soaked cloth beneath skin pulled too tight to fit.
She sagged in the chair, held upright only by the precision of the restraints. Spine angled wrong, tugged against the straps until ache became constant. Chin tipped forward, too heavy to lift, resting slack against the hollow of her chest. The leather kept her upright the way a rope keeps a body hanging—support without relief, tension without escape. Her weight dragged downward, but the chair never allowed collapse. It kept her just alive enough to endure it.
Sleep didn't come. Not really. Her eyes refused to stay open, but closing them only pressed the floodlight harder behind her lids, baking white fire into the dark. Her skul throbbed with the weight of it. Every muscle trembled without rhythm, not from fear now but depletion. From the stillness of a body held too long in a shape meant to hurt. Her fingers had stopped twitching. Her legs no longer begged to move. Moisture soaked and dried across her skin in cycles, a slow recycling of discomfort. What water she hadn't coughed out had settled into her clothes, her pores, her breath.
She drifted in and out of something—not sleep, not consciousness. Just intervals of sensation. Heat. Cold. Pain. Soundless moments where the rasp of her breath barely rose above her thoughts. Her ribs moved, but only because they had to.
Time dissolved. She couldn't measure it. No shift in the light. No footsteps. No voices. Nothing to anchor her. Only the chair. Only the light. Only the silence, loud as a scream, filling her skull. Her breath scratched shallow against the bruised cage of her chest, never deep enough to satisfy, never weak enough to stop.
And then—boots.
The lock gave a low hiss, followed by the grind of metal on metal. The door unsealed and dragged open, slow enough to make her flinch without meaning to. Her head didn't lift. Couldn't. Her spine stayed folded, chin pressed slack to her chest, but her pulse stuttered shallow in her throat. Her wrists jerked once in the cuffs—not a struggle, just reflex, dread wired into muscle memory.
Footsteps crossed the room, steady and unhurried. Brock. She felt him more than she saw him—his shadow bleeding into the edges of her vision as he stepped into the light. He said nothing. Didn't crouch. Just stood for a long, suspended moment, gaze fixed on the wreckage he'd made. Her shirt clung to her ribs in soaked folds, hair plastered in ropes across her face, chest rising in uneven bursts like her lungs had forgotten how to work.
Then he moved. No urgency. No anger. No pity. Just function.
The chest strap came free first. Then her arms. Her thighs. Each buckle loosed with a muted click, precise, methodical. As leather peeled away, blood surged back into her limbs with a burn that felt like fire under her skin. Her arms dropped uselessly against the frame, hands mottled, fingers trembling in broken spasms. She didn't try to lift them. Didn't try to move at all.
"You're done in here," Brock said. His voice was low, flat. Not cruel. Just final.
There was no answer. No plea. No defiance. Just silence.
His hands found her again—one slipping beneath her arm, the other braced at her ribs. He lifted, and her legs folded instantly, knees giving like paper. She gagged once at the shift, chest convulsing, nothing rising but bile and spit. Brock caught her mid-collapse without a word, adjusted his grip, and turned.
He didn't wait. Didn't pause to see if she could stand on her own.
He just dragged her.
Her bare feet scraped across the floor, toes dragging through a thin sheen of water and blood that slicked the concrete. Her limbs hung slack, jolting with each step as her body shifted against his frame. Her head sagged, chin pressed into her sternum, breath wet and shallow in her throat. Nerves fired in scattered bursts down her spine, sharp and meaningless. She didn't cry out. She didn't resist. She only endured the motion as it carried her deeper into silence.
The floodlight fell away behind them. Darkness pressed close, cold and absolute. Her eyes stayed shut. Opening them felt impossible.
She didn't fight. Didn't ask where. She let him take her.
Concrete blurred in meaningless stretches. No corners. No markers. Only sound and motion: the drag of her body, the rhythm of his steps, each one hammering faintly in time with her pulse. Brock said nothing as he hauled her down the corridor. The cell door appeared like a memory—unwelcome, inevitable. She caught the faint lift of his hand, the touch of fingers against the scanner.
The lock hissed. The door unlatched.
The violence didn't return with him.
He stepped inside and lowered her with a precision stripped of care. His hands set her down piece by piece, her shoulder striking concrete first, then her hip, her spine folding awkwardly until she lay crooked on her side. One arm slumped across her middle, her legs bent beneath her as if her body had forgotten what upright meant.
