They hauled Harper down the corridor—two enforcers locked to her arms, the third crowding close behind, palm planted firm between her shoulders, driving her forward when her steps faltered. Her boots dragged more than they landed. Knees buckled, threatened to fold, but the hands never loosened. They moved like they were towing wreckage, and she swayed in their grip like dead weight.
Blood had dried tacky down her thighs, turning stiff against her skin, binding fabric to flesh. Sweat clung under the hoodie, sour with the stink of smoke and fear, refusing to dry. Her hair stuck damp at the back of her neck, the salt sting creeping into cuts along her scalp. The air shifted with each step: bleach from the freshly scrubbed floors, gun oil heavy as breath, the faint sting of powder that still clung to the vents.
She kept her head down, eyes fixed on the tiles sliding past in pale, repeating slabs. Still—she felt the looks. Enforcers lined the halls, recruits leaning out of doorframes, heads turning just enough to follow her as she passed. Shadows stretched into her path, brushed her shoulders, retreated again. Not one of them spoke. Not one of them asked. They only watched.
Every step peeled another strip of her away. She was bleeding out without a wound.
Her fingers twitched once, then stilled. The grip on her bicep stayed iron. She didn't fight. She didn't cry. The only sound was the scrape of her own breathing, shallow and automatic, pulled without thought. Her jaw ached from clenching, from holding back the noise that wanted out. Her chest was too tight to pull a full breath. Silence wrapped her like another layer of blood, another second skin she couldn't strip away. It wasn't surrender—it was after.
The hallway bent hard left, footfalls echoing beneath the low ceiling, the floor slick concrete, cool through the thin soles of her boots. One of the men shoved a door open. Hinges groaned, sound carrying sharp against tile. Stainless fixtures. A floor drain caked with rust. This was a shower block. Humid air rolled out to meet her, damp against her skin, clinging like sweat. The room carried mildew, strong cleaner, and beneath it the faint metallic tang of old blood. They marched her inside without a word. Her shoulders brushed both men at once. The third followed and shut the door, the hollow bang reverberating off tile and steel.
They didn't speak. Their hands dropped from her arms, the sudden absence almost making her sway. For a flicker she felt the space—the smallest thought that she could move, bolt for the door, slam her shoulder through. But it was gone before it formed. One man shifted left. Another right. The last stayed planted at the door, sealing it. There was nowhere to go.
The room echoed, all hard tile and dripping pipes, every sound thrown back at her. She stood there, breath catching at the base of her throat. No towels. No curtain. No cover. Just a row of exposed pipes and a floor stained in streaks she didn't want to name.
Then it hit her—they weren't leaving. Three sets of eyes stayed on her, the air heavy with their waiting. The humidity pressed into her skin. This wasn't a shower she was meant to take—it was one they meant to watch.
Her stomach lurched, sour burn climbing her throat. Her hands twitched once but stayed at her sides, heavy, useless. Then—before the thought of refusal could even take shape—fingers hooked hard into the hem of her hoodie and yanked.
She twisted instinctively, but the grip on her hoodie didn't loosen. Another pair of hands caught her arms, yanking them back until her shoulders screamed. The third man stepped in as the fabric tore over her head, ripping blood-matted strands of hair from her scalp. Her bra went next—strap snapping against her skin before the cups were peeled away. Cold air licked over her chest, raising every nerve raw. She gasped, bucked once, but their hold only clamped tighter. Fingers hooked her waistband. Her legs kicked, a knee glancing off something solid—maybe—before a fist crushed into her ribs, stealing her breath and dropping her weight limp.
They didn't wait.
Hands wrenched her jeans down over her hips, underwear splitting with them, the elastic snapping as it gave. Fabric rasped down her thighs, her knees, her calves. Her boots snagged against tile until rough hands seized her ankles, wrenching them free. The thud of leather hitting the floor echoed off the walls. Then a hard shove between her shoulders slammed her forward. Tile caught her chest and cheek, the impact rattling her teeth. Cold ceramic pressed against bare skin, slick under the sweat and blood still clinging to her.
She was naked.
One arm was yanked high behind her back, wrist locked in an iron grip that twisted her shoulder until fire lanced through the joint. The other was pinned across her chest, crushed flat against the wall. A heavy palm dug into her hipbone, another spread wide between her shoulder blades, grinding her ribs into tile. A thigh pressed in against the back of hers, boxing her still. Her breath struck the ceramic and rebounded hot against her face, sour in her nose. Moisture slicked the wall where her mouth brushed it, her skin sticking when she tried to turn her head. Every nerve in her body crawled raw beneath their weight.
