Boston leaned in just enough to get a better look at the photo, head tilting, eyes flicking between Cain and the man beside him in the picture.
“Man,” he muttered, not bothering to lower his voice, “you sure know a lot of dead guys.”
“I know a lot of people,” he said finally. Flat. “This doesn’t mean anything.”
Boston made a small noise like he didn’t buy that for a second, but he didn’t push.
Micah’s eyes lingered a beat longer before he let it go, easy as he’d brought it up.
Law didn’t.
Because that stillness—
That was the same kind of control he’d seen before.
Different place. Different setting.
Same kind of quiet.
Law shifted a step closer, closing the space between them without making it a move anyone else would clock.
Sage was right there—close enough that the awareness came back without warning, not a thought so much as a physical memory, the exact feel of his mouth still too clear to ignore.
Warm. Immediate. Not distant enough to file away yet.
Law pushed it down just as fast as it surfaced, setting it aside where it wouldn’t interfere. Later.
“So—”
Law paused for half a second, buying himself time. Not hesitation. Just choosing the angle. The dance hall meeting between Sage and the suit guy sat in the back of his mind, not loud, just present—something unfinished he hadn’t pushed yet.
“Could this have been related to—”
The front door jammed with a crack against the wall.
The sound snapped sharply through the room, cutting straight through the low hum of voices.
Everything in the room snapped toward it.
Winter was already moving inside before whoever had let him through could say a word. His shirt had been sliced openstraight up the front, fabric parted and darkened at the edges where blood had soaked in.
He didn’t slow until he was fully inside the room.
Up close, the damage was clearer.
The cut ran across his chest, angled just enough to miss anything vital but close enough to make the point. Blood edged the fabric where it had been sliced open, dark and steady—not spraying, not panicked. Intentional.
On purpose.
The iron tang scent sharpened, fresh now.
Law’s gaze tracked it once, quick and precise, already measuring distance, angle, intent.
His pulse didn’t spike—just narrowed, focus tightening down to a point.
It wasn’t a sloppy hit or a miss—it was a warning.
Winter pushed the ruined fabric back like it was nothing more than an inconvenience, exposing the cut without concern.
