One eye opened first—the left. Harper could see the plane of Mason's shoulder in the half-light, the slow rise and fall beneath the blanket. The air was cool, thick with sleep and old wood. She blinked the rest of the room into focus, then pushed up on her elbows, muscles stiff from the cot. The canvas sagged under her weight, squeaking quietly. Across the dim room, the others were scattered in their own narrow beds—Kier sprawled on his back, one arm flung over his face; Onyx a motionless shape against the wall; Knuckles half-turned toward the window, boots still on.
It had been four nights since the fire.
The night Vera had dragged her into her room and handed her clothes, they talked for hours on her bed. Finally, Harper had gone back to the room the Vultures had set aside for her. She'd stood in the doorway staring at the row of empty cots, the hollow quiet pressing in around her. They hadn't asked if that was where she wanted to be. It wasn't. She didn't want to sleep alone—and if Knuckles hadn't come in that first night, she wasn't sure she would've made it through.
So she'd said fuck it. The kind of fuck it that came from somewhere deep, where grief started turning into anger. She stormed into the empty room they'd assigned her, stared down the rows of untouched cots like they were mocking her, then snatched up her pillow and blanket in one hard, decisive motion. The hallway was cold under her bare feet as she stalked down it, every board groaning beneath her weight like it might warn the others she was coming.
When she shoved open the men's door, the hinges barked against the frame. The four of them were already half-settled, the room dim and heavy with exhaustion. Knuckles glanced up first; Onyx followed with the slow blink of a man too tired to care. Mason shifted, Kier raised a brow—but none of them said a word as she crossed the floor, dropped her things on the nearest empty cot, and pulled the blanket over herself like she'd always belonged there.
Nobody argued. Nobody told her to leave. They understood.
She faced the wall, listening to the sound of them breathing—the soft rustle of fabric, the slow rhythm of men too bone-deep tired to protest—and something inside her finally went still.
Every night since, that's where she'd slept. Though slept might've been the wrong word for it.
She'd grown used to falling asleep curled into Brock—his warmth against her cheek, his hand resting heavy at her hip, the steady rhythm of his breathing pulling her under. She hadn't realized how much of her rest had been his doing until it was gone. Sure, she'd spent a few hours alone in the bed when he was up on watch, but even then his warmth lingered, his scent hung in the sheets, proof that he'd been there and would come back.
Here, there was nothing. No trace of him. He had never been here. And she didn't know if he would come back.
Harper rolled onto her side, the cot groaning under her weight. Her first night in this house, she'd broken apart completely—had collapsed into Knuckles when he'd come in, too tired to pretend she was fine anymore. She'd fallen asleep with his arm around her, the only thing keeping her from shaking apart. It hadn't been Brock, but it had been comfort. It had been something.
She wouldn't ask for that again. Wouldn't burden any of them just to chase a few hours of unconsciousness.
Being here was enough. For now, just knowing they were close—breathing, alive, real—was all she needed.
─•────
Brock woke with the taste of blood gone stale in his mouth. The floor was still cold, still hard, still real—concrete pressed against his cheek, sweating damp through his shirt. For a moment, he thought he'd just blinked. That no time had passed at all since the last time his eyes had closed. But the ache in his muscles told him different. Everything hurt—the kind of pain that lost its edges after the first day and just lived there, deep and constant, like something fused to the bone.
He tried to move and found the ties still biting into his wrists. The skin beneath them had gone raw, ridged, half-scabbed where he'd strained against them in his sleep. His ankles weren't better—numb until he tried to shift, then lighting up with pins and fire. He rolled enough to get his back against the wall, the motion scraping his shoulders over concrete. The sound was dry, hollow, small.
He didn't know what day it was. Could've been two. Could've been ten. Time didn't hold shape in a place like this. There was no sun, no dark—just the same white light gnawing at his skull, the hum of the ballast overhead, and the rhythm of his own breath stuttering in and out. Sometimes he blacked out sitting up. Sometimes he woke flat on his back with no memory of how he got there. Once, he'd come to with his face in his own vomit, the acid burning his throat, the smell of it thick in his nostrils every time he tried to breathe.
