The walk to the training hall was silent, the muted scuff of boots on concrete marking each step. Harper kept half a stride behind Brock, leggings second-skin tight, fitted black tank clinging to her shoulders and ribs. She'd learned fast that on combat days, loose fabric was just another handle to get dragged down by. Her hair was knotted high in a messy bun, stray strands sticking to the back of her neck. It had been a week since the cafeteria—seven days of bruises, drills, and waking to the sting of fresh muscle ache. Enough time for her body to understand what "combat days" meant, even if her mind still locked tight against the thought of what came next. And when the sessions ended, the rhythm never changed: the walk straight from mats to mess, Brock pacing her through the cafeteria lines as if routine itself could keep her from unraveling.
The heavy double doors swung open under Brock's hand. Harper stepped inside—and slowed, pulse skipping as the room came into focus.
Knuckles waited first, arms folded, shoulders broad as the wall he leaned against. His glance cut across her, quick but assessing, no grin this time—just the flat weight of a man measuring what she'd bring to the floor.
But it was the other figure that made her pause. Taller than Brock by an inch or two, built lean with ropey muscle and arms that promised reach. Sun-browned skin, dark hair clipped close at the sides, left just long enough on top to fall forward when he tilted his head. A jagged scar carved from the corner of his mouth to his jaw, pulling one side of his smirk higher. His gaze swept her slow, not hungry, not cruel, just calculating—like he was deciding whether she was worth the effort of breaking.
She looked to Brock, brows lifting in a silent, wordless question.
"You need to learn how to fight against different opponents," Brock said, tone unreadable. "Not just me." He nodded toward the man. "Harper, this is Gunner."
Gunner's gaze slid down her frame, lingering at her chest before drifting lower. "Guess I pulled the good shift," he said, voice low and slick.
Knuckles' eyes narrowed, his attention fixing on Gunner instead of her. The look carried warning, a reminder of who stood in the room and whose rules were in play. Brock's head turned next, steady and deliberate, his stare locking on Gunner until the smirk lost its ease.
Then he turned back to her. "Rules are simple," he said. "No cheap shots. No weapons. I call it, it's over. Got it?"
She nodded, the knot in her gut cinching tighter, breath catching against it.
"Stay on your feet as long as you can," Brock said. "Adapt fast. If I step in, it's because it's over." The weight in his tone carried like a drawn line across the floor.
He jerked his chin toward the center mat. She moved to it, the rubber soft under her boots, unsteady, every step thudding loud in her head. Both men's eyes tracked her—Gunner's with that slow, predatory drag, Brock's like a gauge needle edging higher.
Knuckles stayed against the wall, arms folded, gaze steady. His presence made the air press down harder. Now it wasn't just Brock judging her—every motion would be taken in, every weakness counted.
Gunner followed her onto the mat, rolling his shoulders until the joints cracked loud in the quiet. His hands flexed once, knuckles popping, before he settled into an easy, loose stance—like the whole thing was already a game.
Brock stepped back from the edge. "Whenever you're ready," he said, voice carrying enough weight to slice through the air. He moved to stand beside Knuckles, both men shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the room. Knuckles stayed loose, arms folded again, but his gaze didn't shift.
Harper began to circle, feet light on the mat, the rubber giving just enough to keep her balance uncertain. Gunner matched her step for step, his smirk curling higher.
"Cute footwork," he drawled. He dipped low, feinting toward her left before pulling back, grin widening. "You dance for all your fights, or just when the boss is watching?"
She didn't answer. Brock's jaw flexed once, muscle ticking.
Gunner's eyes raked her frame as he circled closer. "Bet you've got a good scream, too," he added, voice dragging slow. "Wonder if it carries outside these walls."
Knuckles' arms unfolded, his stance shifting—small, but enough to say he'd heard every word.
Her patience slipped another notch. Heat coiled low in her gut, flushed up her throat, her pulse stuttering hard against the red line under her jaw.
She lunged, aiming to catch him off guard, muscles firing with the kind of reckless momentum that had once saved her in alley fights. But he was ready. He pivoted on the balls of his feet, smooth and certain, like he'd been waiting for the tell the whole time. His forearm met hers in a jarring collision, knocking her strike wide before she could even register the miss.