One of them leaned in, voice a low scrape against her ear. "Doesn't mean shit now, does it?"
A fingertip dragged along the curve of the viper inked on her side, slow and deliberate, pausing over the coils near her hip. "Whole crew's dead. You're just some filthy tag with nowhere left to hang."
Her breath caught hard, her chest tightening against the wall. Muscles locked beneath his touch, jaw clenched so tight it ached. The tile stayed cold against her skin, but under it the burn was hotter—rage coiled with nowhere to strike, choking her from the inside out.
The pipes groaned. Water exploded from the showerhead overhead—ice-cold, needling her scalp, pounding her crown and spine until her breath broke in a ragged gasp. She flinched hard, but the man on her wrist only wrenched higher, twisting her shoulder until white fire shot through the joint. Another hand shoved between her ribs and the wall, prying her other arm free. It was yanked back rough, twisted until both were forced together at the small of her back, locked in one crushing grip that ground bone against bone. Water rushed over her face, flooding her nose and mouth when she tried to breathe, choking her against the tile.
The third man stepped In without hesitation. His coat hit tile in a wet slap, sleeves shoved to his elbows, boots splashing across the floor. Water plastered fabric to muscle, ran dark down his clothes. He didn't care. None of them did. She was the only thing that mattered.
Hands moved rough and fast. A coarse cloth scraped down her spine in hard strokes, another scoured along her ribs, sweeping across her sides and hips like she was filth that had to be stripped away. The fabric bit against her skin, dragging grit, leaving welts in its wake. Wet sleeves brushed her bare flesh, heavy with water, dripping against her back. Her body burned—not just from the icy air, but from the raw friction, from the way none of them spoke while they worked her like she wasn't even human.
A hand shoved lower—cloth grinding between her thighs, fingers pressing hard as if she were nothing but another place to scour.
She gasped. Her foot kicked out, skidding on slick tile before a boot forced her ankles wider. Her wrists strained in their hold. The water above had warmed to a relentless torrent, hammering her spine, sluicing soap and dirt in rivulets down her legs.
They weren't washing her. They were erasing her, scrubbing away the last of who she was.
The cloth hit the tile with a wet slap, abandoned. Fingers replaced it—harder now, deliberate, spreading her open as if she were nothing but ground to cover. Her breath hitched against the wall, chest cinched tight, pulse hammering so loud it drowned the pipes. She tried to twist, but the grip at her wrists wrenched higher, locking her still.
The man behind her gave a low, ugly laugh, leaning in until his soaked shirt plastered her spine, the heat of his breath crawling into her ear.
"Brock didn't say how clean," he muttered, thumb digging into her hip as his grip forced her stance wider.
The one holding her wrists snorted. "And he ain't here to care."
The fingers already between her thighs slid higher, rough and deliberate, knuckles grazing raw flesh as if testing how much she'd take. Another palm flattened against her stomach, pressing lower, water sluicing between hand and flesh in slick trails.
Her throat closed. Heat spiked under her skin—rage, fear, both. Her jaw locked so tight it ached.
"Easy," the one braced behind her murmured, voice low, coaxing, his mouth so near his breath crawled over her cheek. His grip on her wrists eased, just enough to mimic choice. "You'll feel better after. Promise."
A laugh cracked from her right, harsh and scraping. "Better for us, maybe." The hand on her hip shifted, dragging her back half an inch, peeling her off the wall just enough for him to step into the space. Something rigid pressed into the small of her back as he closed the gap, his chest heavy against her shoulders, his grip grinding her tighter against him. "Brock put you here. You think he cares what we do?"
The palm that had pressed flat to her stomach slid lower, rough and certain. Fingers pushed past the line of her pelvis and pressed between her thighs, firm and deliberate, grinding against her sex through the spray of the water. It wasn't a touch—it was a claim, crude and absolute.
Something inside of her broke clean in half.
Her head snapped back, skull crunching into the face of the man behind her. Bone gave with a wet crack. He cursed, hot blood spraying her neck, but his grip on her arms stayed iron. She drove her heel down on his shin anyway, hard enough to make him flinch. The jolt loosened him just enough for her to wrench one wrist free.
She spun into the man on her left, nails clawing down the inside of his arm until skin tore under her hand. He yanked back with a hiss, and in that heartbeat, both her wrists were loose.