They came once a day, he thought. Maybe twice. Dragged him to the drain so he could piss, forced a bottle of water between his teeth until his throat worked on reflex. He'd learned not to fight it—the choking was worse than the swallowing. Sometimes they'd throw the water in his face first, watch him sputter and gag before they gave him anything to drink. Then they'd throw him back down and leave. The door would shut, the light would hum, and the silence would grow teeth again.
The bruises had deepened. His ribs were a map of dull color—purple, green, yellow-brown at the edges where the oldest ones were starting to fade. His jaw still felt loose where a boot had met it, and his left eye was swollen just enough to make the world tilt at the edges. Every inhale scraped the inside of his chest raw. Every exhale sounded like defeat. When he shifted, his stomach twisted and his vision went black around the edges, nausea curling in his gut like smoke. He hadn't eaten in—he didn't know. Long enough that his body had stopped asking.
He breathed slow until the nausea passed, until the dizziness leveled into that familiar hum behind his eyes. Then came the other thing—the thing that never left.
Harper.
Harper.
It started the same way every time: her name, quiet at first, then louder until it filled every empty corner of the cell. He could see her the way Dane had described—pinned to the floor of the cabin, snow melting into her hair, hands clawing at nothing while they held her down. He could hear her screaming. Could see the exact moment the fight went out of her, when survival turned into just enduring until it ended. Until they were done using her.
He clenched his jaw until his teeth clicked. It didn't stop the images. Didn't stop the sound.
Roth had said Knuckles and the others went quick. One breath, maybe two. No pain. Clean. He wanted to believe it. Needed to. But the way Dane had smiled—there'd been truth in that, too. The kind of truth that made his stomach turn.
He'd told himself he could take pain. Could take hunger, isolation, the beatings, the cold. He'd survived worse. But the thought of her dying afraid—shivering on that cabin floor as the warmth left her body, alone and crying for him in the dark, bleeding out cold and terrified while he sat here chained and useless—was the thing that split him open from the inside.
Sometimes—when the exhaustion pulled him under—he'd dream she was still alive. He'd feel her pressed against him, warm and whole, her fingers tracing patterns on his chest the way she used to when she couldn't sleep. He'd smell her hair, feel her breath on his neck, hear her voice murmuring his name in the dark. And for those few seconds, the world didn't hurt.
Then he'd wake. And the cell would be empty. And the truth would slam back into him like a fist: she was dead. They were all dead. And he was still here, breathing, when he should've died with them.
The quiet pressed back in, thick as water. He exhaled through his nose, slow and shaky. The concrete stole the warmth from his skin. The taste of iron never left his mouth. He closed his eyes and waited for the next sound—boots in the hall, the rattle of the lock, the next hand to drag him up.
He stopped trying to tell himself this wasn't hell.
The boots came sooner than expected.
Three sets this time—heavier, purposeful, the kind of rhythm that meant something had changed. The hydraulic lock disengaged with its mechanical thunk, and the door swung wide, spilling brighter light across the cell. Brock didn't open his eyes right away. Didn't move. There was no point in pretending he had any say in what happened next.
"Up," one of them said. Not a request.
When Brock didn't respond fast enough, a boot caught him in the ribs—not hard enough to crack anything new, just enough to fold him forward with a grunt. Hands grabbed him by the arms, hauling him upright before his legs were ready. His knees buckled, dead weight against the zip ties still cutting into his ankles. He would've gone down if they hadn't been holding him.
"Fuck's sake," another voice muttered. "He can't even stand."
"Don't need him to stand. Just need him breathing."
One of them crouched, pulled a knife from his belt, and sawed through the ankle ties with quick, careless strokes. The plastic snapped free and blood rushed back into Brock's feet—white-hot pins flooding nerve endings that had gone numb. He hissed through his teeth, vision swimming, and for a second he thought he might vomit again.