Then his other hand came down, fast and merciless, clamping her wrist. The grip was iron, twisting hard enough to send pain searing up through tendon and bone. He wrenched her forward in the same motion, dragging her off balance, her boots slipping against the mat until she slammed chest-first into him.
His body was hot and solid, breath flooding against her cheek with a bitter staleness that made her throat tighten before the words even landed.
"Feisty," he murmured, lips curling at the edge of her ear. "I like that."
She wrenched free and ducked low, throwing a fist toward his ribs, but he slid back quick and drove his knee up hard. The impact cracked into her hip, a shock of pain jolting down her leg until her stance buckled under the weight of it.
"You fight like you fuck, I bet," he taunted, circling as she straightened again. His voice carried a lazy drag, meant to needle. "All teeth. No patience."
The words stung hotter than the knee, spiking through the roar in her ears. Her pulse hammered against the thin scar at her throat, rage and adrenaline tangled until she couldn't tell one from the other.
She snapped a kick at his thigh, fast and high, but he caught her ankle mid-swing. His grip locked down like iron, twisting just enough to make her knee strain, before he shoved and sent her stumbling back across the mat. Rubber burned under her boots as she fought to keep from going down.
"You're light," he said, pacing after her. His eyes dragged over her frame again, slow, deliberate, like he was measuring angles and ownership in the same glance. "Easy to throw around."
Each word cut deeper under her skin, needling worse than the bruises forming. She rolled her shoulders back, fists knotting tight, her weight settling low. Every muscle held ready, waiting to spring the moment he came close again.
From the edge of the mat, Knuckles' gaze followed the exchange, his jaw working once as if grinding down on words. "Your boy's mouthier than I remember," he muttered, voice pitched low.
Brock didn't bite. His eyes stayed locked on the mat, shoulders tight, the muscle in his forearm knotted where his arms hung loose. It wasn't the taunts that had his jaw clenched—it was the way Gunner's smirk lingered in places it had no right to.
Gunner feinted left, then surged in close, catching Harper's arm and hauling her back into his chest. The mat jolted under her boots as her spine slammed against him, ribs grinding against the cage of his torso. His free hand slid rough over her hip, then shoved hard between her thighs, fingers grinding against her crotch with a groping pressure that made bile sting her throat.
Her breath tore in, rage flooding fast through her chest. The stink of his skin, the pressure of his body, the hand forcing where it didn't belong—it wasn't training anymore. It was every near-miss, every memory of hands that tried to pin her down and strip her apart.
Knuckles' brow drew low, his arms tightening until his biceps corded against his chest. Brock's spine locked straight, his shoulders set like stone.
But before either man could move, Harper snapped. Her head whipped back hard, bone meeting bone in a crack that rang through the hall. Gunner cursed, grip faltering. She drove her elbow into his ribs with all the force she had, the thud rattling through her arm, and tore herself free.
She spun on him wild, fists already flying, each swing cutting the air before slamming flesh. Knuckles met cheek, jaw, chest—wet, meaty smacks that stole the smirk clean off his face. Surprise flared in his eyes, sudden and raw, as he stumbled back under the onslaught.
"Jesus Christ," Knuckles muttered, the words carrying a note of grudging admiration as Harper hammered Gunner back another step.
Brock grunted, eyes narrowing as he tracked her movements. "She's got power. But when rage takes the lead, she leaves doors wide open."
Knuckles' mouth tugged, not quite a grin, more a tick of interest. "Where you seeing it?"
"Shoulders telegraph first," Brock said, voice flat, measuring. "Punch is halfway in the air before her fist knows it's coming."
As if to prove Brock right, Harper swung wide, her shoulder rolling ahead of the strike like a banner before her fist ever left her side. Gunner read it easy, slipping past to catch her arm mid-swing. He yanked, twisting her momentum against her, and drove a knee straight into her gut.
The hit landed deep, a brutal thud that forced the air out of her in a ragged choke. She folded over, boots skidding against the mat, and his hand clamped the back of her neck, shoving her down hard toward the floor.
Brock shifted, one step ready to close the gap, but Knuckles' arm came across his path, solid and unyielding. "Let her work it out," he said, eyes locked on the tangle of bodies. "She won't learn if you keep pulling her out of the fire."
