The antiseptic sting in the air did nothing to clear Grayson's head. The harsh white lights overhead felt like punishment. Buzzing fluorescent lines that hummed over cold tile and washed-out curtains. He sat on the edge of the hospital bed, a bandage wrapped around his hand. A nurse moved around the bed, clipboard in hand. She was kind, in that quietly exhausted way people get when they've seen more blood than conversation that day.
"You're lucky," she said, glancing at his chart. "Nothing broken. But the lacerations were deep. Stitches might scar."
Grayson shrugged. "Not worried about pretty."
She looked up at him then, properly. Young, but not naïve. "Most people who aren't worried about pretty still flinch when they see what they've done to themselves."
He didn't flinch. Just stared at the white gauze.
She paused, then reached for the tray beside her. "You need antibiotics, and someone to keep an eye on that dressing. You live with anyone?"
He didn't answer. Her expression didn't press for more. Just one small nod as she packed up. "You'll need to sign out when you're ready. Front desk. Don't leave it too long, or they'll think you died in the vending machine queue."
"Got it," Grayson murmured.
She left with a rustle of plastic and a tired "Good luck."
Grayson let the silence stretch when suddenly the door opened. He looked up, expecting a doctor, or maybe that same nurse. But it wasn't.
"Holy shit."
The voice snapped him upright.
Rain clung to her like attitude. Hair soaked and stuck to her neck, eyeliner smudged, bruising blooming high on her cheekbone. She wore leather like a second skin, and her eyes were knives, already cutting him open.
Grayson straightened. "Do I… know you?"
She didn't answer. Just stared. Then she laughed once. Dry. Not amused.
"I'll be honest, I didn't expect you to be upright," she said, stepping inside without asking. "Or breathing."
Grayson blinked. "Sorry… what?"
She let the door swing shut behind her. Her voice dropped to something low and tense. "I thought you were dead."
Grayson's heart kicked hard in his chest. He stood up slowly, unsure if this was a threat or a mistake.
She tilted her head, looking him over. "My brother's dead, and you're still walking around? Funny how that works."
Grayson's mouth went dry. His brain filled in the blanks fast — too fast.
The Rusted Anchor. This girl, Lila. The alley. The body. The man who hadn't gotten back up.
He swallowed. "I don't know what you think happened—"
"Don't," she snapped, cutting him off. "I don't need a story. I don't need lies. I need answers."
Her voice cracked a little. Not weakness, just something raw, too fresh to hide.
"He's gone," she said, softer now.
Grayson couldn't speak.
She took a step closer. "Explain to me why the guy who was supposed to pay for it is sitting here with a bandaged hand like this is just a bad day."
Grayson shook his head, a breath catching in his throat. "I don't know what you've been told, but—"
"No one told me anything," she said, eyes burning now. "That's the problem. There was supposed to be justice. Someone was supposed to answer for it."
He stared at her, the truth choking the back of his throat.
"I'm sorry."
Lila stared at him a long moment. Too long.
Then she nodded, just once. "Yeah," she said, voice brittle. "You should be."
She turned and opened the door.
But before she stepped out, she looked back over her shoulder.
"You might think this is over," she said. "But someone always pays. Might not be now. Might not be you. But it's coming."
Then she disappeared into the corridor.
******************
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, spilling warm light onto the polished stone. Lila stepped out like the floor owed her something.
Hair curled with rain, heels sharp against concrete, her fitted coat still dripping at the hem. She tossed her purse onto the couch with theatrical flair, then kept walking — each step a challenge — toward the wall of glass that made up Kane's view of the city.
He didn't turn.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't need to.
Kane was already two steps ahead of whatever storm she'd brought with her.
"Thought I told you not to use the elevator without asking," he said, voice low, even.
Lila smirked. "You did."
She didn't elaborate.
Kane stood in silhouette, one hand tucked into the pocket of his slacks, the other cradling a glass of something amber and expensive. His sleeves were rolled, jacket abandoned somewhere, shirt still pressed like he hadn't moved in hours.
"I just saw him," she said, pacing behind him like a restless cat.
Still, he didn't ask who. He didn't need to. Kane always knew who.
"In A&E," she added. "Bleeding. Looked like shit."
Kane's mouth curled faintly. "Grayson tends to find sharp edges."
"He shouldn't be breathing," she snapped.
Now Kane turned. Slowly. Deliberately. His stare landed like a slap. Lila met it, defiant.
"I thought you'd already taken care of it," she said. "After what he did."
Kane didn't blink. "I changed my mind."
"You don't change your mind," she hissed. "You end people. Clean. Quiet. Efficient. What the fuck is he still doing alive?"
Kane moved toward her with the kind of slow, predatory calm that made the air change temperature.
"You think I owe you an explanation?" he asked.
"You owe me justice."
He stopped in front of her — close, but not touching. "You want justice?" His voice dropped a fraction. "Get in line."
Lila laughed. Cold. Mocking. "Oh, you think you're punishing him? By what — dragging him around on a leash? Making him play your twisted little games?"
"He's not a game," Kane said. Voice sharp now. Diamond-edged.
"Oh?" She raised a brow. "Then what is he? A project? A pet? Your new favourite toy?"
Kane's jaw ticked. "He's mine."
That silenced her.
Only for a second.
"You're fucking insane," she said, biting each word.
Kane didn't disagree. He stepped closer, enough that she had to tip her chin to hold his gaze.
"No one touches him," he said quietly. "Not you. Not Connor. Not a soul in this city lays a hand on him unless I say so."
Lila blinked, stunned. "I'm your sister," she said. "Your blood."
"And he's my problem," Kane replied. "Mine to fix. Mine to break. Mine to own."
Lila's stare didn't soften. "He killed our brother."
"And you think I forgot that?"
She stepped back, disgust flickering behind her mascara. "You didn't forget. You just chose him."
Kane didn't deny it.
"I want what he took," she said. "And if you're too twisted to see that—"
In a blink, Kane's glass hit the bar behind him. Shattered.
Lila froze.
When he spoke again, his voice was low. Dangerous. Icy. "You want vengeance?" he asked. "You don't get it through him. You want blood? I'll give you someone else's. But not his."
"Why not?" she whispered, for once without venom. Just confusion.
Kane looked out the window, jaw tight. "Because he's the only one I can't lose."
Silence stretched. Pressed into the walls.
Lila watched him for a long moment, trying to read the shadows under his words. Then, finally, she reached for her bag.
"You're going to regret this," she said.
He didn't stop her. Didn't move.
The elevator doors opened. She stepped inside. And just before they shut, she met his eyes one last time. "When he finds out, don't say I didn't warn you."
The doors slid closed with a whisper.
Kane stood alone in the quiet. And whispered to no one. "I'm counting on it."