"There. Now walk."
They didn't wait for him to find his balance. Just shoved him forward, one hand fisted in the back of his shirt, the other gripping his bound wrists and twisting up between his shoulder blades. Pain lanced through his shoulder and he stumbled, legs too weak to catch his weight. His knees hit the concrete hard enough to crack, and a boot immediately caught him under the ribs, flipping him onto his side.
"Get the fuck up, Lawson."
He tried. Got one foot under him, then the other, but his body wouldn't cooperate. The nausea rolled back in, stronger now, and his vision grayed at the edges. A hand grabbed his hair, wrenched his head back, and slammed it down into the floor. Not hard enough to knock him out—just enough to clear the fog.
"I said up."
This time, when they hauled him to his feet, he stayed there. Barely. His legs shook, threatening to fold with every breath, but the hands on him kept him upright whether he wanted to be or not.
They dragged him toward the door, his feet scraping uselessly across the concrete, boots catching on the threshold. The hallway beyond was too bright, too long, the fluorescent lights stabbing into his skull. He couldn't tell where they were taking him. Didn't matter. Wherever it was, it wasn't going to be better than the cell.
One of the enforcers laughed—low, mean. "You know what's funny? You actually thought you'd get away with it. Thought you could fuck over the Syndicate and just… what? Disappear?"
Brock didn't answer. Couldn't, even if he'd wanted to.
"Roth's got something special planned for you," the man continued, voice dripping with satisfaction. "Whole city's gonna see what happens to traitors. Gonna make an example out of you."
The words didn't register right away. But when they did, something cold and sharp settled in Brock's chest.
They weren't just going to kill him.
They were going to make sure everyone watched.
─•────
The kitchen had the drowsy warmth of midday, sunlight slanting through the tall windows and pooling in uneven patches across the floor. The walls still carried the faint smell of this morning's coffee and something fried that had gone too long in the pan. Someone—probably Kier—had left the radio on at some point, and now a low buzz of static blended with the clatter of dishes, the scrape of cutlery, the soft thud of boots against old tile.
Harper sat at the far end of the table, elbows close to her sides, her bowl of soup cooling untouched in front of her. Mason sat across from her, slow and methodical as he ate, the way he did everything—careful, deliberate, as though rushing might break something. Kier, by contrast, was all restless motion: one leg bouncing under the table, spoon clinking with each aimless stir. Hale sat near the window, sleeves rolled up, shoulders loose; Vera beside him, cross-legged in her chair, hair caught in the sun like smoke. The two of them talked quietly between bites, something half-domestic in the rhythm of their voices that made the room feel almost normal.
The stove clicked as it cooled. Someone's chair creaked. A half-empty jar of peanut butter sat between the salt shaker and a chipped sugar bowl—evidence of an earlier argument about rations that had burned itself out before lunch.
Harper kept her eyes on her bowl. The soup's surface had gone dull, filmed over where the heat had given up. She'd tried to eat, but her stomach wasn't interested. Every time she lifted the spoon, the smell of salt and chicken fat turned her throat to stone.
Conversation drifted in and out around her—Kier teasing Vera about her coffee, Mason muttering something about fuel runs, Hale asking if anyone had seen Gage today—but it all passed like radio static. Familiar, but hard to hold onto.
The sound came sudden—loud enough to cut through the low hum of lunch. Not laughter this time, but a voice from the next room, raised in disbelief. A chair scraped hard across the floor, the noise setting everyone on edge.
"What the hell—" Kier started, already pushing his plate back.
Mason looked up, brow furrowed, listening. The faint drone of the television leaked through the doorway—normally background noise, now louder, urgent. A man's voice carried over it, calm and rehearsed, the cadence of a newscaster.
Then someone in the other room swore—low, rough. "You need to see this."
The words landed like a drop in still water. Every head turned.