Gunner shoved her down, trying to flatten her chest-first against the mat. She twisted hard, jamming an arm between them and raking her nails across his side. The rake drew a hiss out of him, his grip loosening just enough for her to buck her hips and roll onto one shoulder, breaking his weight off balance.
She snapped a knee up into his thigh, right on the muscle, and the impact deadened his leg for a beat. His stance faltered. She followed with a heel of her palm to his chin, snapping his head back, and in that moment of float she shoved hard, momentum rolling him to the mat on his spine.
This time she didn't pause. She drove a knee into his ribs, grinding bone into bone until his breath stuttered. Her other foot posted wide for balance, hips low, her body angled across him. One hand clamped his wrist and pinned it hard against his chest; her shin slid over the length of his forearm, trapping the limb flat to the mat.
Her forearm pressed across his jawline, grinding sideways until his head wrenched toward the floor, spine twisted. She leaned in, chest heavy on his, hip digging into his floating ribs. He bucked hard underneath her, hips exploding in a violent bridge, but the wall crowded his shoulder blades and her base held. His bridge sputtered out, his free hand clawing at her grip without leverage.
Brock let the silence stretch, eyes fixed on every twitch and shudder. Only when it was clear Gunner wasn't getting her off, when his gasps rattled empty and his fight drained into the mat, did Brock's voice cut through the room.
"Fight's over."
Harper didn't move at first. She stayed on him, breath sawing in her chest, eyes locked on his. Then she leaned closer, so her words landed for him alone. "Next time you put your hand there, I'll snap every finger one by one."
She shoved off and turned away—only for the slap of footsteps to split the quiet.
Gunner hit her from behind, the blow driving her forward until her knees cracked against the mat. Pain shot up her legs, white and instant. Before she could plant her palms to push up, his fist tangled in her hair and yanked her head back, the burn ripping across her scalp.
Brock was on him in a heartbeat. One hand crushed down on Gunner's shoulder, the other locked hard around his wrist. The wrench tore Harper's head with it, a brutal jolt before Gunner's grip gave way. Brock spun him off her and shoved him toward the edge of the mat, the motion carrying the kind of force that ended arguments without words.
"Get out," Brock said, voice low, ground down to concrete. "You pull that shit again after I call a fight, I'll take your arm at the elbow."
Gunner's glare cut between them, chest heaving, but Brock didn't blink. Whatever he saw in those eyes made him falter. He backed off, rubbing his shoulder where Brock's grip had left it aching, and slipped out through the doors without another word.
Harper stayed on her knees a moment longer, breath ragged in her throat, scalp still tingling where his grip had torn her hair. The mat pressed hot through her leggings, the sting in her knees echoing every heartbeat. She pushed up slow, rolling her shoulders back, trying to shake loose the leftover tremor of adrenaline. Her fingers gathered the strands ripped from her bun, twisting them out of her face with hands that didn't quite stop shaking.
Her eyes flicked to Brock before she could stop herself. Quick. Reflex more than choice. Just long enough for him to catch the trace of something that might have been thanks—or maybe just the raw relief that he'd stepped in—before she dropped her gaze away.
"Reset," he said, the word even but edged with command.
Her gaze slid toward the door where Gunner had left, confusion pulling at her brow. Reset to what?
Movement drew her attention—Knuckles pushing off the wall, rolling his shoulders as he crossed the mat. His grin was back, stretched wide with a kind of certainty that didn't need words. It wasn't play, not exactly. More like a man who knew the fight was his before it started and found the truth of it entertaining. His tread was steady, deliberate, each step a reminder that he didn't have to measure her to know he could put her down.
Her stomach turned cold. Memory surged—the thud of his fist between her shoulders, the burn in her joints as the restraints had wrenched her arms high, the hollow ache in her gut where he'd driven the air clean out of her. Even here, free on her feet, the echo of that helplessness crawled her spine and set her pulse racing.
She caught the strands that had slipped loose again, twisting them back into the tie Gunner had torn apart. Fingers fast, controlled this time. No tremor. No hesitation. Not backing up. Not in front of them.
Knuckles stopped a few paces from her, stance loose, head tipped just enough to catch her eyes. For a beat neither moved. It wasn't posturing, not really—it was a measure. Her, refusing to break the stare first; him, wearing the grin of a man who already knew he wouldn't.
