"I-I can't believe this." Dahlia's hand rose to her cheek, the cold condensation from the Ramune bottle still clinging to her fingers as it pressed against her skin. "She used to come by, you know. Back when Scarlet was in the hospital." Her dark eyes lifted fully to Logan, searching his face as if it might shift and tell her she had misheard him. "All this time, she was your daughter?"
The weight of that realization settled slowly, reshaping every memory she had of the quiet, driven girl Scarlet used to talk about. Then another thought struck her, sharper than the first.
"Wait… does she know?"
Logan's gaze dropped to the floor, and for a moment he said nothing. He lifted the bottle again, took a longer swallow than necessary, and shook his head once before she could press further.
"No," he said, the word firm despite the heaviness behind it. "I made sure her grandmother kept it quiet, and she made sure the Academy did too. She's got some pull with Akikawa."
Dahlia's confusion softened into something more complicated as she tried to piece it together.
"Melody knows she has a dad," Logan continued, his expression settling into something restrained and sober. "She knows he's American. She knows he's a trainer. And she knows he did something bad. That he messed up and had to go away for it." His jaw tightened slightly. "That's about the extent of it."
"Logan, I'm not trying to pry," Dahlia said gently, though her gaze remained steady. "But you're not exactly some nobody. And neither was her mom. Sooner or later she's going to connect the dots. The internet exists. It's not like this stuff is buried in some basement archive."
He gave a quiet, humorless chuckle. "Yeah. I've thought about that." He tipped the bottle slightly in his hand. "Thing is, she's the opposite Bee. Good kid. Straight line, no detours. She doesn't question much. Doesn't dig unless she's told to." He exhaled slowly. The sound weighted. "You could say she's naïve in a way that almost feels intentional."
Another swallow.
"But you're right," he admitted at last. "She's growing up. She's going to start asking questions. She's going to start looking." His eyes lifted, distant now. "And I'm not sure she's going to like what she finds."
A quiet stillness settled between them, heavier than the one before, as Logan's expression shifted from guarded to something more exposed, more solemn. He did not look at her at first. Instead, his gaze drifted somewhere beyond the apartment walls, as though he were watching a life that no longer belonged to him.
"I didn't want to admit it," he said slowly, "but when Bee passed, I was a wreck." A dry scoff escaped him, though there was no humor in it. "Hell, 'wreck' doesn't even begin to cover it. I was leveled. Completely destroyed. I didn't realize how much she was holding me together through all of it, how much I leaned on her without ever really acknowledging it. I thought I was the strong one, the steady one, but the truth is I was bracing myself against her the whole damn time, and when she was gone…" He exhaled through his nose. "I collapsed."
He shifted the bottle in his hand, thumb tapping lightly against the glass as if grounding himself. "I didn't just think about leaving Strider behind. I thought about leaving training altogether. Every corner of that place reminded me of her. The turf. The offices. The stands. The damn locker rooms."
He closed his eyes for a brief moment before reopening them, the memory still vivid. "The old man told me not to go back. Said I needed time. Said grief doesn't run on a clock. Told me to stay home, get my head straight before I made any decisions. But I didn't listen."
Dahlia remained silent, giving him the space to continue.
"I figured I'd finish out my contract, wrap everything up clean. Pack up my life back in the States, close the door properly, and then disappear from it all." His jaw tightened. "But somewhere along the way, the rose-colored glasses came off."
He let out a bitter laugh and finally looked at her. "Before the Strider Scandal, before the… incident… the two men at the center of it, Johnathan and his dad, Director Ethan Roark, they weren't just colleagues." He hesitated, the admission clearly costing him something. "They were family."
He swallowed once before continuing. "I was an orphan. Grew up in a busted-up place on the south side of Louisville. Ethan took me in when I was just a kid with a half-decent voice and nowhere else to go. Taught me the ropes. Johnny treated me like a brother from the day I stepped foot in Strider. I loved them both." His tone lowered. "Hell, Johnny stood next to me at my wedding. He was my best man."
The words hung there for a moment, thick with everything they implied.
"Then, I found out the truth." His jaw flexed, the muscles tightening visibly. "I didn't just lose my wife that year. I lost every person I thought I could trust. The men I called family. The ones who raised me, who backed me, who stood at my side." His eyes darkened, something harder surfacing beneath the grief. "And in that moment…"
"H-how did you…" Dahlia began, forcing herself to meet his eyes despite the weight gathering behind them. "You know."
Logan did not answer immediately. He lifted the bottle but did not drink, his fingers tightening slightly around the glass before he lowered it again.
"It wasn't one of my girls," he said at last. "She was on Johnny's team. About your age." He gestured faintly with the neck of the bottle, as if measuring it in the air. "Maybe a year younger. She found me in my office one night. Late. Way past curfew."
His gaze drifted, not unfocused, but fixed on something only he could see.
"She was shaking. Couldn't even get the words out at first. Just crying. Said she was scared. Said she didn't know who to trust anymore." He exhaled slowly. "And for whatever reason, even knowing how close I was to Johnny and his father, she came to me. Said I felt different."
Dahlia said nothing, but her grip around the bottle tightened.