Kier was the first to move, followed by Hale and Vera. Chairs bumped, dishes rattled. Harper didn't think—she just stood. Mason followed on instinct, tension bleeding into the air like heat.
They reached the doorway in a kind of collective silence. The living room glowed blue with the light from the TV, faces flickering in its reflection. Knuckles and Calder were already standing there, frozen mid-motion, eyes locked on the screen.
Onyx stood just inside the threshold, his back half-turned toward the broadcast, hand raised slightly as Harper approached. "Don't," he said, voice quiet but edged.
Her pulse spiked. "What is it?"
He didn't answer right away. The light from the television painted his jaw in pale stripes, his throat moving as he swallowed hard.
"Onyx," she said again, pushing past the word that was starting to feel like a warning.
He caught her by the arm before she could step around him, grip firm but not cruel. "You don't want to see this."
The tone—the way he said it—made her blood run cold.
She jerked her arm free before he could stop her, as she pushed past him. "Don't tell me what I can't—"
Her words died as soon as she crossed the threshold.
The air in the living room felt different—too still, charged. Every head was turned toward the TV. The screen's glow painted the walls in cold, shifting light. For a second she didn't understand what she was seeing. The image was grainy, filmed in some warehouse or basement, the camera angled down slightly, catching the harsh glare of an overhead bulb.
And then her eyes found him.
Brock.
On his knees.
Blood smeared along his jaw, one eye swollen nearly shut, his head bowed under the weight of it. His hands were bound behind him, shoulders drawn tight. The floor under him was concrete, stained darker where old blood had dried.
Dane stood to his right, one hand clamped on the back of Brock's neck, fingers digging in like he meant to hold him there. Roth was on the other side—calm, immaculate, staring into the camera like it was a mirror.
The world tilted. Sound dropped out. Harper's pulse roared in her ears, drowning everything. She'd known he was alive—had clung to that—but she hadn't imagined this. Not like this. Seeing him broken, bloodied, forced to kneel under their hands—something inside her twisted, cracked. The breath left her lungs in a sound that wasn't a word at all, just grief turned raw and unguarded.
Someone said her name behind her—distant, blurred—but she couldn't answer. Couldn't move. All she could do was stare at the screen, her body locked in place, waiting for him to lift his head.
Knuckles saw her then. His voice cut through the room like a gunshot. "Get her out of here. Now."
Kier moved first, Hale right behind him. They reached her at the same time, each grabbing an arm.
"Harper—"
She fought them instantly, the sound that tore out of her more animal than human. "No! Don't—don't you fucking touch me—" Her heels dug into the floorboards, the scream shredding her throat. She twisted hard, trying to wrench free, her eyes locked on the screen even as they pulled her backward.
"Harper, look away," Kier said, voice tight, trying to keep his grip without hurting her.
But she couldn't. Wouldn't. Her gaze stayed fixed on the flicker of the broadcast—on Brock, on the blood smeared down his neck, on the slow lift of his head as he finally looked up into the camera.
For half a second, their eyes met through the glass and distance and static.
Then Hale yanked her back, and the hallway swallowed her scream.
─•────
The light was a knife in his eyes.
He kept them down, fixed on the floor—on the cracks in the concrete, the faint rust-colored smears that weren't fresh anymore but never really dried. His breath dragged shallow through a split lip, every inhale whistling through the swelling in his nose. The air smelled of bleach, iron, and the sour musk of old blood baked under heat.
The camera's hum filled the silence, a high electric whine that crawled into his skull. Someone shifted behind it—metal scraping against metal, a chair leg maybe—and then Roth's voice cut through, smooth, unhurried.
"This city has always been built on loyalty," Roth was saying, the practiced cadence of a man delivering scripture. "On obedience. On knowing where your place is."
Dane's grip tightened on the back of Brock's neck, forcing his spine straighter, like he was a prop that needed positioning. Pain flared from his shoulder down through his ribs; he swallowed it with the same dull reflex that had carried him through the last four days.