She broke the stillness, lunging with a jab toward his ribs. Her fist thudded against muscle, the hit drawing the faintest hitch of breath—barely there, but enough to send her chasing the opening. She followed with a hook to his shoulder, stepping inside his reach before he even bothered to square up.
Her momentum carried, a knee snapping up toward his midsection. He shifted just enough to bleed off the force, but she felt the contact land and pressed harder, circling to cut his space. A quick jab to his jaw snapped his head a fraction, her pulse spiking as the rhythm clicked in her chest.
From the sideline, Brock's voice cut through the slap of feet and fists. "Knuckles—quit playing. Stop letting her win."
The words cracked through her concentration, splintering her focus for half a breath—and that was all it took. Knuckles' forearm shot across her chest, slamming her back a step before his hand clamped her shoulder and yanked her into the path of his rising knee. Pain jolted through her side, air tearing out in a ragged gasp, and before she could recover he was on her, every movement the brutal efficiency she remembered too well.
A driving kick to the back of her calf folded her down to one knee, his elbow crashing across her shoulder, forcing her to roll or be crushed flat. She scrambled back, but his reach stretched longer, faster—two quick jabs snapped her head sideways before his leg swept through hers, sending her crashing onto the mat.
The impact rattled through her ribs, the floor hard under her spine. For a second she stayed down, palms braced, lungs dragging shallow, each breath cutting at her chest. Then she forced herself upright again, knees screaming, every muscle dragging her back to her feet.
Every strike after that landed with intention—measured, surgical—but there was nothing merciful in the weight of them. A fist buried into her gut, another clipping her jaw, each one a reminder of just how wide the gap stretched between them. He wasn't going for spectacle. He didn't need to. Every blow carried the quiet certainty of a man who could end it whenever he chose.
A cross slammed into her mouth, rocking her jaw. Copper burst across her tongue, the metallic tang spilling hot down her lip. She staggered, palm dragging across her mouth, crimson streaking her knuckles as she straightened again. The sting lit her nerves, burned away hesitation, and something steadier took its place.
Her chest heaved, breath ragged, sweat clinging at her temples. She shook her head once, hard, rolling her shoulders back into place, grounding her stance. Then she began to circle again—slower, lighter, her weight balanced on the balls of her feet. Her eyes tracked him now, narrowed, reading the way his hips shifted, the way his shoulders lined before a strike.
Knuckles mirrored her, calm still etched across his face, grin flickering faint at the edge. He didn't press in right away. He let her adjust, let her decide how to come at him.
This time she didn't rush. She watched.
Knuckles' stance gave nothing away, but his weight shifts did—subtle tells in the turn of his hips before he stepped in, the faint roll of a shoulder before he struck. She held back long enough to test it, feinting left to see him adjust, marking the fraction of a second it took him to reset.
When he advanced again, she didn't meet him head-on. She slipped under the arc of his arm, driving a jab into his flank before pivoting out of reach. He turned faster this time, but she was already moving, making him track her instead of the other way around.
Her breathing steadied, the burn in her muscles dulling into focus. She began stringing her strikes—short, deliberate hits, nothing wasted—and every time he countered, she gave ground without panic, resetting before sliding back in.
For the first time, the pace wasn't only his. It was shared. They moved in close quarters, rhythm tightening—strike, counter, retreat, advance. Every time his fist grazed her shoulder or brushed her side, she let the recoil carry her into a new angle, refusing to let him lock her down.
Knuckles' eyes narrowed, his pace ticking up. A quick hook grazed her jaw; she rolled with it, sting biting down her cheek but refusing to give ground. He drove low for her midsection, and she shifted back like she'd retreat—then surged forward instead.
Her left hand shot out, catching his wrist and yanking it just off-line as her right elbow snapped up in a brutal arc. Bone met bone with a jarring crack, the shock jolting through her arm and down into her shoulder.
He rocked back half a step, thumb brushing the spot, his mouth curving—not quite a smile, but close enough to feel like it. "Not bad," he said, voice low. Then he came at her like a hammer falling.
A feint high dragged her guard up, and his fist drove into her ribs from the side. She gasped, knees trembling, but his other hand was already in her collar, shoving her backward. She tried to plant her stance, but a punishing hook to the thigh collapsed her balance, and he didn't give her the breath to recover.