"I sat her down," Logan continued. "Got her some water. Let her breathe. Told her to take her time. And when she finally started talking…" He paused, jaw tightening. "I swear I felt my blood go cold."
Dahlia's ears twitched faintly.
"She said Johnny slipped something into her drink after practice. Said she felt dizzy. Disoriented. Next thing she knew, she was somewhere downtown." His fingers flexed once against the bottle. "There were men there."
The silence that followed was heavy.
"It didn't end until dawn," he finished quietly. "Johnny drove her back himself. Told her nobody would believe her if she spoke up. Told her she'd be expelled from Strider. Blacklisted. That her career would be over before it started." His jaw set. "Told her she'd better get used to it. Said that was just the beginning."
Dahlia's eyes darkened, not with shock alone, but with something fiercer, something colder.
"I walked her back to her dorm myself," Logan said quietly. "Made sure she got inside. Made sure she locked the door." His gaze drifted downward, the memory tightening his expression. "But I didn't sleep that night."
He shifted his weight against the counter, bottle hanging loose in his hand.
"I sat in my office until sunrise, staring at that photo of me and Johnny on the wall. Arms slung over each other's shoulders, grinning like we owned the damn world." A bitter breath left him. "I kept telling myself it had to be a mistake. That she misunderstood. That she was confused. That the man I called my brother couldn't possibly be that."
He closed his eyes for a brief moment, as though even now the memory burned.
"I wanted it to be a lie so badly I almost convinced myself it was." His jaw tightened. "But when morning came…"
He opened his eyes again, the softness gone.
"I went straight to his office."
****
The oaken door slammed open so hard it struck the shelf behind it with a violent crack, the impact rattling glass ornaments until they chimed against one another. A row of books shuddered, then toppled in a staggered cascade, thudding against the polished wood floor one after another.
Logan stepped through the doorway without breaking stride. His white shirt was half-unbuttoned beneath a gray two-piece suit that looked as though it had been thrown on rather than worn. The collar hung loose at his throat, his hair uncombed, dark crescents beneath his eyes sharpening the simmering fury that burned there. He did not look like a man who had slept. He looked like a man who had decided something.
The office itself was immaculate. Wooden shelves lined the walls, each arranged with meticulous care. Framed photographs of a younger Johnny grinning alongside his girls filled one corner, trophies gleamed, medals and ribbons suspended proudly, newspaper clippings encased in polished frames that celebrated victories and headlines. In the center of the room stood a round table surrounded by chairs, facing a portable whiteboard on wheels. The tiled floor shone, reflecting the sunlight that streamed in through the wide windows behind the desk.
Johnny jolted upright at the crash, nearly sloshing coffee from the white ceramic mug in his hand onto his navy shirt. "Jesus freaking Christ, bro!" he blurted, spreading his arms, forcing a half-laugh as he flicked his free hand dismissively. "If this is about last week, I told you I was gonna pay you back when—"
He stopped. The words died the moment he saw Logan's face, and instantly his smile faltered.
"Yo… you okay, bro?" he asked, attempting levity as he tilted his head. "No disrespect, but you look freakin' tweaked, bro. Told you to lay off those drinks. They're bad for—"
"One of your girls came to me last night, Johnny."
The room seemed to tighten around the words. Logan's words were low, steady, stripped of theatrics.
"She told me everything. All of it."
Johnny's expression shifted almost imperceptibly, a flicker there and gone too quickly for comfort.
Logan stepped closer, closing the space between them.
"I'm not here to point fingers," he said. "I'm not here to assume. I'm here to ask you straight." His eyes locked onto Johnny's. "Is it true?"
Another step.
"Did you do it?"
Johnny slowly set the mug down on the dark polished surface of his desk, the ceramic clicking softly against the wood. He dragged a hand back through his dark hazel hair, jaw flexing as irritation bled openly across his face.
"That loose-lipped little slut," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. "Knew she wouldn't keep her damn mouth shut."
Logan's eyes widened slightly, something colder settling behind them.
Johnny, however, planted a hand on his hip and let a crooked grin spread across his face, casual and unbothered. "Yeah, dude. Sorry you had to find out like this." He gave a half-shrug, rolling one shoulder as if discussing a minor inconvenience. "I actually told the old man we should've looped you in sooner. But he kept sayin' you were too clean. Too straight-laced. Said you'd get all principled and screw shit up."
He chuckled, low and unrepentant. "Sides, your girls? They're premium. Top-tier. Too high-profile to mess with. Sponsors watch 'em. Media watches 'em. Risky." He tilted his head, as if explaining gym splits to a rookie. "But the others? Not so much."
"Johnny…" Logan's voice dropped, strained. "What the hell are you saying?"
Johnny clasped his hands together, leaning forward slightly across the desk, his tone almost instructional. "Look, man, Strider's a machine. Big money. Big contracts. Royalties, endorsements, all that. But the real whales? The guys with stupid money? They don't just wanna watch races. They want access." He tapped his fingers lightly against the desk. "And access ain't cheap."
He shrugged again, as if the conclusion were self-evident, as though he were laying out a marketing strategy rather than confessing to something rotten.