She turned on the first man again—blood pouring from his nose—and drove her forehead into his face, bone crashing against bone. Cartilage shifted. He staggered, grip finally slipping.
The third lunged from her right, arms low for her waist. She twisted and drove her elbow into his ribs, enough to make him grunt and fold, but her wet foot slid. Her hip slammed the wall. She shoved off it and brought her knee up into his gut before he could recover.
The first came at her again, blind and bloody. She snatched the coarse cloth from the floor and smashed it into his face, grinding it hard across his eyes. As he staggered blind, she yanked him forward by the cloth and slammed his skull sideways into the wall. Bone cracked against tile with a sick thud.
The second crashed Into her from behind, pinning her arms against her sides. She snapped her head back into his cheek, stomped down on his instep, and twisted until one arm tore free—enough to slam her elbow up into his throat. He gagged and reeled back, choking.
The third lunged again, low and fast. She shoved both palms down on his shoulders and used his momentum to drive him face-first into the wall. His forehead hit tile with a hollow thud.
She spun in the slick chaos, unpinned for the first time, breath tearing ragged through her chest. Water pounded. Blood—hers, theirs—spread across the floor, turning every step into a slip. They were still moving, groaning, reaching for her, but slower now, staggering in the steam. She spat hair out of her mouth, eyes wide, wild, ready to rip into whoever came first.
The door slammed open hard enough to rattle the hinges. The sound cracked through the steam and chaos like a gunshot.
Brock filled the frame.
No one moved.
The three men froze where they stood, chests heaving, water streaming from their sleeves. The one clutching his nose kept his hand there, as if pressure alone might undo the damage. Another straightened off the wall, eyes darting to the floor. The last edged a step back, as if distance could erase the last thirty seconds.
Brock's gaze swept the room. Harper—wild-eyed, braced against tile, soaked, naked, streaked with blood. His men—breathing too fast, looking anywhere but him.
The silence thickened until the roar of the shower was all that remained.
"Out," he said. One word. It wasn't loud. It didn't have to be.
They didn't argue. One by one, they slipped past him, heads down, boots squeaking on tile. Brock didn't look at them again.
When the last man left, the door clicked shut. The room felt smaller without them.
Brock didn't speak at first. He stepped forward, slow, boots loud on wet tile, eyes fixed on her like he was measuring what remained. The water still pounded down, running pink at her feet.
Her shoulders eased a fraction, breath catching high in her chest. He'd stopped them. Stopped it from going further. For a heartbeat, it felt like that should have meant something. But the way he was looking at her now… it wasn't relief. It was weight, settling on her like his hands still held her down.
"I told them to clean you up," he said, voice low, even. "And you fought them."
He stopped directly in front of her, close enough for the spray to slick his coat. His fist came up fast—
The punch landed with a brutal crack, snapping her head sideways. Pain exploded along her jaw, teeth clacking together. Her wet foot skidded on the tile and then she was down hard, shoulder slamming first. The shock rattled through her skull. Vision flared white, copper flooding her tongue. Limbs sprawled useless on the slick floor.
The spray cut off with a metallic bang.
Fingers fisted in her hair before she could lift her head. He yanked, forcing her forward on her knees, the pull tearing at her scalp. Tile scraped her shins as he dragged her across the floor toward the cabinet by the door, each jolt snapping pain through her neck. Water still streamed off her, streaking the tile behind them in thin rivulets.
The room was silent now, heavy with damp. Air clung cold to her soaked skin, carrying the stink of mildew and bleach.
He stopped at the cabinet and hauled her upright in one savage pull. Her scalp burned, her balance faltered, but his grip never loosened. With his free hand, he yanked the door open. Shelves of folded uniforms stared back—rows of prison-grey scrubs, stiff from over-washing, waiting like another kind of restraint.
For half a second, his gaze flicked over her—wet hair plastered to her cheek, skin streaked raw with scrapes that weren't from the water. His jaw shifted, tight, but whatever thought crossed his face didn't slow him.
He grabbed a set of scrubs and shoved them into her chest, the fabric rough, damp from the room. Not clothes. A uniform. Another cage.
"Get changed," he snapped.
His grip in her hair loosened, but only enough to force her to stand on her own. Water dripped steady from her body, puddling at her feet. The scrubs clung cold against her skin before she even managed to pull them on, her fingers fumbling over the fabric.
