Snow sifted past the windows in slow, unbroken drifts—fine enough to look weightless until it hit glass and melted into trails. The fireplace snapped in the corner, one steady source of heat against the draft creeping through the cabin seams. The air smelled faintly of smoke, oats, and clean fabric—clothes washed yesterday and folded near the hearth, proof the world hadn't stopped moving. Knuckles stood at the counter with the pot half-tilted, stirring slow, wooden spoon clacking against metal; the sound carried in the small room like a clock no one had wound down.
At the table, Brock sat hunched over his mug, the dark crescents under his eyes deepening every time the fire flared. He still looked half-run on fumes, but the others had shaken the worst of it. Kier leaned back with one arm draped along the chair, scrolling absently through his phone. Mason was making notes on a torn scrap of packaging, the end of a pencil tapping against his teeth. Onyx had claimed the corner seat near the window, boots up, gaze flicking between the snowfall and his reflection in the glass. The mood wasn't heavy—just contained. Talk had thinned to essentials, the quiet between them practical, like everyone was saving their voices for whatever came next. Only the fire's soft crack and Knuckles' spoon against the pot kept the morning from falling completely still.
Knuckles gave the pot another lazy turn, scraping the bottom where the oats had started to thicken. Behind him, Mason flipped his pencil around and started writing again, head bent, lips moving as he counted under his breath.
"Alright," he said finally, looking up. "We're low on oats after this batch, coffee's running thin, and the med kit's got maybe three painkillers left. We'll need more." The pencil scratched again. "What else?"
"Eggs," Kier said without looking up from his phone.
"Rice," Onyx added from the window, his reflection moving when he spoke. "We blew through the last bag."
Mason nodded, jotting each down. "Cooking oil?"
"Add it," Knuckles said, not turning from the pot.
Brock rubbed at his jaw, eyes on the fire. "Firewood too. We're down to the last stack in the shed."
"Got it." Mason pressed the pencil flat to the page, darkening the final line before setting it aside.
Knuckles gave the oats one last stir and started scooping them into mismatched bowls, steam rising in pale ribbons. "Alright," he said, handing the first one off to Kier. "Me and Brock'll handle the run this time." He grabbed another bowl, filled it, slid it across the counter toward Mason. "We'll take the sedan—less noise, less attention. If we skirt the ridge we can hit East Halworth. Stores down that way still get deliveries from the city."
Kier looked up from his phone. "That's pushing close."
Knuckles shrugged. "Close's where the shelves aren't stripped." He turned to Brock. "You good with that?"
Brock nodded once, slow but sure, the kind of answer that didn't invite argument. "Yeah. The sedan'll blend better than the truck anyway. Syndicate is looking for a Suburban, not that piece of shit." He glanced toward the hallway that led to the back rooms—where Harper was still sleeping—then back to the table. "We'll head out after breakfast. No sense dragging it."
Knuckles grunted his agreement, set the pot aside, and started passing out the rest of the bowls. The smell of oats and smoke filled the small room again, warm enough to feel almost normal. He set one bowl in front of Brock—full—and filled another halfway, the spoon tapping lightly against the rim before he handed it over.
Brock didn't ask. He ate in silence, the warmth cutting through the chill still sitting in his chest, then pushed the empty bowl toward the center of the table. He rose, took the smaller one in hand, and glanced toward the hallway. "I'll be back," he said, voice low but steady, and disappeared down the narrow corridor toward the back room.
The door gave a soft creak as Brock eased it open, light from the hall spilling across the floorboards before he shut it behind him. The room was dim except for the faint orange pulse from the fireplace in the other room, a thin line of glow edging under the door.
Harper lay buried beneath a mound of blankets, the rise and fall of her breathing barely visible. Only a trace of her hair showed—dark against the wool—and one hand, pale and still, rested near her collarbone. The air held that muted chill that never fully left the cabin, but the flush along her cheekbones said she was holding warmth again. Every so often, a small tremor ran through her, subtle enough to see only in the shift of fabric.