"As trainers, we're already up top, bro," Johnny said, spreading his hands. "Money, glam, crowds screaming your name. Headlines every time your girl crosses that damn finish line. You get the interviews, the spotlight, the red carpets."
A faint, unsettling gleam flickered in his eyes.
"But that's still small-time compared to the real players. You wanna run with the big dogs, bro? Politicians, billionaires, royalty, the kind of people who can make entire scandals disappear?" He leaned back slightly, rolling his neck as if loosening up before a lift. "You gotta bring something to the table they can't get anywhere else."
His smile thinned.
"We don't have their status," he said, "but we've got assets. Talent. Faces the world already worships." He tilted his head, gaze steady and unapologetic. "And if you package it right, you'd be surprised what people are willing to pay for."
His eyes flicked back to Logan's. "You feel me, bro?"
Logan drew in a sharp breath that shook on the way out, his hand rising to cover his mouth as if physically steadying himself. His jaw tightened so hard the muscles along his neck stood out, and for a moment he looked less angry than stunned. As if the weight of what he was hearing was still settling.
"She's fourteen, Johnny," he said quietly, the words slipping out strained and disbelieving, his dark eyes lifting to meet him.
Johnny rolled his eyes as though Logan were overreacting to a minor inconvenience.
"Oh, come on, bro."
"She's a kid," Logan repeated, louder now, his restraint thinning. "A child!"
"Dude, please." Johnny gave a dismissive shrug, leaning back as if the conversation bored him. "You saw the jugs on that little bitch." Johnny's grin sharpened. "And sides, from the way she was moaning—"
That was when Logan moved. He crossed the space between them in two strides, seized Johnny by the front of his shirt, and drove him back into the wall with enough force to rattle the shelves. Framed photos toppled. Glass shattered against the tile floor.
Johnny's eyes widened, more startled than afraid. "Yo, what the hell, bro?!"
"I am not your bro," Logan spat, shoving him harder against the wall. "You don't get to call me that. Not after this. And I swear to God, I will personally make sure they drag you out of here in cuffs."
For a split second, Johnny's face went blank.
Then it twisted.
A snort slipped out, then another, until he broke into open laughter, the sound sharp and disbelieving.
Logan's expression darkened further. "What's so damn funny?"
Johnny wiped at the corners of his eyes as though he had just heard the punchline of a brilliant joke, shaking his head slowly while trying to rein in his laughter.
"Oh, shit, dude. My old man was right about you," he said, breath still uneven with amusement. "Christ, you're so straight it's freakin' hurts, man. You actually think you're gonna march up to the Feds, drop a bomb, and watch the whole place collapse? Get us all cuffed, shut it down, and ride off into the sunset? Get freakin' real, bro."
He let out another bark of laughter, louder, almost theatrical.
"It's bigger than you, man. Way bigger than me." His tone lowered slightly, though the grin never left his face. "This ain't the movies, bro, and you're ain't the first guy who thought he could flip the board."
Logan's grip tightened in response, the fabric bunching harder in his fist, his silence far more dangerous than any shout.
Johnny's smirk returned, thinner now but no less confident. "Sides, like I told you earlier, you're late to the party. This shit? It didn't start with me, and it sure as hell doesn't end with me." He shrugged as much as Logan's hold allowed. "This is how it's always been."
And that was the moment Logan understood that the betrayal wasn't just personal.
It was systemic.
Johnny reacted fast, grabbing Logan by the wrist and twisting sharply until the grip tore free, forcing Logan to release him before straightening his shirt, as though this were nothing more than an interruption to an otherwise productive morning. He rolled his shoulders once, adjusting the collar of his navy shirt, then walked past Logan without haste, reclaiming control of the room through sheer casual arrogance.
"Well," he said, "now that the damned cat's outta the bag, guess we gotta talk options."
He moved behind his desk, pausing only to adjust the tall, pyramid-shaped crystal trophy engraved with bold gold lettering, aligning it perfectly beneath the sunlight as if that small act of order restored balance to the chaos Logan had just brought crashing through the door. Only then did he turn, leaning back against the polished wood, arms folding comfortably across his chest.
"You've got a choice, bro," Johnny continued, tone steady, almost patient. "You can keep your mouth shut, finish out your contract, pack up your clean little conscience, and walk away like none of this ever happened. We'll even make it worth your while. Nice payout. Big bonus. Enough to make the rest of your life real comfortable."
He tilted his head, studying Logan as though assessing a trainee's form.
"Or," he went on, "you can start flappin' your gums, and you're gonna find out real quick that it doesn't get you anywhere. Doesn't matter if they call you the Hand of God. Doesn't matter how many trophies got your name on 'em."
Logan stepped forward, fury burning through the disbelief. "Screw you. Your dad can try to bury it," he said, "but he can't bury everything. I'll go to the cops. I'll go to the press. Hell, I'll walk straight into the D.A.'s office if I have to."
Johnny didn't laugh this time. He simply put his hands on his hips and gave Logan a long, level look, and that look said more than any denial ever could. The realization settled over Logan slowly, then all at once.