Her hands shook as she fumbled the scrubs open, fabric dragging against wet skin. Every motion felt clumsy, the aftershocks of adrenaline turning her fingers useless. When she bent to step into the pants, blood spilled from her nose at last—hot, metallic—running over her lip and dripping down her chin to mix with the water already tracing her jaw. She didn't wipe it. Didn't pause. The pants stuck halfway up her thighs before sliding into place, the chill of the soaked fabric sinking straight into bone. Her balance faltered once, knees threatening to give, but she yanked the shirt over her head anyway, movements jerky and graceless. He'd let go of her hair, but his presence stayed close, filling the space like a hand still pressed against her spine.
He gripped her arm and steered her out of the shower block, boots striking the tile in even, unhurried steps. The corridor stretched long and bare, humming with dim overhead buzz. His fingers stayed locked above her elbow, the pressure a steady bite that promised a bruise.
They turned into the stairwell, the descent as steady as his grip. Damp air thickened around them, the walls narrowing, echoing with each step. She knew this path. She'd walked it before. Still, the weight of it pressed harder this time, every step dragging her back into the same concrete dark.
"Next time you put hands on my men," he said without looking at her, voice low and flat, "you won't walk away from it."
The rest of the walk was silent, save for the drip of water from her hair to the floor. When they reached her cell, he shoved her inside without another word. The door slammed, the lock snapping shut, loud in the stillness.
She sank to the floor the second the door shut, the concrete draining the last of her strength. Water spread beneath her in thin arcs, running from her hair, her sleeves, the soaked scrubs plastered to her skin. She pressed two fingers to the bridge of her nose, head tipped forward, catching the slow, stubborn drip of blood as it pattered between her knees. Her breathing rasped through the pinch, shallow and uneven.
When the bleeding eased, her hand dropped to her lap, palm streaked red. She stared at it until the shape blurred. The cell sat in stillness—no voices in the hall, no footsteps overhead—just the pulse in her ears, too loud in the silence.
Her hands stayed in her lap, motionless, as the weight of the scrubs pressed into her skin until she went numb beneath them. Names pressed in against her ribs. Faces. Dante's arm slung around her. Lena's laugh. Wedge leaning against a wall, cigarette balanced between two fingers, half a smirk on his mouth. All fixed now—still frames that would never move again. Memories sealed in the dark, already starting to rot.
It wasn't grief. Not yet. Grief needed space, and the heaviness inside her left none. This was different. Final. She'd walked them to the door and watched the world take them. And she was still here.
Her chest rose once, hitched, then held. No tears came. She wouldn't let them. Only the weight stayed, pressing in until it felt like the walls were leaning closer, inch by inch.
Silence filled the cell, and she didn't disturb it. Across the floor, the frayed corner of her blanket lay in a crumpled heap, threads curling loose like they wanted to come apart. She crawled toward it on stiff knees, every shift of weight grinding bone against concrete, the chill soaking higher through her scrubs with each move.
When she reached it, she didn't unfold it—just lowered herself where she was, dragging the thin fabric over her head until the world dimmed. The blanket didn't warm her. It only blurred the walls, dulled the light, turned silence into something she could hide beneath.
Time passed without shape. Minutes, hours—she couldn't tell. She lay still, eyes open in the dark, staring into nothing. The tension in her neck slid down her spine, knotting deep in the small of her back. Her knees ached from the floor. A faint shiver ran through her now and then, reflex more than choice. Her breath came thin, shallow, as if even air had to be rationed.
Only when her body gave out did her eyelids sink, the weight dragging her under. The darkness didn't ease her down—it seized her, pulling her into itself—
Light—blinding, pouring from the porch, but it was her hand holding the gun. The barrel shook once, then steadied. The red dot bloomed over Lena's chest, not Dante's. A pull. A crack. Lena's mouth still moved as she dropped, shaping words Harper couldn't hear.
Warm spray hit her face, metallic on her tongue. Sweet. She swallowed.
The van. Boots on steel. She stepped over bodies, pressed down on Wedge's shoulder to climb deeper, shoving someone else under the heap. Dante's eyes found hers, wide, glassy, waiting—and she didn't stop.
Then Brock behind her, voice low in her ear. "You did good." His hand cupped her jaw, thumb dragging blood into her skin. She leaned into it, breath catching—not in defiance, not in choice, just in the way a body leans toward heat.
Her eyes flew open Into darkness, the air under the blanket stale and wet against her face. Every sound came muffled, her pulse pounding in her ears, breath catching like she'd been running. The fabric clung to her skin, sealing in the heat from the dream.