Brock lingered near the doorway, bowl in hand, just watching. The tight curl of her body made her look smaller than he remembered, fragile in a way that unsettled him. Two days, and she still hadn't shaken the cold completely. But she was breathing. She was here.
He crossed the room quietly, boots barely whispering against the boards. The space near the bed was warmer, thick with the trapped heat of wool and breath. Setting the bowl within reach, he lowered himself to the floor, sitting cross-legged so his face was level with hers. For a while he didn't touch her—just watched the slow draw of air through parted lips, the faint twitch of lashes against her cheek. Then he reached out, careful, fingers brushing the blanket near her shoulder.
"Hey," he murmured, the sound barely there. When she didn't stir, he tried again, thumb tracing a small circle through the wool. "Harper. Wake up a minute."
She shifted under the layers, a faint sound caught in her throat—half sigh, half protest. He smiled despite himself, kept his tone low and coaxing. "Come on, sweetheart. Brought you something warm."
Her lashes fluttered, a flicker against the dim light, then her eyes opened—bloodshot at the rims, shot through with fine red veins that made the emerald of her irises look almost raw. She blinked once, slow, disoriented, gaze dragging across him before it sharpened.
"Hey," Brock said softly, hand still on the blanket. "Morning."
She swallowed, throat rasping from disuse, voice barely there. "What time is it?"
"Late enough you should eat," he answered, nodding toward the bowl. Steam still curled from it in thin ribbons. "Knuckles made oatmeal. Best you're gonna get for room service."
Her mouth twitched—a tired ghost of a smile—and she shifted a little higher under the blankets, the motion small, careful, as though even that took more strength than she wanted to admit.
He shifted, knees cracking as he rose from the floor. The bed dipped under his weight when he sat beside her, the old frame creaking in quiet protest. Harper's eyes followed him, wary and tired all at once.
"Easy," he murmured, slipping an arm behind her shoulders. She resisted at first, a halfhearted sound caught in her throat, but he ignored it and guided her upright anyway. The blankets slumped forward around her like a cocoon, and she leaned into him despite herself, breath hitching once as the motion pulled at sore ribs. He could feel the tremor still buried in her muscles, faint but constant.
"There," he said, steadying her until she could sit on her own. "Better?
She gave a tiny nod, eyes still heavy-lidded.
Brock reached for the bowl, the spoon clinking softly as he stirred the top layer where the steam still rose. The smell of sugar and smoke drifted up between them. "Eat before it gets cold."
"I can feed myself," she rasped, reaching for the spoon. Her fingers trembled against the edge of the bowl.
"Sure," he said, tone dry. "After you stop shaking like a leaf."
That earned him a glare—weak, but spirited.
He hid a grin, lifted a spoonful, and held it out. "Open."
"Brock—"
"Harper." His voice softened, no room for argument.
She exhaled through her nose, defeated, and took the bite. The warmth hit instantly, spreading across her face and down her throat. She swallowed, eyes falling closed for a second as if that small comfort alone was enough to undo her pride.
"Told you," he said quietly, stirring the oats again, patient. The spoon tapped once on the rim.
She cracked one eye open, the corner of her mouth twitching. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
"Little bit." His mouth twitched. "Open up."
She huffed, a low rasp of sound that might've been a laugh if she'd had more voice for it. "Next thing I know you'll be washing me yourself," she muttered, eyeing the spoon like it'd personally offended her.
He didn't miss a beat. "Don't tempt me."
That earned him a full glare this time, though it faltered when the next spoonful found its way to her mouth anyway. She took it with exaggerated reluctance, chewing slow just to make him wait. The rhythm settled: spoon, swallow, breath. The small clink of metal against ceramic filled the space where words didn't.
"You're impossible," she said once she'd swallowed, voice softer now, a touch of warmth sneaking through the rasp
"And you're alive," he countered, brushing a loose strand of hair from her temple. "So I win."