He could hear Roth pacing slowly, the click of his shoes echoing off the walls. "But sometimes," he went on, "a man forgets himself. Starts thinking he's above the hand that feeds him. That he can take what he wants and walk away."
Dane leaned down, voice close to Brock's ear. "Sound familiar?"
Brock didn't answer. His jaw worked once, a twitch that could've been a smile or a flinch.
Roth's tone hardened as he looked back. "Look up."
The order came smooth, certain.
Brock didn't move. His body stayed bowed forward, muscles trembling from exhaustion, wrists flexing once against the plastic binding his hands. Every instinct screamed to resist—to keep what little was his still his—but the moment stretched too long.
Dane's fingers tightened, dragging him upright by the shoulder. "You heard him."
Brock's head lifted. Slow. Unsteady. His vision swam through the white glare until the shapes ahead came into focus—the lens, the bulb above it, Roth standing to one side, every detail placed for the camera's benefit.
He blinked once against the light. The world steadied. His pulse didn't.
If this was a message—and it was—he knew exactly who it was for. Not them. They were dead. This was theater for the city. For every crew that still thought rebellion bought them anything but a grave.
Roth wanted a warning. A headline. A ghost to parade.
The camera would show them what defiance earned. What happened when you thought you could walk away. What the Syndicate did to traitors.
But everyone who mattered—everyone he'd fought for, bled for, chosen over his own survival—was already gone. They'd never see this. Never know he'd lasted this long, never know he'd tried to hold on. Harper had died alone and terrified, and Knuckles, Mason, Onyx and Kier were gone by the time she took her last breath. Clean deaths, Roth had said. Quick. As if that made it mercy.
There was no one left to perform for. No one left to be strong for.
The red light above the lens burned steady, recording a man who no longer existed. Whatever they broadcast to the city would be a lie—not because of what they'd say about him, but because the person kneeling here wasn't Brock Lawson anymore. That man had died the moment Dane smiled and told him what they'd done to Harper. Everything after was just biology catching up.
He drew one breath, steady, and forced his spine straight anyway. Not for an audience. Not for pride. Just because letting them see him fold completely felt like giving them something they hadn't earned.
Roth moved closer, voice carrying through the static heat of the lights. "This man thought he could defy the Syndicate. Thought he could turn on us and walk free. For a while, he almost did. But every traitor ends the same way."
Brock didn't flinch. Didn't blink. His gaze stayed fixed somewhere past the camera, past Roth, past the walls of this place—landing on nothing, because there was nothing left to see.
Roth's gaze cut to the camera. "The city deserves to see what loyalty looks like when it breaks."
Loyalty. The word tasted like ash. He'd been loyal once—to the Syndicate, to orders, to a system that chewed people up and called it order. Then he'd found something worth being loyal to instead. And they'd taken her. Taken all of them.
Maybe that was the real lesson Roth wanted to teach: love nothing. Want nothing. Because the moment you did, they'd use it to destroy you.
Roth stepped forward, filling more of the frame. "In a little more than forty-eight hours," he said evenly, "this man—Brock Lawson, former Syndicate commander and convicted traitor—will be executed." His voice carried the unhurried rhythm of a practiced speech, every syllable shaped to sound like order, not violence. "The sentence will be carried out at twenty-one hundred hours, at Pier Six, in full view of the city. The broadcast will be live."
Forty-eight hours.
Two more days of this cell. Two more days of waking up and remembering she was gone. Two more days of breathing when he shouldn't be, when they shouldn't have left him alive this long. Two more days of carrying the weight of what he'd failed to protect.
Then it would be over. The city would get its spectacle, Roth would get his message, and Brock would finally stop having to survive the fact that everyone he loved had died first.
Roth paused, letting the words settle, then added, almost gently, "So that all may witness what happens when betrayal takes root among us."
Dane's hand tightened on the back of Brock's neck, forcing his head a fraction lower. The camera lingered, framing the tableau—the obedient enforcer, the immaculate leader, and the broken example between them.