She stayed frozen, chest tight, the ghost of his hand still burning along her jaw. The images refused to fade, pressing close, heavier with every breath. Her body trembled once, shallow and involuntary, before she forced herself still. Only after long minutes did her breathing ease by degrees, though the cold crept in under the blanket and stayed.
Then—footsteps in the hall. Measured, deliberate, each one echoing under the low hum. Not Brock's, but close.
The lock gave a hard click. She pushed the blanket back, light from the doorway cutting across her face. Knuckles filled the frame, broad shoulders blotting most of it. Her stomach tightened before her mind caught up—muscles remembering the weight of his grip, the way he'd driven her down before. His shadow stretched long into the cell.
"Up," he said, tone flat but leaving no room for delay. "Vex wants to see you."
The blanket slid from her shoulders, and the chill rushed back in. Her knees protested as she shifted, muscles stiff from the cold floor. She pushed herself upright, slow, pulse stuttering with each movement under his gaze.
She lingered a moment in the doorway, weight caught in her heels, blanket still pooled at her feet. Her body balked, slow to obey, but standing still wasn't an option. She forced herself forward.
Knuckles' hand closed around her arm—not rough, but solid, the kind of grip that said there was no point in pulling away. His eyes cut to the side, catching the dark mark blooming along her cheekbone. Something flickered there—gone before she could name it. Then he turned her into the hall. Each step fell muffled under the constant electric hum above, his pace steady, unhurried.
The corridor slid past In sterile stretches of concrete and steel, her footsteps hollow against the bare floor. At the elevator, the low grind of machinery filled the silence as Knuckles pressed the button. Inside, he never released her, the weight of his hand a constant tether, a reminder that she moved only because he allowed it.
The doors opened on the fifth floor. The air shifted here—quieter, heavier, carrying a hush that didn't exist below. Their footfalls echoed wide, the hiss of ventilation whispering overhead as he led her down the same short hall she'd walked before, each step pulling her closer to the door that marked Vex's office.
Knuckles stopped just shy of it. The handle gleamed under the muted light.
A knot tightened in her gut as he reached past her. The latch clicked. The door swung open on a room she already knew she didn't belong in.
Violent swathes of red and gray glared down from the walls—abstract prints she'd seen before, sharper now, jagged in the low light. Beyond the tinted glass, the city glimmered in blurred shapes, unreachable, as though pressed beneath the weight of the window itself. The desk loomed at the center, its matte surface so pristine it caught the glow like oil, the steel legs anchoring it like a monolith in the room's hush.
Vex sat behind the desk, posture easy, eyes gleaming with calculation. Brock stood just behind him, arms loose at his sides, gaze fixed on her like he'd been waiting for this exact moment. The weight of both men's attention locked her in place.
"Take a seat," Vex said, smiling with practiced ease, his mouth curving where his eyes stayed cold.
Knuckles guided her forward, stopping only when the chair pressed against the backs of her legs. She sank into it because there was no choice. The cushion gave under her weight, too soft, as if comfort itself could be a kind of trap. Knuckles moved away, planting himself by the door, silent and immovable. The exit was gone.
Vex leaned forward over the desk, forearms resting on its hard surface. The light caught in his eyes, unblinking, sharp as glass.
"Quite a show you were part of last night," he said, voice smooth with a blade sheathed beneath. "Messy. Loud. Final." His smile was small and knowing, like he'd seen every detail in the reports, every drop of blood carried back to him.
Then it was gone.
"I don't buy that was all of them," he went on, one finger tapping a slow rhythm against the desk. "Vipers are rats—they scatter. They hide." His head tilted slightly, gaze pinning her as if he could strip the answer straight from her bones. "Tell me, Harper. Is there anyone left?"
She hesitated. The question hung like a snare, ready to snap. Her gaze flicked from his fingers to his eyes, hunting for the smallest twitch, the command she couldn't afford to miss.
"There's no one left," she said at last, her voice low, steady only because it had to be. "Between the yard and last night… they're gone. I'm all that's left."
Vex studied her in silence, unreadable. Then he pushed back from the desk, the chair's casters whispering over the carpet. He rose tall, deliberate, stepping out from behind the matte black surface in a slow arc. Her shoulders tensed, breath catching shallow as he closed the distance, the carpet swallowing his steps until his shadow fell over her chair.
Every nerve in her spine fired warning—too late. His fingers knotted in her hair and yanked sideways. Pain ripped across her scalp, sharp enough to steal her breath, as she was torn from the chair. The legs skidded against the floor, then tipped. She hit the carpet hard on her side, rough fibers grinding into her ribs, the air driven from her lungs.