Her expression softened despite herself, the fight draining out of her as he coaxed another bite her way. He offered the last few spoonfuls until the bowl was nearly empty, scraping the sides with quiet patience. She shifted back against the headboard, a faint sigh escaping her as she let the spoon pass for the last time. When she leaned into the pillow, he set the bowl on the nightstand and wiped his hand on his jeans, the sound of fabric rough in the hush.
"Good," he said, nodding toward her. "You needed that."
She tilted her head, studying him through tired eyes. "You feeding everyone today or just me?"
"Just you," he said, that small half-smile ghosting across his mouth. "Then I'm heading out. Me and Knuckles are gonna run for supplies—stock's getting low."
Her brow furrowed, faint but instant. "You're leaving?"
"Couple hours, tops." He reached to adjust the blanket where it had slipped from her shoulder. "We'll take the sedan. Quieter, less heat. We'll pass for civilians easy."
That drew a rough little laugh out of her, half amusement, half disbelief. "Civilians," she echoed, shaking her head. The laugh broke off into a cough that bent her forward, hand pressed to her ribs until it eased.
Brock shifted closer the instant the cough caught her, setting a hand between her shoulders, rubbing slow circles through the blanket until the strain in her breathing eased. "Easy," he murmured, voice low. "You're alright."
She drew a careful breath, blinking the sting from her eyes, and he kept his hand there a moment longer—grounding her, steadying both of them. When her shoulders finally loosened, he gave one last soft pat before pulling back.
"While we're out," he said, trying for lightness, "you want anything?"
Harper looked up at him, the ghost of a smile tugging at her mouth. "Gum," she said after a beat. "Mint. Kier dropped mine when Onyx got taken."
That made him huff out a quiet laugh, one corner of his mouth lifting. "Gum," he repeated. "Got it."
He leaned in, pressing a kiss to her forehead—warm skin against lingering chill—and lingered there for a breath. "Anything else?"
Her eyes stayed closed, a faint smile curling against the word. "No. Just you, when you get back."
Something in him went still at that—soft, simple, and too much all at once. He nodded once, thumb tracing the edge of the blanket near her collarbone. "You got it."
─•────
Fluorescent light hummed overhead, too bright after days of firelight and shadow. The store smelled faintly of dust and detergent, that stale tang of civilization that never reached the cabin. Brock moved down the aisle, basket hooked in one hand, boots leaving wet tracks on the linoleum. A thin draft snuck under the front door, stirring the smell of coffee grounds and old paper from the magazine rack.
He scanned shelves half-stripped by winter panic—took what mattered: rice, coffee, eggs that rattled softly in their carton. A bottle of oil, a box of painkillers. The kind of list that said survival more than comfort. His reflection blinked back at him from the chrome cooler door—tired, collar turned up, a man who still couldn't stop checking corners.
Somewhere up front a freezer door groaned, metal against metal. Knuckles' voice muttered something low before cutting off again. Brock caught sight of him at the next aisle, filling a basket with canned soup, oats, anything shelf-safe. They didn't speak; they never had to.
At the endcap by the register, a flash of green caught his eye—mint gum. He thumbed a pack loose from the rack and turned it over once in his hand before dropping it in with the rest. The image of Harper's faint grin when she'd said civilians rose uninvited. He let it stay a second before shaking it off.
The clerk behind the counter looked up when they approached, eyes lingering a beat too long—the kind of look that said new faces. This outer suburb of East Halworth was small enough that strangers got noticed, even on the outskirts.
"Help you folks?" he asked, straightening slightly.
"Just these," Knuckles said, setting his basket down with a practiced smile—the kind that looked easy, harmless. "Hell of a storm coming through."
The clerk nodded, some of the wariness easing. "Been like this all week. You boys staying nearby?"
"Got family up north," Brock offered, unloading his basket. The lie came smooth, rehearsed. "Checking in while the roads are still passable."
"Smart." The clerk started ringing items through, keys clicking in that brittle rhythm. "Bridge past Miller's Creek gets bad this time of year. Plow hasn't been through since yesterday."