"They're in on it too, aren't they?" he said, the words heavy as they left him. "You've got them covered."
Johnny snapped his fingers once, grin spreading wide. "There it is. Knew you'd catch up eventually. See? You ain't dumb, bro. Just behind the curve." He exhaled, feigning sympathy. "Look, I get it, man. This is a real shock. Especially after what happened to Bee."
Logan's glare sharpened instantly, and Johnny raised his hands in mock surrender.
"Alright, alright, geez bro," he said, though the smirk never left. "Point is, you've got, what, three months left on your deal? Keep your head down, keep your lips sealed, and you walk away with more money than you've ever seen in your life. Clean exit. No mess."
He shifted his weight, confidence radiating off him.
"Or," he added, "there's always option C."
Johnny folded his arms again, leaning forward just enough to suggest temptation rather than threat.
"You stop pretending you're above it all and you come in with us. You think you've seen money, bro? You haven't. You think you've seen power? Nuh-uh."
His eyes gleamed with something that was not ambition but entitlement.
"Not to mention," he continued, "we've got a private little slice of paradise where the real players unwind. I'm talkin' off-grid. No cameras. No reporters. No paper trail. Just champagne fountains, Cubans on demand, free-flow caviar, sashimi sliced fresh straight off the damned fish, bro."
His grin widened as he spread his hands.
"And of course, the entertainment." He licked his lips in a way that twisted Logan's insides into knots. "Umas for miles, bro. Every freakin' taste." His eyes flickered with something that made the word taste sour in the air. "You say the word, bro, and they're there. Shakin' their tails for the guests. Whatever they want, however long they want it."
Logan's expression went slack, the last trace of disbelief draining from his face.
"Money, power, and fame, all tied up real nice," Johnny went on, completely unbothered. "And you get plugged in with people who actually understand how the world works."
He tilted his head, smirk deepening.
"And trust me, bro, they'd love to have the Hand of God himself on speed dial."
He straightened, gaze locking onto Logan's.
"So, take your pick, bro. Walk away rich and quiet… or step up and see how deep the rabbit hole really goes."
Logan went utterly still, the kind of stillness that felt less like calm and more like pressure building behind a dam. His hands curled slowly into fists at his sides, knuckles whitening as the tendons along his forearms stood out beneath his sleeves.
Johnny, oblivious or simply too arrogant to register the shift, gave an easy shoulder bob and pushed himself off the table. He crossed the space between them without hesitation and clapped a hand down on Logan's shoulder.
"Dude, look at it this way," Johnny said, tilting his head with that same crooked, self-satisfied grin. "Your little girl's gonna grow up nice and pretty, just like her mommy."
Logan's eyes widened, then narrowed to pinpoints, the air in his lungs turning cold as sweat prickled along his skin. Johnny leaned in until there was barely space between them, close enough that Logan could smell stale coffee and burnt tobacco.
"And I'm gonna spell it out for you, bro," he said. "You on our side keeps her off the rack. Keeps her name outta rooms it shouldn't be in. Makes sure nobody with too much money and too much appetite starts gettin' ideas."
"Those fat cats?" he went on, rolling one shoulder lazily. "They've got the kinda cash that makes shit go away, and kinks that'd keep you up at night. I mean, shit. Like, Jesus." He gave a careless half-shrug, like it was just another ugly rule of the game. "And that loud-mouthed little snitch you're so bent outta shape about? She's gonna learn real quick how rough this world gets, and by the time the right people are done with her, she'll be lucky if she can stand straight, let alone lace up and run."
His eyes flicked up to Logan's, cold and measuring.
"But you, bro?" Johnny tilted his head. "You play ball and stay on the right side of this, and your little girl never even blips on their radar."
His mouth twitched at the corner, not quite a smile, not quite a sneer.
"Kinda a waste, if you ask me, bro," he said, drawing the words out with a low, appreciative whistle. "And if Melody's anythin' like her mom…" He trailed off, eyes glinting with something predatory as his gaze flicked up and down Logan's rigid frame. "I mean, no disrespect, but I'm tellin' you now, bro, she's gonna grow up and have a slammin'—"
The rest of the sentence never came.
Logan moved without warning, driving his forehead forward with brutal force. The crack of bone against bone echoed through the office as Johnny's head snapped back, his nose collapsing under the impact. Warm blood splattered across Logan's face, sharp pain flaring across his own brow, but he did not flinch.
Johnny stumbled backward, hands flying up to his face as he struggled to regain balance. Blood streamed through his fingers, dripping onto the polished tile below. His eyes widened in disbelief as he looked at the red slick coating his palm.
"Dude, what the actual f—"
Logan didn't let him finish.
He surged forward, tackling Johnny to the floor with enough force to rattle the nearby table. They crashed into the tile, chairs skidding across the room. Logan straddled him and brought his fist down, once, twice, again, each strike landing with a sickening thud as blood smeared across Johnny's face and splattered onto the walls.
He felt skin split beneath his knuckles, felt cartilage give way, felt something in himself snap completely as the world narrowed to red haze and raw fury. There were no trophies, no office, no history left in that moment. Only rage.