The barrage hit next—short, brutal strikes delivered with mechanical rhythm. A hook slammed into her forearm, battering her guard down an inch; the next blow drove into her shoulder, rattling the joint until her arm sagged. A shot to her ribs followed, pain flaring with every breath she tried to draw. He didn't let her reset—every strike landed before the last ache faded, forcing her back step by step until her defense was more instinct than structure. Then he closed the distance fully, one arm locking around her waist while the other hooked behind her knee. With a surge of raw force, he lifted her off her feet and turned, slamming her down hard enough that the floor itself seemed to quake. Air tore out of her lungs in a choked gasp, her body jolting as the impact rattled through bone and muscle.
Her head bounced once against the mat, the ceiling blurring overhead in a wash of light and shadow. Her chest heaved, every breath scraping against the ache in her ribs. The ringing in her ears swallowed everything but the drum of her own heartbeat.
A shadow cut the light, and Knuckles crouched beside her, forearms braced on his knees. His voice came steady, not unkind. "You're fast, Voss. But you're small. That speed doesn't mean shit if you get caught. Nobody fights fair out there. You slip once, you're on the ground and it's done." His gaze held hers, level. "So… don't get caught."
He pushed to his feet and offered a hand, wrist steady, waiting. She gripped it, and he hauled her up in one smooth pull. Her knees buckled, but his other hand caught her elbow, steadying her until her balance returned.
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You did good. Better than I figured. That elbow—you earned it."
Harper managed a single nod, breath still ragged in her chest, the taste of copper thick on her tongue.
Brock stepped in from the sideline, his gaze cutting once to Knuckles. "Appreciate it," he said, the word more command than thanks. "You're done here."
Knuckles' grin lingered a second on Harper before he turned and headed for the door. She tracked him until the hinges shut, then dragged the back of her hand across her mouth, smearing the thin line of blood. Another drop rolled from her nostril, hot against her skin.
Brock's eyes followed it. He closed the distance, pulling a towel from the stack at the mat's edge. He held it out.
She didn't move fast enough. The cloth was pressed into her palm with a firmness that brooked no refusal. "You good?"
"I'm fine," she said, voice low, like the blood wasn't there at all.
His stare stayed on her, unreadable. "Knuckles is right. You're scrappy. You've got form. But you're small—and that doesn't change. You're lethal with a gun. Fast. Precise. You don't hesitate. Use that. Don't let anyone get close enough to make fists worth a damn."
The towel hung loose in her grip until she lifted it herself, dabbing at her nose. She shifted just enough to catch his eyes over the edge of the cloth.
"Lethal with a gun?" she murmured, breath fogging the fabric. "Sounds almost like a compliment. Didn't think you had those in you."
One corner of his mouth twitched, a movement that never became a smile. "Call it what you want. Just don't get used to it."
He watched until she lowered the towel, checking the slowed drip, then glanced at the streak of red staining the fabric. Without asking, he plucked it from her hand and dropped it back onto the stack, his nod small and final before he jerked his chin toward the door.
"Come on. Time for lunch." The words carried the same clipped finality as always; routine carved into command. She fell in step half a stride behind him, body still aching, sweat cooling on her skin. The walk to the elevator felt familiar enough—until the doors slid shut and the panel lit under his thumb. The lift began to rise; past the level she'd come to expect. Harper's eyes flicked toward him, quick, questioning, but she didn't speak. She held the look for a breath, then turned back to the doors, watching the numbers climb toward the top floor.
The elevator doors slid open onto the top floor, the corridor stretching out in clean lines and muted light. Brock stepped out first, and Harper followed, keeping her stride half a pace behind. Near the end of the hall, he slid his keycard through the panel. The lock clicked, and the door swung wide.
She stepped in behind him, instinct already carrying her toward the corridor that led to her room. Routine tugged at her feet.
Brock's hand lifted, stopping her before she could move further. "This way." His voice carried no edge, only certainty.
She hesitated, weight shifting as the moment stretched. Until now, she'd only ever passed through this space, never given reason to pause. His glance back was enough to hold her there, expectation plain.
Careful now, she turned and crossed toward the kitchen. The familiar lines—the island, the living area, the hall branching deeper—felt different with her standing still inside them. Brock motioned to the stool. She lowered herself onto it, gaze skimming once over the surfaces before she fixed her eyes forward.