"Appreciate the heads up," Knuckles said.
The register drawer clanged open. Cash changed hands—bills soft from overuse—and the clerk bagged their things with methodical care. Brock kept his posture loose, eyes scanning the lot through the window. Empty. One sedan. No movement.
"You folks need anything else?"
"We're good," Brock said, sliding the first crate off the counter. "Stay warm."
The bell above the door gave a tired jingle as they stepped out. Snow met them again, fine and wind-cut, the air biting through their coats. Their boots hit the slush in sync, steam curling from their breath as they crossed the lot toward the sedan half-buried under white.
Knuckles adjusted his grip on the crate. "Clerk seemed jumpy."
"Small town. We're new." Brock popped the trunk, hinges groaning in the cold. "Give it an hour and half the county will know two strangers bought groceries."
"Great." Knuckles loaded his crate with a dull thud. "One more reason to move fast."
They worked in silence—crates first, then bags, then the smaller box that rattled with cans. The slam of the trunk echoed off the storefront glass, too loud in the empty lot. Both men turned toward the driver's side, boots crunching on the thin crust of ice.
"You boys lost?"
The voice came from behind—low, rough-edged, too casual for the emptiness around them.
Brock and Knuckles spun in unison, weapons drawn before the last word finished. The sound of slides chambering cut through the wind like snapping wire.
The man at the edge of the snowpack stopped dead, hands raised, breath spilling white in the air. Broad-shouldered, rough jaw, eyes pale and sharp beneath the hood. Recognition hit like recoil: the docks, Unit 12, the pistol he'd shoved into Brock's back while Harper leveled hers at his face.
Same man. Same eyes.
A patch of worn leather stretched over his shoulder, the outline of a vulture skull stitched in dull gray thread—faded but unmistakable. Iron Vultures.
Brock's finger found the trigger, pressure light but ready. "Brave coming up on us like that."
"Or stupid." The man's mouth twitched, something almost like humor. "Hard to tell the difference sometimes."
Knuckles shifted a fraction to the side, clearing his line, gaze sweeping the lot for backup. Snow swirled between the cars, the street beyond empty. "Smart. So why walk up on us?"
"I'm alone." The man kept his hands high, fingers spread. "Not carrying. Check if you want."
"We will," Knuckles said flatly. "After you tell us what the hell you want."
The man's breath fogged between them, his shoulders loose despite the guns aimed at his chest. "Saw you at the north docks couple nights back." His tone stayed level, almost conversational. "Syndicate patrol didn't walk away. You did."
Brock's jaw flexed. "Not your business."
"Maybe not." The man tilted his head slightly, snow catching in his hood. "But it tells me something. You're not with them anymore."
"Lot of assumptions," Knuckles said.
"Not really." The man's gaze didn't waver. "Syndicate boys don't shop for groceries in unmarked sedans dressed like civilians. They don't run." His eyes cut to Brock. "And they sure as hell don't go into the water for each other."
Brock's grip tightened on the pistol. "Careful."
"Not a threat," the man said quickly, hands still high. "Just saying—I saw her go in. Saw you pull her out. Takes something to do that." He paused, then added quieter, "She make it?"
The silence stretched, wind hissing through the power lines overhead. Brock's finger stayed on the trigger, tension coiled in his shoulders. Knuckles' expression was unreadable, scanning, calculating.
Finally, Brock's voice came out low and hard. "She's fine. What do you want?"
"Name's Gage." The man nodded once, slow. "And what I want is to talk before we end up on opposite sides of a firefight."
"Talk about what?" Knuckles asked, his tone flat.
"About the fact that you and the Vultures suddenly have something in common." Gage's breath steamed between them, his gaze steady. "The Syndicate doesn't do alliances. Never has. Just enemies and assets."
He let that hang in the cold, snow accumulating on his shoulders, on the hood of the sedan behind them. "Once you stop serving them, you get moved to the top of that list. I'm guessing you both know that by now."
