I let my thumb drag slow over the heat of his pulse. “You want to die on your first day?” I murmur, close enough that he can taste the ice on my breath. “Be my guest. But I suggest you stay put—unless you want someone to turn you into confetti.”
He starts to speak again, mouth twitching open—but I press two fingers to his lips. “Ah ah,” I murmur. “You don’t talk until I tell you to.”
He freezes, lips parting just slightly under my touch, breath sharp against my knuckles.
“Now…” I whisper, dragging my thumb along the corner of his mouth. “Open.”
He glares up at me, but obeys, eventually. I press two fingers past his lips, slow and deliberate, just to feel the heat of his mouth. Just to feel him shake. “Say thank you.”
He gags a little, chokes around my fingers, but the sound he makes? It's almost a moan.
“Say it,” I repeat, curling my fingers against his tongue.
He breathes hard through his nose, then manages it—hoarse, broken, filthy. “Th–thank you.”
I pull my fingers out and tap his lips lightly. Then I reach into my chest pad and pull out the black tape.
“You talk too fucking much.” I tear a strip off with my teeth and slap it over his mouth, pressing down hard, slow, until it seals tight.
He flinches, glares, tries to twist away, but I grab his jaw, make him look at me. He slams his fists into my chest, but I’ve already stepped back. His blows are pathetic—weak, uncoordinated. I don’t even flinch, just turn, walk to the door, open it, and step out without another word. I lock it behind me.
A second later, the banging starts. First his fists, then his voice. Screaming something that’s mostly curses and hoarse demands. I ignore every sound and pull out my comm. “Bring the junkie some food, will you, puppy,” I say.
Finn’s voice crackles through, chipper and close to laughter. “Yes, sir.” And I canhearthe grin in it.
3
JULIAN
I’ve been twitching in this goddamn box for what feels like a century. In reality? Maybe thirty hours. I got food yesterday—shoved at me through the door by the chaos gremlin with blood on his shirt and a candy bar in his mouth who introduced himself asFinn,like we were roommates. He talked too much, grinned like a maniac, told me I looked “less pathetic” than expected, and disappeared before I could throw the tray at him.
No drugs, pills, or even nicotine. Just food, water, and silence.
Now, I’m being dragged through the compound like a rabid animal, and my patience is bleeding out with every step. “I can walk, you know,” I snap, yanking at my arm, but Finn doesn’t let go.
“Yeah, but you’re a runner,” he chirps, like he’s taking a puppy to the vet. “And I’ve got strict orders not to let you bolt again. You got real feisty yesterday. Thought you were gonna start foaming at the mouth.”
“Iwillbite you,” I mutter.
“Hot.” He winks.
I hate him.
It’s bright outside, too bright. The compound stretches in all directions—stacked containers, some modified with steel doors or rusted vents, others tagged up with spray paint or dents shaped suspiciously like someone’s head. People move in the distance—some carrying weapons, some dragging crates, none looking friendly.
Finn stops at a larger container, one of the black ones with reinforced siding and a polished handle. Looks newer. Less like a dumpster. He slaps the door twice, then yanks it open and shoves me inside without warning.
I stumble, catch myself on my palms, cursing under my breath. Then I seehim.The one from yesterday. The wall I slammed into. His helmet gone now, chest pads off, but the same heavy silence draped over him like a second skin. Broad shoulders, storm-colored eyes, tape still wrapped around his knuckles like he’s either about to train orkill someone. He doesn’t move when he sees me, just watches. Like he expected me to show up and is already bored with how it’s going.
And standing next to him is another man. Older, sharp suit, silver hair combed back, darker eyes that flick over me like he’s calculating my resale value. Power rolls off him so heavy I feel it in my fuckingteeth.
I blink at both of them, pulse thudding, body aching. I’m angry, hungry, shaking, pissed, and this isnotthe time to walk into a mafia-looking business meeting with zero context and zero drugs in my system.
“What the fuck now?” I mutter, straightening up. I look at the monster from yesterday, then at the new guy. “Let me guess—good cop, bad cop? Or are you both just the same brand of asshole?”
The older man raises a brow. The younger one just smiles—slow, and familiar. Like he’s been waiting to watch me spiral.
I should shut up. IknowI should shut up. There’s a very clear vibe here—lethal quiet, barely concealed threat, an actualthugwith taped fists and a face carved from concrete standing three feet away—but the thing is, I’ve gone over twenty-four hours without a fix, I’m starving, my skin itches like it wants to be peeled off, and the longer they expect me to sit here and behave, the more I want to burn it all down just to watch them blink.