Brock moved past the kitchen, deeper into the living room. She heard the rasp of a drawer sliding open, the faint rustle of paper. For a minute, he was just a silhouette across the space, half-turned away, sorting through whatever he'd come for.
When he came back, his sleeves were rolled to the forearms, footsteps even on the floor, shoulders squared with the kind of composure that never seemed to slip. Without a word, he set a rolled blueprint down in front of her. The weight of it thudded softly against the counter before he turned away again, crossing to the fridge.
No explanation. No comment. His back to her as his hands moved with quiet precision—bottle set down, plate drawn free, movements spare and exact.
She stayed still, watching him. The broad lines of his shoulders, the way every motion seemed controlled, nothing wasted. Like the blueprint meant nothing, just another piece of business.
But he'd placed it close—enough that she could see the edge curl, the pale lines of ink waiting beneath. Far enough that if she ignored it, he wouldn't say a word.
Her hand hovered, then reached. The paper unfurled under her fingers, maps and measurements spilling across the counter in a clean spread of blue and white.
The page crackled under her fingers, edges still curled from the tight coil. Black ink on off-white paper: a floor plan—industrial, wide-angled. Narrow corridors, intersecting halls, a loading bay marked with crosshatched lines. Syndicate, definitely. But not this compound.
She scanned in silence, breath slowing as her body hummed with leftover adrenaline from the fight. Red slashes cut across the page in pen strokes—angles, notes, possible entry points. Her eyes paused over one mark near the center, just off a stairwell.
A choke point. A trap. Or an opportunity. She didn't ask. Just kept looking.
The drag of ceramic on metal pulled her back. A plate slid to her elbow, the motion neat, exact. Bread stacked thick with meat and cheese, nothing fancy, no heat—just fuel.
Her eyes lifted, catching his as he settled across from her. No words passed, but the look held long enough to register before she dropped her gaze to the blueprint again.
A moment later, he pulled out the stool beside hers and sat—close enough that the floor shifted under his weight, and the air between them seemed to tighten. His elbows settled on the counter. Not relaxed. Just placed, a posture that held as much pressure as his stare.
He didn't touch the food. Instead, he leaned forward, one forearm braced against the counter while the other hand drifted to the edge of the blueprint. His fingertip pressed once against the sketched loading bay, firm enough to crease the page.
"Convoy comes in here," he said. "Three trucks. Offload is ten minutes. Outer patrol runs light during shift change—six-man sweep, southwest perimeter. Inside, two at the door, one at the stairwell, one on camera. Boss is here." His finger shifted, tapping a boxed room on the second floor. No label. No windows. Just a square of ink and authority.
"Three minutes in. Three out. No alarms. No survivors." He leaned back, gaze locked, voice flat. "Where do you strike?"
She dragged the plate closer, pinning the corner of the blueprint beneath its edge as she lifted the sandwich one-handed. A bite, mechanical, while her other hand traced along the perimeter he'd marked.
Suspicion coiled in her gut. Why this, why now? But she forced the thought down. Brock had told her from the start—every moment was training. Another drill. Another test she couldn't afford to fail.
She swallowed and set the sandwich aside, leaning in over the plan. "Here." Her finger tapped a corridor flanking the loading zone. "Shift change means they're sloppy. Two-minute window, maybe less, before someone notices the rotation's off."
Her eyes stayed on the page. "Breach from the side. Drop the sweep before they radio in. Push vertical. Take the stairwell, bypass the main hall."
Her tone stayed even, but tension crawled across her shoulders, every nerve alive under the weight of his attention.
"You're assuming they don't hear the breach." The words weren't dismissal—they were pressure, probing for weak seams.
He pulled the blueprint closer, knuckles brushing her plate aside like it was nothing. Ceramic scraped across metal, loud in the silence. His fingertip pressed on the same corridor. "Walls are thin. Shared with the boiler system. Sound carries."
He let the flaw hang there between them. Then, lower: "But you're thinking ahead. That's new."
The words didn't soften anything. No curve of his mouth, no trace of warmth. Just that razor focus—quiet, drawn, aimed at her like a weapon.
At last he reached for his own plate. Lifted the sandwich, eyes never leaving the blueprint as he bit down. The deliberate rhythm of his chewing filled the silence, a calm so practiced it jarred her nerves.
