I don’t do shit to get out of his grip, because I’m too high to care, and what the fuck would it change anyway? If this is where I die, at least the view’s chaotic.
The blond bastard—cheerful sociopath with hands like steel and a grin like a warning sign—doesn’t say a word as he starts dragging me forward by my shirt. The gravel crunches under my boots, the wind bites at my face, and my knees nearly buckle every few steps.
We pass rows of stacked shipping containers—red, gray, faded blue—all arranged like a labyrinth. Some are rusted over, others reinforced with steel beams and reinforced doors, a few lit from within like they’ve been turned into actual fucking homes. There's movement behind the walls, silhouettes at the edge of my vision. No one says a word.
I squint up at the closest container, its walls tagged with chipped paint and dented like someone’s head got introduced to it at high speed. “So what is this, huh?” I rasp. “Prison? Concentration camp? Or do you guys collect broken athletes like Pokémon cards?”
No answer.
I stumble again, tripping over something—probably my own fucking feet—and catch myself with a hiss. “Wherearewe?” I keep going, because I don’t know how to shut the hell up. “Is this, like, a sexy murder cult? You gonna fuck me before you kill me, or is this more of a—what do you call it—emotional torture setup? I’ve seen Netflix, man. I know the vibes.”
The guy finally laughs. Actuallylaughs—bright and delighted. It echoes off the steel around us and makes my skin crawl. “God,” he says, low and full of teeth. “He’s gonnalovebreaking you.”
He stops walking, but I don't, so I slam into him. He leans close, his breath hot at my ear. “Hope you’re good at screaming, golden boy.” Then he hauls open a steel door, shoves me inside, and slams it shut behind me.
The container’s dark, colder than outside, and smells like metal and old cigarettes. There’s a bed frame welded into the wall—bare mattress, no sheets, one small metal shelf, a toilet shoved in the corner with zero privacy. Welcome to hell.
I spin, eyes adjusting fast, and I lunge for the door, slam my shoulder into it, but it doesn't budge. Of course. “Fuckingcoward! Let me out!”
I yank at the ropes on my wrists—raw now, the skin under them hot and abraded—but they won’t give. I kick the wall, I scream, I cuss the nameless grinning fucker outside and threaten to bite his dick off and feed it to him. Nothing.
Then I freeze because I just had the worse thought ever, and I check my pockets. No phone. No pills. Not even a fucking crumpled five. I don’t haveanything. Fucking shit.
2
RAFE
Iknow the golden boy stepped onto my compound last night. I know because I’ve been watching him ever since. Surveillance footage, infrared, heat mapping, audio taps—the works. I saw him try to fight the door even though he couldn’t stand. Saw him slump against the wall when the crash started to hit. Saw him tear at the ropes until his wrists bled and he couldn’t lift his arms anymore. I saw him curl up on that bare mattress like something already broken, already halfway dead. I watched him sleep. I counted every shallow fucking breath.
The others don’t know I’ve been watching him. They wouldn’t ask even if they did.
I’m on the ice now, last few minutes of practice bleeding out into nothing. The others are winding down—skates scraping over stained ice, voices sharp and laughing and mean. I’m not wearing full gear. Just the helmet and chest pads, low-hanging sweats, gloves wrapped in black tape to the wrists.
Finn and Luca are bickering at the blue line again. Loud, fast, teeth bared like they might kiss or kill each other. Finn’s laughing while dodging every slap Luca aims at his shoulder with the blade of his stick, still skating lazy circles around him like he’s a dog waiting to be chased. Luca’s jaw is clenched tight, that glittering venom in his eyes, the kind that means he hasn’t gotten his hit yet today and is thinking about bleeding someone to feel better. The idiot probably thinks he’s in control. Kai doesn’t.
Kai’s standing at center ice with his arms crossed, watching the two of them like he’s calculating the dosage it would take to knock Luca out cold. His expression is unreadable,but I know what’s going on in that ice-cold brain. He's timing it, waiting for Luca to cross the line. Because when he does, Kai will decide if it's worth fixing him after.
I’m getting off the ice, because I’ve got a ghost in a container. A fallen angel with needle tracks on his arms and a fuck-you smile that won't survive the next twenty-four hours. I saw him on the cameras before I stepped out here—shirtless, pacing the small space like a caged animal. Still twitching. Still detoxing. Still mouthing off to no one. Beautiful, dangerous, addicted and so fucked.
I skate to the edge of the rink, black tape stretching over my fists, and strip my gloves off finger by finger, one deliberate pull at a time. I don’t look back as I step off the bloodstained ice. I already know Finn will follow, eventually. Luca will push too far. Kai will silence him. The rest of them will fall into place.
But the only thing I want right now is waiting for me in a locked box with no way out and no idea what’s coming. Let’s see how much of him is left.
I go straight to the container Finn tossed him in, still half-dressed from practice, sweat drying cold on my skin, black tape tight around my knuckles.
I unlock the door with a flick of my wrist and open it without ceremony, without giving him even a moment to prepare. The light spills in and I see him immediately—Julian Reaver, the NHL’s golden boy, knees drawn up, bare chest damp with cold sweat, twitching like the floor is vibrating under him. Twelve hours without anything in his veins has left him trembling, his pupils blown, his breaths shallow. He startles when he sees me, a full-body flinch like he’s been shot, and for a second I just stand there, filling the doorway, letting him get a good look at what’s waiting for him on this side of the cage.
“Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” I say, stepping inside and closing the door behind me with a slow, final sound that echoes in the cramped steel box. His eyes narrow immediately, even through the haze, even through the tremors racking his body. He pushes himself upright, frowning like he wants to pretend he’s not swaying, not barely holding himself up on the mattress.
“Who the fuck are you?” he growls at me, voice shredded from withdrawal, anger, pride—whatever scraps he’s still clinging to.
I take two steps forward and let him feel the size difference. I drop the helmet on the floor, lean my shoulder against the wall, and give him a slow, humorless smirk. “The circus keeper.”
He blinks, confused, breath hitching as another tremor goes through him. “The fuck does that mean?”
“It means,” I say, lowering my voice, “I decide which animals get trained… and which ones get put down.”
His jaw tightens. His hands, still trembling, curl into fists against his knees. He looks at me like he wants to fight and like he wants to die, both at the same time. And he looks at me like he knows—some part of him knows—that whatever happens next, I’m the one holding the leash.