He loomed above her, still fisting her hair, forcing her head back until her neck screamed. Neither Brock nor Knuckles moved. The room held its silence like approval.
"I don't believe you," Vex said, voice flat, colder than anger.
"There's no one left," she managed again, firmer this time, though her pulse was hammering. Her fingers twitched toward his wrist, then curled into the carpet instead. His grip didn't slacken.
His free hand snapped forward, knuckles crashing into her cheek. Pain detonated through her jaw, the impact ringing her ear. Her hands twitched up too late—instinct, useless—but his grip in her hair wrenched her head back, leaving her open.
The boot came next, slamming into her ribs. The kick folded her sideways, pain radiating through bone and muscle, but his fist yanked her head back so she couldn't curl, couldn't shield.
He dropped to a crouch beside her, breath harsh, hair falling across his forehead. His fist smashed across her face again, snapping her head the other way. She rolled onto her back, but he followed, shadow blotting out the light.
Fists. Open hands. Blows raining without rhythm, each strike whipping her head side to side. Then his knee drove into her ribs and stayed, grinding until her breath wheezed out in a broken gasp. Her arms came up by reflex, but he tore them aside, striking through them, smearing the pain into one continuous throb that left no space to think, only endure.
Blood slicked her teeth, her vision swimming. She gagged on air. Still his weight held her, his fist cocked again, ready to break her further—
"Vex."
Brock's voice cut through, low and hard.
The fist came down anyway, smashing into the side of her head. Light burst behind her eyes, the carpet canting beneath her.
"Vex." Firmer this time, weighted enough to pull at the air.
Vex froze. Shoulders tight, breath dragging. The raised fist held a beat longer—then sank. His grip slackened, releasing her at last.
"Our sweep turned up nothing," Brock said, voice steady, deliberate. "Every name from the list. Yard. Last night. Nothing left standing but her."
She sagged toward the carpet, rolling onto her side, the motion jagged and slow, her body folding in on itself. Pain flared sharp through her ribs with every shallow breath, each inhale a knife, each exhale a wheeze. Blood leaked hot from her nose, streaking across her lips, thick on her tongue until she gagged. Her jaw throbbed, teeth clashing when her head tipped too far, the ache reverberating into her skull.
Her vision swam—shapes smearing into one another, the ceiling light a white blur that pulsed with her heartbeat. The carpet scratched her cheek raw where it pressed, fibers catching at split skin. Her arms curled in tight but useless, trembling without strength, hands sticky with blood and sweat. The roar in her ears smothered whatever passed between the men above her. The world had shrunk to her pulse, her breath, the ache radiating through every nerve. She stayed there, small, broken open, the room fading to blur around her.
Fabric rustled above her. Vex tugged a handkerchief from his pocket, dragging it slow across the black leather of his gloves, smearing the red into the white cloth. His gaze lingered once—flat, measuring—before he turned away.
His footsteps receded, muffled by the carpet, until the bulk of the desk swallowed him from sight. For a moment there was only her ragged breath, the pulse in her ears.
"In that case," Vex said, smooth again, almost casual, "she's served her purpose."
A drawer slid open, dull wood on steel. Papers shifted. A metallic clink. Then the weight of something lifted free. Her chest tightened before she even saw it.
His steps returned, unhurried. Shadow fell over her once more. She forced her head up just enough to see the pistol in his hand—the black barrel leveling steady at her skull. The edges of the room constricted, until there was nothing left but that narrow line between them.
There was nothing left. No crew. No home. Her body throbbed with every shallow breath, each one harder to pull than the last. The thought of stopping—of letting it end—felt less like fear and more like release.
Vex's voice cut through the quiet, calm as glass. "No loose ends."
She closed her eyes. The metallic click of the safety snapped sharp, final. She let her chest fall slack, the weight inside her ready to spill into nothing.
A shadow moved.
Brock's hand clamped around Vex's wrist, stopping the gun mid-line. "Not yet," he said, voice low, edged in steel.
Vex's gaze cut sideways at him, but Brock didn't release.
"She dropped Kellar in the yard. Fought me until I put her down—didn't quit. Didn't fold. Yesterday, in the showers, she had three men on the ropes."
His "rip stayed iron. "She's an asset. Trained. Shoots clean. Knows the streets better than half our people. I can break her down, re-train her. Make her work for us."