The air In the cell hadn't changed—stale, sour with rust and mildew—but it swallowed her whole.
Behind her, footsteps crossed the threshold again, slower now. A tray scraped across the ground, nudged forward with the edge of a boot until it came to a stop just inches from her curled form. Steam lifted faintly from it, barely visible in the stagnant air. Something hot. A wedge of bread sat beside it, half-crushed against the metal rim, uneven and handled too roughly on the way down. Beside it lay a folded blanket—thin, worn through the weave, corners frayed and curling like paper after a flood.
The guard offered nothing else. No glance. No word. Just the sound of retreating steps and the door drawing the dark behind it.
Brock stayed.
He stood over her, the light cutting his shadow across the stretch of concrete. His gaze lingered, face unreadable, expression carved down to stone. Neither pride nor pity touched him—only that unsettling quiet, the pause of a man marking what he'd left behind.
Her head remained lowered, cheek pressed into her arm, too heavy to lift. The space between them filled with silence, stretched taut, unbroken.
Then he turned. Boots ground against the floor, measured and certain, and the door sealed after him with a hiss and grind, thick as a vault.
She was alone again, curled beneath the weight of her own bones, breath rasping through cracked lips. The hum of the light carried steady above her, blending with the faint metallic whisper of steam still rising from the tray.
She didn't move at first. Her face stayed pressed to the concrete, the cold sunk deep into cloth, bone, breath. Her ribs rose slow, each tug catching on bruises beneath the damp shirt. Limbs buzzed—not numb, not working either—just disconnected, as if her body had forgotten its own map. Fingers twitched beneath her chest, curling in and out with a life not her own.
Time blurred. Breath. Pressure. The hum of the vent above.
Then her shoulder shifted, the smallest hitch, sparking pain like a live wire. Her hand crept forward, a shuffle across the grit, reaching inches to where the tray waited. Knees bent beneath her, folding soft and wrong, no strength to push up.
The food resolved In her vision: a shallow mound of rice, a smear of something beige and thick, and a wedge of bread, crust dented but whole. Her eyes fixed on the bread. Not hunger. Instinct. Solid. Familiar.
Her fingers closed on It, shaking hard enough to scatter crumbs. She broke off a piece no bigger than a coin, brought it to her lips, let it rest there before biting. Her jaw ached with the motion. The bread went dry against her tongue. She forced herself to chew, swallow. Her stomach kicked once, sharp but fleeting, a warning rumble. She braced for sickness, hand pressed flat to the floor. Nothing came. The bite stayed.
She tried again. Another fragment. Then another. Each one deliberate, each one tested against the revolt she expected.
Her throat burned with thirst. She reached for the cup—water, clouded, lukewarm—and steadied it with both hands. She sipped in shallow pulls, pausing between, each swallow tracing fire down her throat. It stayed. Barely. But it stayed.
She let the rim rest against her lip, chest fluttering from the effort, bread still clutched in her other hand. It wasn't relief. It wasn't comfort. It was only fuel. Enough to keep her here.
She stopped after a few small bites more. Her limbs shook with the effort of staying upright, each tremor rattling through sore joints. Her stomach didn't cramp, but it stayed unsettled, fragile as glass.
The blanket lay within reach. She pulled it close, slow, each shift sparking aches in her ribs and shoulder. Inch by inch, she eased herself down until her spine met the floor. She curled in deliberately—knees to chest, arms folding in—and dragged the blanket over her head and ribs. Thin as it was, worn almost to threads, it built a shallow cocoon. The glare of the bulb dulled. The silence pressed softer, caught in the weave of the cloth.
Her breath slipped quiet through cracked lips, shallow but even. The fabric scratched against her skin, rough but warm enough to claim her body back by degrees. Not safety. Not rest. But a thin reminder that she still owned her breath, her skin, her place in the air.
The tray stayed beside her, barely-finished, steam fading.
And for the first time since they left her here, the quiet didn't claw. It pressed close instead, and she let it.
Time blurred into weeks. She couldn't count them, not in days or hours—only in the rhythm of trays shoved through the door and the slow repair of her own body.
Bruises told the first story. Deep purples lightened, spreading green and yellow across her ribs, while darker marks from their fists still surfaced fresh above them. Cuts sealed, then tugged tight at the edges. Scabs itched, split, closed again. Her lip knitted. The swelling in her face eased until bone emerged again beneath her skin. Her shoulder still screamed when she moved too fast, but the fire dulled.