"You're in. Sweep's down. Walk me through the rest."
His tone never shifted—no edge, no invitation. Just an open door, waiting to see if she'd step through.
She leaned closer, fingertips sliding across the paper until they stopped on the second level. "Stairwell brings you here," she murmured, tapping the storage wing. "Fewer cameras. Fewer guards. Loop behind the control room—hit before they register the breach. Take out the comms tower first. No signal means no backup. Then plant charges on the perimeter access. Detonate during exfil. Force confusion."
She didn't blink, didn't shift, every part of her tuned to the stillness beside her. Waiting for the catch, the flaw. "Minimal resistance. Maximum damage."
His eyes stayed on the blueprint, voice even. "You're still thinking like a Viper. Get in fast, pray the timing holds, run before the ground gives way."
Her chest pulled tight at the words. That had been the Vipers' way—raid with half the firepower, trust to speed and desperation, scatter before the bigger dogs closed in.
Brock's finger pressed harder on the page, cutting across her line. "The Syndicate doesn't play it that thin. Our crews hit hard, controlled. We don't leave the exit to chance—we build it in. You plan like you're alone. Start planning like you've got a crew who won't miss their mark."
Her tongue pushed against the back of her teeth, the answer burning there. She forced her breath steady, eyes locked on the ink instead. "And what? You'd box it in? Cover every angle?"
His gaze lifted, steady on her. "Contain it. Control it. Walk out with the objective and your people intact."
The words carried the weight of doctrine—scarred in, unshaken.
Her fingers brushed the edge of the page, feeling the curl of the paper. She didn't argue. Not yet.
─•────
Night had settled over the compound, the thin hum of the ventilation the only sound in her room. Harper lay stretched across the bed, one arm tucked beneath her head, eyes fixed on the ceiling. A dim strip of light glowed under the door, pale against the concrete floor. The air was cool, edged with the faint tang of steel.
After lunch, Brock had sent her to shower. The hot water loosened the knots in her muscles but couldn't touch the deep ache in her legs or the bruised throb in her ribs. She'd pulled on loose sweats and a baggy shirt before he walked her back. The door shut behind her. The lock turned from the outside—same metallic click, same reminder that freedom was still a privilege she didn't own.
He left her with nothing else. No comment on her answers, no order for what came next. Just silence in his wake.
Hours later, the knock cut through the hum of the vents. The door eased open, and Brock stepped in far enough to set a paper bag on her desk. Cardboard rustled, faint grease bleeding into the paper. Chinese takeout. He didn't look at her, didn't speak, only left the food behind and pulled the door closed again.
Now the cartons sat half-eaten, the room faintly flavored with soy and fried noodles. It was the rhythm she'd learned to expect: after lunch, locked back in her room, hours dragging in silence until the knock came. Sometimes it was a tray from the cafeteria, sometimes a paper bag of takeout, sometimes nothing more than a protein bar. He never stayed. Just dropped the food, closed the door, and left her to the quiet until morning training pulled her out again.
She'd spent the evening replaying the day in her head—the sting of Gunner's taunts, Knuckles' strikes, the way her body had folded and fought back. Then the blueprint, Brock's voice steady as he pushed her to think like something she wasn't. Every moment had been a test, though she couldn't tell which mattered most—the fight she'd won, the one she'd lost, or the lines she'd drawn on the paper.
He hadn't given her anything to measure by. No praise. No condemnation. Just silence, leaving her to guess whether she'd proved something or only handed him more reasons to tear her down tomorrow.
The clock ticked louder in the quiet. Time slipping. Training grinding. She didn't want to carry the Syndicate's banner, to be folded into their machine the way he kept angling her. But survival wasn't something she was ready to surrender either. Both choices pressed in like walls, each promising to crush her if she leaned too far.
She sighed and rolled onto her side, facing the door. Faint sounds carried from the hall—Brock moving somewhere beyond, steps even, the dull thud of something set down. A rhythm she couldn't read.
Her eyes closed before she could chase it further, exhaustion pulling her under.
The quiet of the room bled into the creak of metal. The wet stink of the yard slid in. Shadows swelled at the edges of her vision, stretching, bending—then snapping into faces. Syndicate colors. Gleaming weapons. She was on her knees again, wrists bound, gravel grinding into her shins.