Harper's eyes slid open, vision swimming. Through the blur she saw his face—jaw tight, gaze locked on Vex, words sharp as a blade. But under it, something flickered, too fast to name. Not mercy. Not kindness. Just insistence. Claim.
He leaned In, voice dropping until it cut the air. "You pull that trigger, you waste something I can use."
Vex's finger stayed on the trigger, the weight of the pistol steady above her skull. His gaze locked on Brock, edged and unblinking, measuring whether the argument was worth the trouble. The silence pressed in, thick enough that Harper could hear the blood in her ears over her own ragged breaths. Seconds stretched. The air felt thin, like it couldn't reach her lungs.
Brock didn't move. His hand stayed braced against Vex's wrist, grip iron, eyes steady. He didn't blink. Didn't flinch. Just waited, as if he knew Vex would have to decide, one way or the other.
Then Vex's grip eased. The muzzle dipped a fraction before he stepped back, the pistol sliding into its holster with a clean metallic snap. Only then did Brock release his wrist, slow and deliberate, as if to show it had been his choice all along.
"She's yours," Vex said at last, clipped. "You have three months. If she's not worth the space she takes up by then—she's dead. If she steps out of line once—she's dead."
The words carried, sharp as cordite, but to Harper they blurred at the edges, distant and muffled. She heard them, but they didn't settle. Pain drowned everything else. Her cheek pressed harder into the carpet, breath scraping in and out, her pulse the only thing left she could track.
Brock moved into view, blocking the light from the desk lamp. "Get up."
She pressed her palms to the carpet, arms trembling with the effort. Her elbows quaked before she even lifted her chest, collapsing again with a dull thud that jarred through her ribs. The room spun sideways. She tried once more, dragging one knee under her, but her arm buckled, pitching her back to the floor in a broken sprawl. Breath rattled in her throat, shallow and ragged.
"I…can't." The words slipped out small, hoarse—more whimper than speech.
He bent just close enough for his voice to cut under her breath, meant for her alone.
"You can."
A hand clamped around her arm—firm, unyielding—and wrenched her up in a single pull. Her knees gave, nearly folding beneath her, but his grip kept her upright, his weight forcing her to find her balance whether her body wanted it or not.
"Let's go." He didn't release her as he turned her toward the door, dragging her into motion on legs that barely remembered how to hold her.
"Lawson."
She didn't look back—kept her eyes on the carpet, willing her legs to keep moving.
Vex's voice carried across the room, smooth but razor-edged. "Three months. That's all. If she falters, if she proves me wrong—you'll own it. And when I strip it from you, everyone will know why."
Brock gave a short nod she didn't see. Knuckles stepped past, pulling the door open. The hall beyond stretched quiet and muted, carpet swallowing their steps. Brock steered her through, his grip unrelenting above her elbow. The door shut behind them with a solid, final click that echoed in her chest.
They moved a few paces down the hall before Brock slowed, the silence deeper here, out of earshot at last. The office and its threats sealed away on the other side of the wall.
They moved a few paces down the hall, the office door sealed behind them. The carpet hushed their steps, but the silence pressed heavier than before.
"You sure about that?" Knuckles asked, his voice pitched low, meant for Brock alone. "Putting your hand on Vex. Stopping him. That's not a move you walk back from."
Brock didn't break stride. His grip on Harper's arm stayed firm, steering her forward. "I know what I did."
Knuckles studied him for a long moment, then gave a short grunt. "Then you'd better make her worth it."
"I will," Brock said, clipped and certain.
Knuckles' gaze slid to Harper then, trailing over the blood at her mouth, the stumble in her steps, the way she stayed upright anyway under Brock's grip. His lip twitched—not quite a smile, not pity, just a cold acknowledgement. "She doesn't look like much," he muttered, "but if she's still standing after this… maybe."
Brock didn't answer. The elevator doors slid open with a muted chime, and he steered her inside. Knuckles followed, stepping in after them, broad shoulders nearly filling the frame before the doors slid shut with a final click.
The car jolted downward, smooth but enough to knock her off balance. Pain flared through her ribs, piercing enough to drag a groan from her before she could swallow it. Her legs felt heavy, each breath tight and thin.
Brock's grip shifted, bracing under her elbow to keep her upright. "You're not dropping here," he said—low, steady, more command than comfort.
She blinked against the blur at the edges of her vision, forcing her weight back under her feet, jaw locked until the shudder of the elevator eased. The silence pressed close—Knuckles looming on her other side, eyes unreadable, a presence as heavy as the blood still drying on her skin.