Brock let his head drop. Not because Dane forced it. Because there was no point in fighting anymore. Harper was gone. The others were gone. In forty-eight hours, he'd follow.
And maybe—if there was anything after this—he'd get to tell her he was sorry. Sorry he hadn't been faster, stronger, better. Sorry he'd failed her when it mattered most.
Sorry he'd lived when she didn't. He wondered if she'd forgive him.
Then Roth's eyes lifted past the lens, as if speaking to every crew that might still be watching. "Let this stand as warning," he said. "Loyalty is life. Anything else is death."
He gave a small nod. Someone off-camera cut the feed.
The light above the lens flickered once, then went dark.
The room exhaled. Dane's grip released, and Brock sagged forward, the strings cut. Hands grabbed him—rough, careless—dragging him back toward the door, back toward the cell, back toward two more days of nothing but the taste of blood and the echo of her name.
His boots scraped across concrete. His head hung low. And somewhere deep in the hollow of his chest, a small, traitorous part of him was almost grateful.
Forty-eight hours.
Then it would finally be over.
─•────
The hallway felt too small for the noise she was making.
Harper's screams ripped through the house—ragged, cracked, the kind that scraped out of a body that couldn't hold what it felt anymore. Kier had both arms around her, trying to keep her from throwing herself against the wall, but she fought him like she didn't even know who he was. Her hands caught fabric, skin, anything she could grab. Her breath came in wild, broken bursts that weren't words—just sound.
"Harper—Harper, stop—hey—" Kier's voice was wrecked, somewhere between pleading and command, but she wasn't hearing him. She wasn't hearing anything.
Her nails raked across his arm as she twisted, almost catching him in the jaw when she tried to shove free. "Let go of me!" she choked. "He's—he's—"
Her voice broke completely on the word, the rest swallowed by sobs that hit like dry heaves.
Hale was there next, trying to help without crowding her, his hands lifted in a helpless kind of half-gesture. "Kier, she's gonna hurt herself," he muttered. "Just—just get her down, yeah?"
"I'm trying," Kier ground out, fighting to keep her upright. She was pure panic in his arms, every muscle wired to fight. "Harper—look at me—look at me—"
But she wasn't looking at anyone. Her eyes were glassed over, wild. The world had gone white around the edges—just that image burned behind her eyes: Brock on his knees, blood on his face, the weight of Dane's hand holding him down.
He's dead. He's dead. He's dead.
Vera appeared from the end of the hall, barefoot, her face pale but steady. She didn't speak right away—just took one look at the three of them and crossed the floor fast.
"Move," she said to Kier, voice even.
Kier shook his head. "She's—she's losing it—"
"I said move."
Something in her tone cut through him; he backed off, breath hissing through his teeth.
Vera knelt in front of Harper, catching her wrists before she could claw at herself again. "Hey," she said softly, like speaking to someone waking from a nightmare. "Hey. Look at me. Look right here."
Harper's chest hitched, her eyes darting unfocused, then finally landing on Vera's face. "He's gone," she whispered. "They— they killed him—"
Vera's fingers tightened gently around her wrists. "You don't know that," she said, calm but firm.
"I saw—"
"You saw a screen. That's not the same thing."
Harper's breath came out in a shudder, a sound too small for the pain behind it. "You didn't—" She shook her head, tears streaking down her face, voice splintering. "You didn't see his face—he was—"
Vera didn't argue. She just shifted closer, pulling Harper into her chest before the words could collapse completely. Harper fought for a second, then broke, the sobs hitting hard and fast, muffled against Vera's shoulder.
Kier turned away, jaw tight, dragging both hands down his face. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, voice cracking. Hale just stood there, helpless, eyes on the floor. His hand found Kier's shoulder and squeezed.
The rest of the house had gone still. The voices from the other room were hushed now, Calder barking orders in a low voice, someone killing the sound from the TV. But here, in the narrow hall with its peeling wallpaper and too-bright light, everything narrowed to the sound of Harper coming apart—the kind of grief that didn't have language anymore.