Brock exchanged a glance with Knuckles—brief, silent. When he looked back, his voice was quieter but no less dangerous. "So you're looking for what? Friends?"
"I'm looking to not get blindsided by people who could be useful instead of dead." Gage lowered his hands slowly, carefully, until they hung at his sides. "Vultures aren't big. We're not stupid either. We know what the Syndicate does to problems." His eyes cut between them. "You're a problem now. So are we. That makes us allies whether we like it or not."
Knuckles' jaw tightened, but he didn't lower his weapon. "Or it makes you desperate."
"Maybe both." Gage's expression stayed level. "But I didn't come here to threaten you. I came here to offer you a way to stay alive." He glanced at the sedan, then back. "You've got people depending on you. So do we. We can help each other, or we can all keep running until the Syndicate picks us off one by one."
The silence stretched between them, wind hissing through the lot. Snow dusted the sedan's hood, melting where the engine still held warmth.
Brock's finger stayed on the trigger, his voice quiet when it came. "And if we're not interested?"
Gage held his gaze, something honest breaking through the careful calm. "Then I walk away and we pretend this conversation never happened." He paused. "But we both know that's not the smart play."
─•────
The cabin held that particular kind of quiet that came after the storm—not silent, but settled. Wind still rattled the shutters every so often, and the fire popped in lazy intervals, but the urgency had bled out of the place. It smelled like woodsmoke and coffee, the faint metallic tang of snow melt dripping from boots left by the door.
Kier sat at the table with a deck of cards, shuffling them in that absent way that said his mind was somewhere else. The soft flutter of paper against paper filled the gaps between the fire's crackle. Mason was stretched out on the floor near the hearth, back against the stone, cleaning his sidearm with methodical care—cloth, oil, the quiet click of the slide being checked and re-checked. Onyx had claimed the chair by the window, one boot propped on the sill, gaze drifting between the white world outside and the room behind him.
No one had said much for the past hour. Just existed in the same space, the way people did when words didn't improve anything.
Mason set the slide back in place with a soft snap, wiped his hands on the rag, and glanced toward the hallway. "She been up at all today?"
"Brock got her to eat earlier," Kier said, not looking up from the cards. "Before they left."
"That's something." Mason folded the rag, set it aside. "Still. Two days on her back can't be good."
Onyx turned his head from the window, expression flat but considering. "She's recovering. Body needs rest."
"Body also needs to move," Mason countered, his tone reasonable but firm. "Or everything seizes up. Ribs, lungs, all of it." He looked at Kier. "She gonna stay in there till Brock gets back?"
Kier set the deck down, leaned back in his chair. "Probably. You know how she is."
"Yeah." Mason pushed himself up from the floor, dusting his hands on his jeans. "Stubborn as hell." He glanced toward the hallway again, then back at the other two. "We should get her out here. Even just for a bit. She doesn't need to be alone right now."
Onyx raised an eyebrow. "And you think she'll agree to that?"
"No," Mason admitted. "But I think if we all show up, she won't have much choice."
Kier huffed a quiet laugh, something almost fond in it. "You volunteering to drag her out?"
"If I have to." Mason's mouth quirked. "But I'm thinking we ask nice first."
Onyx considered that, then gave a single nod and swung his boot down from the sill. "Alright. Let's go ask nice."
Harper heard them coming before the knock—three sets of footsteps in the hallway, too deliberate to be passing by. She didn't move from where she lay curled under the blankets, eyes half-open, watching the dim line of light under the door.
The knock came soft. Then Mason's voice, muffled through the wood. "Harper. You awake?"
She didn't answer right away. If she stayed quiet, maybe they'd leave.
"We know you're awake," Kier added, tone dry. "We can hear you breathing."
"No you can't." Harper closed her eyes, exhaled slowly. "Go away."
"Can't do that," Mason said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. "We're coming in."
The door opened before she could protest. Mason led, followed by Kier, then Onyx filling the doorframe behind them. They looked almost comical—three grown men crowding into the small room, trying not to take up too much space.