The elevator doors slid open. Brock hauled her forward, his hand still locked around her arm, Knuckles a step behind. The air grew colder as they descended into the low corridor, the hum of pipes rattling faintly through the walls. Her feet dragged, knees threatening to give, but Brock's grip kept her upright, steering her on until they reached the door.
Knuckles keyed the lock, the heavy bolt snapping back. The door swung open.
Brock pushed her through the frame, into the concrete room that waited like it had never let her go.
He didn't let her drop. He guided her down, grip shifting from her arm to her shoulder, lowering her until she slid against the wall. Concrete scraped through her damp scrubs as she folded to the floor, legs giving out the moment he released them. He set her there—propped upright, spine braced against the cold wall like he was positioning cargo, not a body.
Her head tipped sideways under its own weight, hair clinging wet to her cheek. Each breath shivered out shallow, ribs hitching against the pressure of stone at her back.
"Get water," Brock said over his shoulder, clipped, leaving no room for hesitation. "Cloth too."
Knuckles gave a short grunt and stepped back out, the door pulling shut behind him. The lock snapped, leaving her alone with Brock in the silence.
He crouched in front of her, elbows braced on his knees, gaze cutting through the strands of hair plastered to her face. She kept her eyes low until his hand came up, two fingers pressing under her chin, forcing her head up.
She flinched at the contact, jaw clenching, but his grip held steady, unyielding.
"You're upright because of me," he said, voice low, even. "Don't forget it."
His fingers shifted higher, steady under her chin, holding her face angled toward him as if he were checking the weight of her. Then he lowered her head back himself, slow, deliberate, as if placing it where he wanted it.
The silence stretched until footsteps sounded in the hall. The lock scraped, and Knuckles stepped back inside, a dented basin in one hand, a rag draped over the other.
He set the basin down hard enough that water sloshed over the rim. The rag followed, slapped wet against the concrete. Then he crouched beside Brock, knees wide, forearms braced across them. His eyes cut over Harper once—bruises, blood, the way her body sagged into the wall—and he gave a short grunt.
"She's busted up," he muttered.
Brock didn't look away from her. "Check her."
Knuckles dipped the cloth, wrung it out, and caught Harper's chin in his other hand. She flinched at the grip, but his fingers locked firm, turning her face toward the light. He wiped rough across her mouth, smearing fresh red with old, then pressed harder along the bridge of her nose until she hissed.
"Not broken," he said, matter-of-fact.
The rag swept across her cheek, smearing blood aside to reveal the bruise blooming there. He tilted her head side to side, eyes narrowing as he tracked the swelling. "Pupils look even."
Brock finally moved, one hand braced against her shoulder, the other sliding down to her ribs. His thumb pressed hard into the side where Vex's boot had landed. White pain shot through her chest—she buckled, a broken gasp ripping loose before she could choke it back.
"She's cracked," Brock said evenly, shifting his hand lower, pressing until another sharp jolt made her whole body twitch. His eyes stayed on her face, reading the pain. "Not punctured. She'll keep moving."
Knuckles wiped the worst of the blood from her jaw and throat, then dragged the rag down her forearms, scrubbing at the dirt and dried streaks along her wrists where restraint had bitten deep. Water ran pink, dripping back into the basin.
He gave her another long look, then passed the rag to Brock.
Brock didn't hesitate. He caught her by the jaw again, tilting her head back to swipe at the blood smeared along her temple, his thumb pressing steady against the pulse under her ear. His touch wasn't gentle, but it lingered, holding her face angled toward him until her eyes flicked up and caught his.
"You'll live," he said, flat as a sentence passed.
Knuckles wrung the rag out once more, water streaking down his forearm before he tossed it back into the basin. He straightened, gave Harper one last look, then lifted the basin in one hand.
"I'll leave you to it."
Brock gave the smallest nod. Knuckles stepped out into the hall, the basin sloshing as his footsteps faded. The door stayed open behind him, spilling a line of dim light across the concrete.
Brock didn't move at first. Just crouched there, steady, his shadow cutting across her where she sagged against the wall.
"You'll have a few days to pull yourself together," he said, voice measured, carrying no room for doubt. "But the clock's running now. Three months. That's all I've got to make you worth the space you take up."
He rose at last, his boots grinding against the floor, and stepped into the doorway. The door swung shut behind him, metal catching in the frame with a solid, final snap.
The hum of the overhead light settled heavy over her, steady and merciless, filling the silence he left behind.