Johnny tried to shield himself, arms flailing uselessly as Logan's blows kept coming, relentless and unmeasured. Each strike was fueled not just by betrayal, but by the image Johnny had dared to conjure by the threat wrapped in suggestion.
Logan didn't think. He didn't measure.
He just kept hitting.
Johnny's face twisted with fury as he drove his knee up into Logan's stomach, the impact folding him in half and tearing the air from his lungs in a ragged gasp. Logan staggered sideways, vision flashing white for a split second as Johnny shoved him off and spat blood and fragments of enamel onto the polished tile. One of Johnny's eyes was already swelling shut, purple blooming beneath torn skin, his nose bent at a sick angle while blood streamed freely from his lip and chin, dripping onto his navy shirt in dark, spreading stains.
Logan saw it then, the calculation behind the haze of pain. Johnny wasn't retreating. He was angling sideways toward the desk.
The drawer.
The Glock.
Logan's jaw clenched as instinct overrode the dizziness clawing at the edges of his vision, and he lunged low, fingers hooking around Johnny's ankle just as the man reached the desk. Johnny pitched forward with a startled grunt, his jaw smashing against the edge of the wood with a sickening crack. The long crystal pyramid trophy teetered violently, then toppled from its place of pride, striking the floor with a heavy thud that split the tile and fractured its gleaming edges.
Johnny groaned, rolling onto his side, but Logan was already on him, driven by something far darker than anger. He swung, knuckles slamming into Johnny's cheekbone. Johnny answered with a wild hook that caught Logan across the face, snapping his head sideways and sending a spray of blood across the wall behind them.
They thrashed upon the floor together, limbs tangling, suits wrinkling and tearing as they rolled across shattered glass and fallen books. This time Johnny came up on top, straddling Logan's torso, both hands wrapped fully around his neck. His grip tightened, fingers digging in, cutting off air and thought in the same brutal motion.
"You really thought you could come at me, bro?" Johnny spat. "You thought you could roll into my kingdom and take me out?!"
His face was a wreck of swollen flesh and drying blood. Crimson streaked through the cuts along his cheekbones, pooled at the corner of his split lip, and streamed sluggishly from his nose. Bruises were already blooming in deep purples and sickly yellows across his jaw, but none of it dulled the manic glint in his eyes. If anything, the damage only seemed to sharpen the madness burning there.
"Nah, bro," he growled, breath thick, chest heaving. "You messed up. Big time." His hand clasped harder around Logan's throat. "And now I'm gonna do what I should've done a hell of a long time ago."
Logan clawed at Johnny's face, nails raking skin, but Johnny only bore down harder, teeth bared in a blood-slick grin as Logan's lungs burned and his vision began to tunnel. The office lights blurred into streaks. The ceiling swam. Sound dulled into a distant roar.
And in that narrowing darkness, memory came rushing in.
He saw himself as a boy pressed against a chain-link fence, watching umas thunder past the finish line with eyes wide and hungry for something he could not yet name. He saw the cracked ceiling of the orphanage, the thin mattress beneath his back, the nights he whispered promises to a future that did not yet exist. He saw the long hours spent studying form and stride, the first time a panel called him prodigy, the headlines that crowned him the Miracle Boy, and eventually the Hand of God. He saw trophies lifted, crowds roaring, Bee laughing beside him, Johnny and Ethan clapping him on the back as though they were blood.
They had been there for everything.
And now Johnny, the man he had once called brother, was going to end him on a tile floor beneath a wall of hollow awards.
Melody's face cut through the fog.
His daughter.
The only thing left that was real.
The only thing that was not a lie.
"Forget that yappy bitch," Johnny rasped. "Forget all of them." His laughter was jagged and unsteady, more unhinged than amused, but the hatred in his eyes burned steady and focused. "When I'm done with you, bro," he went on, "I'm gonna find your pretty little girl. Yeah, bro. Uncle Johnny's gonna take real good care of her." His chuckle returned despite blood dripping from his lip. "And I'll make sure you hear it, bro, all the way down in Hell!"
A violent clarity surged through him. Logan's hand slapped blindly against the floor, fingers scraping across cold tile, across shards of glass and splintered crystal. His lungs screamed. His pulse thundered in his ears. Then his fingertips brushed something solid, jagged, heavy.
He closed his hand around it.
Logan's other hand shot out and clamped around Johnny's left wrist, his grip locking down with brutal precision. It tightened until the tendons stood out along his forearm and his knuckles blanched pale, and somewhere beneath the roar of adrenaline pounding through his skull, he thought he heard something give. An ugly, splintering crack swallowed by Johnny's sharp intake of breath.
Johnny's bravado shattered into a twisted grimace as pain carved across his face, the color draining beneath the blood and bruises. Logan bared his teeth, breath ragged, eyes burning with something feral and unrestrained.
"I... told you," he rasped. "Screw... you… bro."
With a violent wrench, he tore Johnny's hand away from his throat as air flooded his lungs in a searing rush. His head snapped forward like a cornered animal, jaws clamping down hard across Johnny's hand. Johnny's scream ripped through the air as Logan bit down without hesitation, teeth sinking deep until the metallic tang of blood flooded his mouth. He held for a heartbeat too long, then tore away savagely, leaving Johnny reeling as crimson splattered across both of them.