Harper pulled the blanket higher, voice still rough. "I'm fine. You don't need to check on me."
"Didn't ask if you were fine," Mason said, crossing his arms. "We're here to get you out of this room."
She frowned. "I'm resting."
"You've been resting for two days," Kier said, leaning against the wall. "Now you're just hiding."
That stung more than she wanted to admit. Harper's jaw tightened. "I'm not hiding."
Onyx spoke from the doorway, his deep voice calm. "Then come sit with us."
Harper looked between them—Mason's stubborn expression, Kier's raised eyebrow, Onyx's unwavering gaze. She felt cornered, which was probably the point.
"I don't—" She stopped, swallowed against the roughness in her throat. "I'm not exactly great company right now."
"Don't care," Mason said simply. "Come on. Fire's warm, coffee's hot. You don't even have to talk if you don't want to."
She wanted to refuse. Wanted to stay buried under the blankets where she didn't have to feel weak, didn't have to see the concern in their faces. But three against one, and they clearly weren't leaving without her.
"Fine," she muttered, pushing herself upright slowly. The movement pulled at her ribs, made her breath catch, but she managed. "But I'm bringing the blankets."
"Deal," Mason said, already moving to help.
Between the three of them, they got her upright and wrapped in what felt like half the cabin's blankets. Kier grabbed the pillow off the bed without asking. Onyx steadied her when she swayed, his hand solid on her elbow.
The walk down the hall felt longer than it should have, her legs unsteady, but Mason stayed at her side and Kier led the way, giving her time. When they reached the living area, the warmth from the fire hit her immediately—deeper, more present than the faint heat that had reached the bedroom.
Mason guided her to the couch, helped her settle into the corner where she could lean against the armrest. Kier stuffed the pillow behind her back without comment. Onyx draped another blanket over her legs, then stepped back like he was satisfied with his work.
Harper pulled the blankets tighter around herself, feeling exposed even in the cocoon of fabric. "Happy now?"
"Getting there," Mason said, dropping into the chair across from her. "You want coffee?"
She shook her head. The thought of putting anything in her stomach that wasn't bland oatmeal made her queasy.
"Water then," Kier decided, already moving toward the kitchen. He returned with a tin cup, set it on the small table beside the couch within easy reach.
The three of them settled back into their previous positions—Mason on the floor by the fire, Kier back at the table with his cards, Onyx in his chair by the window. Like they were trying to make it seem normal, like she'd been there the whole time.
For a while, nobody spoke. The fire crackled. Wind pressed against the windows. Harper watched the flames, feeling the warmth seep into her bones, and tried not to think about how weak she felt, how her hands still trembled slightly when she moved them.
"You're all terrible at subtlety," she said finally, voice quiet.
Mason glanced up from where he'd gone back to cleaning his weapon. "Yeah? How's that?"
"This whole thing." She gestured vaguely at the room, at them. "The intervention."
"Not an intervention," Kier said, shuffling the cards again. "Just didn't want you alone back there."
"I'm fine alone."
"Didn't say you weren't." Kier laid out a few cards, started a game of solitaire. "But you've been through hell. Company helps."
Harper looked down at her hands, pale against the dark wool of the blanket. Her throat felt tight, and not from the rawness. "I don't need babysitting."
"Good," Onyx rumbled from the window. "Because we're not babysitters."
She glanced up at him, found him watching her with that steady, unreadable expression. Not pity. Not even concern, really. Just… presence.
"We're just here," Mason added, fitting the slide back onto his pistol. "Same as you."
The words settled something in her chest she hadn't realized was knotted. Harper pulled the blanket higher, tucked her chin against the fabric. "Okay," she said quietly.
The minutes stretched. The fire ate through another log, sparks drifting up into the chimney. Kier's cards made soft sounds against the table. Mason finished with his weapon and started on his knife, running a whetstone along the blade in smooth, practiced strokes.
Harper watched them, the easy way they moved around each other, the lack of need to fill the silence with words. It was comfortable in a way she hadn't expected—not smothering, not demanding. Just there.