Fingers twisted in her hair, yanking her head back. The sky was a black smear—no stars, no moon, just the flash of steel descending toward her face. It caught the light and seared her eyes white. She tried to move, but her legs were pinned—boots crushing her calves, grinding the fight from her bones.
Laughter started low, then swelled, echoing wrong, like it came from every direction at once. It crowded her ears until her own breath vanished beneath it. Blood flooded the back of her throat, iron-thick, clinging as it coated her tongue. A hand clamped over her mouth. Her lungs locked. She couldn't pull air, couldn't scream, couldn't—
Faces shifted. Syndicate. Then Vipers. Then strangers with breath that scraped her skin. Dante's eyes burned in the crush—wide, stricken, accusing—and then they were gone. Swallowed by shadow.
Brock stood above her. Towering. Watching. His face carved from stone.
The knife came down—
Harper jolted upright with a scream, raw and ragged. Her chest heaved, lungs clawing for air that wouldn't come fast enough. The sheets twisted around her legs felt like restraints—she ripped them down with frantic hands, breath breaking into splintered bursts.
The door banged open. Brock came in fast, barefoot, his stride heavy but silent, eyes cutting across the corners of the room as if he expected to find someone else there. His shoulders were rigid, jaw locked—but for a heartbeat, something flickered in his expression. Not quite fear. Almost worry.
"Harper." His voice was low, even, cutting through the static in her ears.
She looked at him, eyes wild. The man from her nightmare—face lit by steel, shadowed with blood—now stood in the soft dark at the foot of her bed. Breath steady. Alive. Real. Her mind scrambled to bridge the two, but his name caught useless on her tongue.
His hand touched her shoulder. She flinched hard, a full-body jolt, fists knotting the blanket as she braced against the headboard.
Brock didn't pull back. He crouched beside the bed, lowering himself until his gaze leveled with hers.
"You're in your room," he said, voice steady as stone. "Middle of the night. Just a dream."
Her chest still rose and fell in jagged pulls. She tried to nod, but the motion stuttered. His stare held hers, not soft, not hard—just fixed, as if he'd hold her there until the shaking eased.
"It's over," he added. "You're here."
The words slipped into her, slow as breath. Her throat tightened, tears burning hot as they broke loose. Her spine sank back against the mattress, the fight bleeding from her shoulders.
"Okay," she whispered, voice cracked and small.
Brock released her shoulder and stepped back. "Go back to sleep," he said. His foot hooked the desk chair, dragging it around in one easy pull. He sat, the backrest tilted against his chest, one arm draped over it like he belonged there. "If you start screaming again, I'll hear it."
He didn't leave. Instead, his hand went into the paper bag on her desk, pulling out a carton and a pair of chopsticks. The rustle of cardboard and paper filled the quiet as he picked through the leftovers with the same steady, methodical rhythm he fought with.
She didn't move. Just watched him.
Watched him eat food meant for her without apology, the moonlight cutting his face in half—one side carved in shadow, the other pale and clear. She didn't understand it. Not the sitting. Not the staying. Not the way his gaze brushed her in brief, unreadable passes when he thought she wasn't looking.
Her body sank back against the mattress, curling toward the wall but angled just enough to keep him in view. Her ribs ached. Her legs ached. Her head buzzed with the hollow thump of her heartbeat, slowing but unsteady. The clock read barely an hour past midnight.
She closed her eyes anyway. The faint scrape of chopsticks, the scent of soy and ginger, the rhythm of his breathing—each one tugged at her, thread by thread, until the nightmare blurred, then the room, then even him, sliding into dark.
When she woke, sunlight layered warm across her back, seeping through the thin fabric of her shirt. She stayed still, breathing slow, the silence different than it had been in the night—lighter, steadier. No jolts. No choking wake-ups. Just an unbroken stretch of dark she couldn't remember sliding through.
Her eyes opened slow. The room came into view by degrees, pale morning glow spilling across the desk, softening the edges of the chair pulled up beside it. For a moment her vision wavered, everything blurred with sleep, until the outline resolved.
Then she saw him.
Brock. Still in the chair, feet propped on the desk, head tipped back against the wall. One arm hung loose at his side, the other resting across his stomach. The empty cartons sat shoved into a corner, forgotten.
He hadn't moved.
He hadn't left.
He'd stayed.
All night.