Logan spat, blood streaking from his lips as he hurled the mess mangled digits back toward Johnny's face, a raw snarl tearing from his chest. Johnny screamed, clutching his injured hand, his earlier threats dissolved into incoherent howls of shock and fury.
And then something in Logan broke completely.
A guttural cry erupted from deep within him, torn from a place beyond reason or mercy, and he swung the heavy object with everything he had left. Every ounce of rage, grief, and accumulated fury in a single, devastating arc.
****
Dahlia stood frozen where she was, her fingers tightening around the neck of the Ramune bottle as if it were the only solid thing left in the room, her dark eyes wide and unblinking while the blood seemed to drain from her face and settle somewhere cold and unreachable inside her chest.
Logan looked down through the mouth of his empty beer bottle, giving it a small shake as though hoping for one last drop before setting it carefully on the kitchen counter, the glass making a dull, final sound against the marble.
"After a while," he said, "all I was doin' was pounding wet chunks of bone into tile." He swallowed once, jaw tightening as he stared past her rather than at her. "Wasn't until the adrenaline burned off that it hit me what I'd done, what he'd said, what all of it meant." A slow breath left him. "I don't gotta spell out what came next."
Dahlia's ears flattened against her head, the gesture unconscious, protective. She hesitated before asking the question that had already formed. "Did they… find out how many?"
Silence stretched between them.
"Not right away," Logan answered at last, lifting his gaze to meet hers. "Took years. Took someone with a spine and a death wish." A faint, humorless huff escaped him. "Wasn't until Lightning and C.H.A.S.E. strapped a whole damn arsenal of dynamite under Roarke's empire and blew Strider wide open that the truth started spilling out."
His words hardened, though the anger was no longer explosive. It was sediment, settled deep. "It got so ugly Congress had to step in. The USURA chairman resigned in disgrace. Investigations went federal. Names hit the news one after another. Indictments. Trials. Prison sentences."
He leaned back slightly against the counter. Eyes distant.
"And like Johnny said, it wasn't small fry. We're talkin' actors, personalities, senators, representatives, CEOs, media darlings, foreign dignitaries, and more faculty than I care to count." His mouth pressed into a thin line. "Roarke got life. Solitary. Given what came out, he's probably the most hated man in the country, maybe the world."
He paused, and for the first time something close to grief edged into his voice again.
"As for the girls… their names were sealed. Identities scrubbed. Protected." His fingers curled around the edge of the counter until the tendons stood out. "From what the investigations confirmed, it was hundreds over a decade. And that's only what they could prove. Could've started the day Roarke took over. Hell, maybe even before."
His jaw flexed once.
"And the whole damn time," he said quietly, the words dragging across his throat as though they carried weight, "I was walking those halls like some bright-eyed idiot, thinking I was building champions, not standing in the middle of rot I couldn't even see." He paused, his gaze dropping to his open palm as if expecting to find something written there. "Or maybe," he added after a moment, "I didn't see it because I didn't want to."
"Logan," Dahlia said gently, stepping closer, the floorboards creaking beneath her boots. "You can't shoulder all of that." Her ears angled toward him, her tail stilling as she searched his face. "You said it yourself. They were family to you. When you love someone, you don't go looking for the cracks. You don't assume the worst until it's already blown apart." Her eyes lowered briefly before lifting again. "Trust me, I know that better than most. And from the way you tell it, they worked damn hard to keep it buried from you."
A faint, almost teasing smile tugged at her mouth. "If anything, maybe that's where Melody gets it from. That straight-and-narrow streak."
Logan blinked at her, caught off guard, and for a second the heaviness in his expression loosened. A quiet chuckle slipped out of him, softer than anything he had given the room all evening. "Well, shit," he muttered, rubbing a hand over his temple as tension finally eased from his shoulders, "guess you might be onto something there, kid."
He drew in a slow breath, the warmth fading again as something steadier took its place. "Still, none of it would've cracked open without Lightning," he continued, lifting his gaze back to Dahlia. "Even back when she was racing, that girl never did anything halfway. When she set her sights on something, she hit it headfirst and didn't quit until it was done. Gift and a curse, depending on the day."
His jaw tightened slightly, not in anger this time but in recognition of the path that followed.
"And somewhere in the middle of that whole Strider mess," he said, "she started following threads that led past Johnny, past Roarke, past the obvious monsters, and she found the ones pulling the strings behind the curtain."
His eyes darkened.
"The MRA."
Dahlia blinked slowly, the weight of it settling in piece by piece before her hands lifted instinctively, palms out as if she could physically push the idea away. "Hold on," she said, shaking her head as she stared at him. "Back up a second." Her eyes narrowed, trying to line the pieces up in her mind. "You're telling me the one bankrolling that entire nightmare at Strider… was the MRA?"