Her hair grew heavier, greasy and tangled, strands plastered to her neck. Nails broke at the edges, catching on concrete. Even her clothes betrayed the passage—stains fixed deeper, fabric worn thin at the seams.
Her stomach learned to accept the food. Rice and bread didn't revolt as often. Some days she ate it all, some days half. Enough stayed down to rebuild her frame. Tremors that once stole her hands dulled to faint flickers. Crawling to the tray gave way to sitting. Sitting grew into the strength to brace her back against the wall. Once or twice she even forced to her knees, legs trembling under her before they collapsed again.
But Brock never came back. Neither did Knuckles. No voice. No shadow. Nothing. After the storm of their demands, their precision, their cruelty—it was silence now. They'd wanted something from her. Needed something. And then… nothing. The confusion festered almost as much as the bruises had. Some days she wondered if they'd abandoned her altogether. Other days she thought the waiting was the real weapon—that they were letting her forget herself so the next time would land harder.
Weeks stretched like that. Food, healing, silence. Her body adapted. Her breath steadied. Bruises faded faster than new ones appeared. Inch by inch, she reclaimed fragments of herself.
Not strong. Not free. But still here. Still alive enough to press her palms into the concrete and feel the ground steady beneath her again.
Then, one day, the lock clicked—loud enough to rattle the stillness.
She froze beneath the blanket, breath stuck halfway, heart dragging high into her throat. This wasn't food. No scrape of metal. No water jug. Just the groan of the door as it unsealed, heavy and final, and the fluorescent spill of hallway light cutting a hard line across the floor.
She didn't need to look. She knew that weight. That silence. She knew how he filled a room before a single boot touched concrete.
Brock stepped inside.
He carried nothing. No gloves. No tools. Only his presence—anchored, dense, pressing into the air like a storm about to break. He filled the doorway like a verdict already passed. Harper stayed curled beneath the blanket, less for warmth than for instinct, a shell she had pulled tight around herself so many times it had become her last defense. The fabric clung with the faint heat of her body, fragile but still hers. Muscle memory braced her spine, quivering in anticipation. If he was here, something was about to change. And change always cut.
He moved closer and crouched beside her, one boot planted, one knee bent. She felt him before she saw him—close, deliberate, patient in a way that never meant safety. His fingers found the edge of the blanket and peeled it back in a single motion, stripping her of its meager shelter. Cold air rushed in, light striking her face, skin prickling at the contrast. His shadow loomed, steady as a wall behind her eyes.
"Get up," he said.
The words carried no seam, no give. Her body twitched without lifting. Not resistance—just the marrow-deep exhaustion where movement cost more than it gave. Her knees nudged, her elbows shifted, but she stayed folded on the floor.
So he pulled her.
His hand locked around her arm, firm and steady. He hauled her upright, and this time her legs held—barely. Her spine bowed, head low, hair falling into her face, but she stood. Wobbling. Unstable. Upright all the same.
Brock's grip steadied her on her feet, his presence filling the space between them. He studied her for a long moment, weighing what still held.
"No cuffs," he said. "No chair. Just a field trip."
The words sat like stones in her chest. Mercy wasn't in his voice. Pain hadn't left her body—it had only settled into shape.
"Your girl showed up at the yard."
Her body froze. Not a flinch, not a blink—just a stillness too sharp to hide. A tremor ran under her ribs like a wire pulled taut. His eyes caught it. His voice stayed level.
"She didn't know we were watching. Didn't know it was a trap. We waited. Watched. Long enough to be sure."
Her throat locked. That wasn't possible. The scene had been burned out, emptied, left behind. There was nothing left to find but ghosts.
"She was looking," he said. "Probably for bodies. Maybe for you."
Cold spread through her gut, precise as a blade. Denial clawed up her mind, but there was no breath to voice it.
"She led us home."
The words split her open. Ache and fatigue vanished under a pressure that burned down her spine and settled behind her sternum, sharp and unrelenting. The Syndicate had her trail. They had the den. The crew. The ones who weren't supposed to be found.
Brock straightened his shoulders, the light cutting his frame into a wall of shadow. His verdict landed like iron.
"We're going to pay them a visit. And you're going to help flush them out."