Vera kept one hand in her hair, the other on her back, grounding her. "Breathe," she whispered, steady. "I've got you, sweetheart. Just breathe."
Harper's whole body trembled. "He's gone," she said again, small now, almost to herself.
Vera didn't answer this time. She just held her tighter. Her eyes found Kier's, and his look was haunted.
Knuckles came into view like a storm breaking loose, face red, eyes raw, breath coming hard. "That stupid motherfucker," he growled, half under his breath, half to the world.
Vera looked up, still holding Harper close, but Knuckles didn't slow. He came down the hall and dropped to a crouch in front of them, his jaw tight enough to tremble. Harper lifted her head at the sound of him, hair sticking to her damp face. For a second neither of them spoke. Then he reached out—both hands coming up to cup her face, rough palms against her skin. Her face immediately crumpled.
"Harper," he said, steady but fierce. "No. Don't—"
Her mouth opened, a broken sound trying to form.
He shook his head hard. "No. Harper. No. Brock isn't dead. You hear me?"
The words hit the air like a slap.
Kier, still standing a few steps back, let out a breath—half disbelief, half prayer. "What?"
But Harper didn't move. Didn't blink, just stared. Her tears streaked over Knuckles' fingers, her whole body gone still under his hands.
"He's not dead," Knuckles said again, firmer this time. "Those stupid motherfuckers went on air with it—gave a date, a time, a goddamn location."
The words hung there, heavy and electric.
Vera's grip on Harper's shoulders eased just slightly. Kier swore under his breath, eyes flicking toward the stairs like he needed to start moving now.
Knuckles' thumbs brushed the salt from Harper's cheeks. "They're putting him down in forty-eight hours," he said quietly, fury trembling under the control. "And now we know where."
Harper didn't react—not really. Her body stayed locked, her eyes wide, mind struggling to connect meaning to sound.
Kier was the one to break the silence. "No," he said, shaking his head. "No, that's a fucking trap." His voice rose, cutting through the tension. "Those bastards are hedging their bets that some of us made it out of that fire, that we'd be desperate enough to crawl right back into their teeth for him. That's what they want. That's a goddamn setup."
Knuckles turned, jaw clenched so tight a vein pulsed in his neck. "We have to try," he said, the words almost a growl. "We can't just sit here and do nothing. We have to figure it out." His hands were still on Harper's face, steadying her, grounding himself as much as her.
She finally found her voice, though it came out raw, strangled. "There's only five of us, Knuckles," she said, shaking her head weakly. "We can't take them on. Not like this. Not out there."
Before Knuckles could answer, a voice came from the end of the hall. "There's more than five of you."
They all turned. Calder stood there, one hand braced on the doorframe, the other hooked on his belt. His expression was calm, but his eyes were sharp, already working through the math.
Knuckles dropped his hands, turning to face him fully. "What are you saying?"
Calder stepped closer, gaze sweeping over the group—the tears, the fear, the barely-contained anger. "I'm saying you're not doing this alone." He gestured toward the floor, the walls, the house itself. "There's five of you here, and six of us under this roof."
Kier scoffed, half out of nerves. "Eleven probably still isn't enough."
Calder didn't flinch. "This isn't all of us." He crossed his arms, voice steady, absolute. "We've got other houses—north, east, across the river. When we pull everyone in, there's twenty-four Vultures total. You add your five, that's almost thirty."
The hall went still. Even Kier didn't have a comeback for that.
Calder's eyes narrowed, the faintest ghost of a grin at the edge of his mouth. "The Syndicate won't expect that many. They don't even know you're breathing, and they damn sure don't expect you to have backup. They'll bring enough men to make it look good for the cameras, not to hold off an army."
He took a step closer, lowering his voice just enough to draw every ear. "They wanted a spectacle," he said. "Fine. Let's give them one."