"That's the clean version," Logan replied. He rested his hip against the counter, fingers tapping lightly against the marble as he spoke. "But it's not that simple. Recently, I did my own digging. Articles, court transcripts, whispers from people who suddenly decided they had a conscience. The MRA wasn't running Strider outright. They were the bridge. Strider had the product, the MRA had the connections. They handled introductions, logistics, smoothing over the political edges. Fifty-fifty split on profits and favors, and everybody in the upper tiers walked away smiling."
His fingers stilled.
"Everybody but the girls," he added quietly.
He drew a slow breath before continuing. "But Lightning doesn't see them as middlemen. To her, they're the root. The rot under the floorboards. In her mind, none of it happens without the MRA opening the doors and shaking hands behind closed curtains. That's why she made it personal. That's why she made it her mission to tear the whole structure down."
Dahlia stood very still as the implications rearranged themselves inside her head. It took a moment before another thought surfaced, one that made her stomach tighten.
"Is that why she was here earlier?" she asked carefully. "Does she know about you? About me?"
Logan let out a breath, a faint shrug lifting one shoulder. "Yeah," he said, nodding once. "Hard to keep something like that from the Captain of C.H.A.S.E., especially after that foxed-faced bastard decided to sing to the whole damned world." His eyes settled on Dahlia, steady and unblinking. "She wasn't just here looking for closure, kid. She came to send a message."
He pushed off the counter and straightened fully.
"I'd bet money her team's almost operational," he continued. "And when they move, they won't nibble at the edges. They'll come down hard."
There was no bravado in his words, only assessment.
"Proving the MRA's connection to the Strider mess was the justification they needed to take C.H.A.S.E. global," he went on. "And she's not recruiting rookies. Every one of them is a former champion in some form or another. Elite runners who already know how to operate under pressure."
His jaw tightened slightly.
"They're sharp," Logan said. "And under Lightning, they get sharper. Even seasoned runners get caught slipping around them. And when that happens…" He let the rest hang in the air between them before finishing it himself. "Best case, you're looking at cuffs and a cell."
He lifted the bottle slightly, studying the faint reflection in the glass before setting it down again with a quiet click.
"And take it from me, kid. Hell, take it from the old man downstairs if you ever get him talking long enough. Prison ain't anything like they dress it up in the movies. It ain't some place where you keep your head down, read a few books, lift weights, and walk out rehabilitated with a tidy little redemption arc."
He shook his head slowly.
"It's survival. Every day. You watch what you say, how you breathe, who you look at too long. You learn the rhythm of violence the way you once learned the rhythm of a crowd. And when you finally get out, if you get out, you leave pieces of yourself behind whether you mean to or not."
Dahlia's expression shifted. The earlier curiosity replaced with something heavier, more careful.
"Is that what happened to you?" she asked quietly.
Logan didn't answer right away. His jaw worked once, and for a moment he seemed to be staring at something far past the red brick walls of the apartment.
Then he nodded.
"Yeah," he said. "And then some."
He pushed off the counter and straightened to his full height, the softness that had lingered in his expression burning away until there was nothing left but iron as his gaze locked onto hers and did not waver.
"So, I need to know," he said. "I need to hear you say it, loud and clear." A beat passed before he continued. "You fall out on the streets, you're done. Forget your life. Forget whatever future you're dreaming about. Forget your sister waiting for you to come home."
Dahlia's face went slack at that, her tail falling still behind her as her ears flattened slightly against her head, the weight of what he was saying settling into her bones. He dragged a hand over his face, exhaling sharply.
"You throw in with me, I will do everything in my power to make you ready. I'll push you harder than you think you can handle. I'll teach you everything I know. But I can only take you so far. The rest of it, when it comes down to the split second that decides whether you live or don't, that's on you."
His eyes darkened, not with anger, but with memory.
"I spent ten years of my life in the slammer. I survived it. I adapted. I walked back out. But it ain't a life I'd wish on anyone, and it sure as hell ain't a path I'd want you stumbling into blind."
He swallowed once, and when he spoke again there was something raw beneath the steel.
"And most of all," he said, "I ain't failing another uma." He did not look away as he said it, and there was no anger in him now, only something steadier and far more dangerous. "I couldn't stop the world from taking Bee from me. I couldn't stop Johnny or his old man from hurting all those girls right under my damn nose. I couldn't see it in time, couldn't tear it down fast enough, and that's a weight I carry whether I like it or not."
His jaw tightened, but he did not break eye contact.
"But I'll be damned if I let anything happen to you," he continued, the words firm, unshaken. "I won't stand by and watch another one of my girls get chewed up by something bigger than her. I won't bury another dream because I hesitated, or because I thought someone else would handle it."
A slow breath left him.
"I ain't doing that again," he said, quieter now. "Not on my watch. Not with you. I won't."
He held her gaze.
"So, if you're gonna do this, if we're gonna do this together, I want you to look me in the eye and tell me, one last time, that you're absolutely sure."
Where Logan had braced himself for doubt. For the smallest tremor in her stance, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, none came. There was no retreat in her posture, no second-guessing breath caught in her throat. Dahlia stood her ground with a grin that carried more fire than recklessness, more conviction than bravado.