"You want in on a game?" Kier asked after a while, not looking up from his solitaire.
Harper blinked. "What?"
He gestured at the cards. "Got a deck. Could deal you in if you want. Poker, rummy, whatever."
She hesitated. "I don't know if I can focus that long."
"Then we'll keep it simple." Kier gathered the cards, started shuffling. "Five card draw. Low stakes. Nothing that'll hurt your brain."
Despite herself, Harper felt the corner of her mouth twitch. "Low stakes meaning what?"
"Meaning if you lose, you owe me first dibs on coffee tomorrow," Kier said, dealing out hands. "If I lose, I'll take your watch rotation."
"You already took my watch rotation," she pointed out.
"Then I'll take two."
Mason snorted. "She's not even on rotation, man. She can barely walk."
"Semantics," Kier said, sliding a hand of cards across the table toward the couch.
Harper looked at the cards, then at Kier's expectant expression, then at Mason trying to hide a grin. Onyx was watching from the window, something that might have been amusement in his eyes.
Slowly, she reached for the cards. Her hand shook slightly as she picked them up, but she managed. Looked at her hand—pair of fours, jack high. Not great, but she'd worked with worse.
"Alright," she said quietly. "Deal me in."
Kier's mouth curved into a satisfied smile. "There she is."
They played a few hands, the banter light and easy. Harper lost the first round, which made Mason grin. She won the second on a decent draw, which earned her a grudging nod from Kier. By the third hand, she was leaning more comfortably into the pillows, some of the tension in her shoulders starting to ease.
Her focus started to drift halfway through the fourth hand. The cards blurred slightly in her vision, and she had to blink to clear them. Her body was pulling at her, exhaustion settling heavy in her limbs.
"You're fading," Mason observed, setting down his hand.
Harper wanted to deny it, but she couldn't. "Yeah," she admitted.
"That's okay." Kier collected the cards, started shuffling them back into a neat stack. "You lasted longer than I thought you would."
She huffed out a breath that might have been a laugh. "Low expectations."
"Realistic ones," he corrected. "You've been through hell. You're allowed to be tired."
Harper settled deeper into the couch, let her eyes drift half-closed. The fire warmed her face, and the sounds of the cabin—cards being stacked, the whetstone resuming its rhythm, Onyx's quiet breathing from the window—formed a kind of lullaby that didn't demand anything from her.
"You want to go back to bed?" Mason asked, his tone careful.
She shook her head slightly. "No. I'll stay." She pulled the blanket tighter around herself. "If that's okay."
"More than okay," Kier said, setting the deck aside and going back to his solitaire.
Harper let herself relax into the cushions, let the warmth and the quiet company settle over her like another blanket. She was still weak. Still hurt. Still had a long way to go before she felt like herself again.
But she wasn't alone.
Mason went back to his knife, the steady scrape of stone on metal filling the space. Kier's cards whispered against the table. Onyx shifted in his chair, boot scraping softly against the sill.
And Harper, tucked into her corner of the couch under a mountain of blankets, let herself just be.
No pressure. Just here, breathing, warm, and safe.
The sound came first—low, distant, out of place. Tires crunching over frozen gravel.
Mason froze mid-motion. The whetstone went still in his hand. Kier looked up from his cards, brow knitting, while Onyx's gaze cut toward the window. The rhythm of the cabin broke all at once, the air tightening.
"You hear that?" Mason asked.
"Car," Onyx said, already standing. He crossed to the window, brushing frost off the glass with the back of his hand. "Sedan. Could be them."
Harper's pulse kicked, a reflex she couldn't quite control.
A few seconds later came the sound of a door slamming, muffled voices through the wind. The tension in the room eased a fraction. Mason exhaled, setting the knife aside. "Yeah. That's them."
Kier pushed up from his chair, grabbing his jacket. "Let's go help before Knuckles throws his back out."
Onyx followed, pulling the door open just enough for a gust of cold air to cut through the warmth. Snow flurried in, clinging to the threshold as they stepped out.