"Barefoot into Hell," she reminded him. "That's what I told you back at that restaurant. In front of that store, and I meant it then just as much as I mean it now."
Her eyes did not burn with anger. They burned with purpose.
"I don't know what Lightning said that made you need to hear this again, but I'm gonna drive it in until it sticks," she continued. "I'm here. I'm ready. I don't give a damn how ugly the road gets or how far it stretches. I'm running it. And I'm not stopping until I'm at the top."
She placed her hand over her chest, not theatrically, but firmly, as if anchoring herself to the promise.
"And if I fall, if I break, if they throw me in a cell and toss the key into the ocean, then so be it. Just make sure we're in that damned cage together, because you signed up for this too. We're stuck with each other whether you like it or not."
Her head tilted, that same stubborn spark flashing across her face as she extended her fist toward him. "That enough for you… Trainer?"
Logan's breath caught before he could stop it. For a split second, the room shifted, memory bleeding into the present. He saw another fist, another grin, another pair of blazing eyes that once dared the world to try and stop her. Bee. The same live wire defiance. The same reckless faith. He swallowed hard against the sting rising behind his eyes, forcing it down before it could betray him.
A low chuckle slipped out instead, warm and almost disbelieving.
"Heh… not sure why I even bothered asking," he muttered, shaking his head.
He straightened, something steadier settling into him now, something that had been dormant for far too long.
"Alright. Tomorrow morning. Park. Early. We got work to do," he said, lifting a finger as if laying down the law. "And scratch that. We ain't just doing a little tune-up. We've got a shit ton of work ahead of us, and I don't wanna hear no bellyaching."
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, though there was nothing light about what followed.
"And when we're done," he said, folding his arms across his chest, "forget Japan. Every damned uma tied to the MRA is gonna have their eyes on you." His gaze held hers, steady and assessing. "Especially the Sovereigns."
Dahlia's ears twitched at that, her tail snapping once behind her before settling. There was no fear in her expression, only acknowledgment.
"Roger that, Trainer."
She stepped forward, placing the empty Ramune bottle carefully on the counter as if it carried more weight than glass alone.
"That's for the drink," she added, softer now. "And the stories. Mostly for trusting me with them."
She took a step back, giving him a nod that was less casual than she pretended.
"I'll see you tomorrow."
Without waiting for a reply, she turned and headed for the door.
"Anytime, kid," Logan answered.
Dahlia climbed the short steps to the landing and paused, glancing back at him one last time. There was something bright in her smile, something that felt almost out of place in a room heavy with ghosts. Then she slipped through the door and closed it behind her, the latch clicking into place as the apartment settled back into silence.
The quiet pressed in from every corner.
***
Logan stood there for a moment longer before pushing off the counter and crossing to the fridge. He opened it, cold white light spilling across the floor, and pulled out another beer. The cap came off with a sharp hiss, foam rising briefly before settling. He moved back toward the record player and looked down at the black disc resting on the turntable, its surface catching the dim amber light. He flipped the switch, the mechanism humming to life as the platter began to spin, then lifted the needle and lowered it carefully into the groove.
A distant carnival melody bled through the speakers before dissolving into the aching swell of guitars.
[BGM – Till' Summer Comes Around – Keith Urban]
He stepped back, rounded the coffee table, and sank into the sofa. For a few seconds he leaned into the cushions, eyes closed, letting the music wash over him while he took a slow pull from the bottle. The bitterness lingered on his tongue, familiar and grounding.
When he opened his eyes again, he leaned forward, elbows braced on his thighs. His fingers dragged through his hair and down over his face before covering his mouth as his gaze drifted to the guitar in the corner. It sat beneath the amber light like a relic, dust gathering along its curves, strings dull from neglect.
That was when it hit him.
He had let Lightning's doubts crawl under his skin. Let them whisper that he was dragging Dahlia toward a fate she hadn't fully understood. That he would never forgive himself if the streets swallowed her whole.
He didn't blame Lightning. She had built her entire life around dismantling the very machine he now worked beside. From her vantage point, this wasn't strategy. It was betrayal. To see the man that made her who she is today align herself with the enemy would cut against everything she had fought for. But the truth was simpler than that.
They had all made their choices. Lightning had. He had. And Dahlia had, too.
Good and evil were luxuries people debated from a safe distance. On the ground, choices were survival. What good was righteousness if it only meant standing still while the world crushed you?
He took another drink.
Johnny's voice echoed in his memory, twisted and wrong, yet disturbingly accurate in one respect. Being straight and narrow didn't earn you applause. It made you predictable. It gets you used. Girls like Dahlia had followed every rule laid in front of them, and the world still found ways to shove them into the dirt. The Fifteen would have ended the same way if fate had decided otherwise. He saw that clearly now.
His eyes narrowed on the guitar. Maybe it was time to dust it off. Change the strings. Play something that didn't sound like regret.
He drew in a long breath.
"I'm sorry, Light," he murmured into the low hum of the music. "But if you're comin' for us, you'd better be ready to chase us all the way to the depths of Hell, because that's where we'll be waiting."
His expression hardened. The softness gone.
"And I just hope to God you don't drag the whole damned world down there with you."