Harper watched them go, the quiet swallowing the space again. Through the doorway, she could hear the low rumble of voices—Knuckles grumbling, Mason laughing under his breath. A moment later the door swung open fully, cold air rushing back in with the scent of snow and exhaust.
Brock came through first, shoulders dusted white, a crate balanced against his hip. He froze halfway into the room when he saw her.
Harper met his stare, cheeks warming under the blanket fortress. "They dragged me out," she said before he could speak.
Behind him, Kier snorted. "Not even a fight this time."
Brock's mouth twitched, something between relief and exasperation, before he moved past the couch to set the crate on the counter. "Good," he said simply, his tone softer than the word. "You needed the air."
Knuckles followed in behind him with another box, kicking the door shut with his boot. He glanced around the room, the faintest grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Place looks almost civilized."
"Don't get used to it," Kier muttered, shrugging off his jacket.
Harper watched as they unpacked—bags, cans, the smell of cold metal and gasoline clinging to them. Brock spoke low to Knuckles, just out of earshot, a subtle shift in his shoulders betraying tension under the surface.
Something had happened.
The warmth of the fire didn't quite reach the chill that settled in her chest as she watched them trade a look across the room—something unspoken but sharp.
Knuckles set the last box down on the table with a dull thud, flexing his fingers against the chill. "Got approached today," he said, tone too casual to be nothing.
Kier straightened from where he leaned against the wall. "Approached by who?"
Brock didn't answer right away. He met Harper's eyes across the room instead. "Remember Unit Twelve?" he asked quietly. "That Black Maw dead end?"
Her stomach twisted at the name. Vale had been there. Her voice came out rougher than she meant. "Yeah. The Iron Vulture guy who tried to kill you."
"Yeah," Brock said. "Him." He ran a hand down his jacket sleeve, as if the memory clung there. "Name's Gage."
That earned the room's full attention. Mason stopped midway through unpacking, eyes flicking between them. Onyx frowned. "He's still breathing?"
"Apparently." Knuckles rubbed at the back of his neck. "Came up on us while we were loading the car. Hands up. Alone. Said some of the Vultures were in the shadows the other night at Yard Forty-Three—saw us take out that Syndicate patrol."
Mason frowned. "And?"
"And," Brock said, setting a can down harder than necessary, "they put two and two together. Figured out we're not Syndicate anymore." He looked around the room. "They're offering an alliance."
Silence hung for a beat, broken only by the pop of the fire.
"An alliance?" Kier echoed, disbelief cutting through the word. "With the Iron Vultures?"
Knuckles held up a hand. "I'm not saying we braid friendship bracelets. I'm saying more eyes. More hands. More intel. We can't keep running blind."
"Yeah, but—" Mason started.
Knuckles cut him off. "Have any of us ever had problems with them? Ever?" His gaze flicked to Harper. "Except then?"
Harper started to speak, but Onyx beat her to it. "No," he admitted. "They always kept to themselves."
Brock nodded once. "Exactly. So we're not signing on for family dinners. Just a watchful neighbor situation. We sleep on it. Think it through."
"What's the catch?" Kier asked.
"Didn't sound like one." Brock leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "Gage said they've got a safe spot out near the quarry, west side of Halworth. He'll be there with a few of his crew, four o'clock, one week from today. If we want in, we show up."
"And if it's a trap?" Mason asked quietly.
Brock's jaw tightened. "Then we handle it."
The fire popped again, throwing a brief shadow across his face. "But they're not working with the Syndicate," he added, voice steady. "And they've got no reason to come after us. For once, someone's offering a hand instead of a knife."
No one spoke for a long moment. The snow ticked against the windowpanes.
Harper pulled the blanket tighter around her, eyes flicking between them. "So," she said finally, "we think about it."
"Yeah," Brock said, meeting her gaze. "We think about it."
The firelight caught in his eyes, and for just a second, she wasn't sure if what she saw there was hope — or the quiet, gnawing recognition that nothing good ever came free.