Free.
My lungs expand on instinct, drawing in air that feels different. Less recycled, less measured, and I hold it there longer than I need, then let it out slowly. “Thank you,” I say, without performance, without sarcasm or edge, just a simple acknowledgment that I understand the difference between an enemy and someone doing their job.
Harlow gives a single nod. His gaze moves past me, already onto the next thing.
A guard appears at the door and gestures the way out.
The corridor feels longer this time. Lights hum overhead, the same sound they made when I walked in, but now it scrapes along the inside of my skull like static. My boots hit the floor with a heaviness that wasn’t there before.
Somewhere between the holding area and the exit, the reality of it starts to sink in layer by layer.
I am not charged.
I am not convicted.
But something has still been taken.
Time.
Control.
The illusion that I can protect the people I love simply by standing between them and danger.
Millie’s voice flickers through my head. The recording, the way she said my name, like it was something fragile she was afraid to drop. I push the thought aside for now. If I let it sit too long, it will split me open in a hallway where I can’t afford to bleed.
The final door opens with a hydraulic sigh.
Cold air assaults my face.
Real air.
Dry.
Clean.
Unfiltered by vents and human proximity.
I step out onto the concrete and stop. The light is too sharp. March desert light that cuts edges into everything it touches. For a moment, the world feels too wide.
Then I see them.
The entire club is spread across the front of the parking lot, as if they’ve always belonged there. Bikes lined in a loose formation. Leather, denim, and controlled presence.
Not loud.
Not aggressive.
Just… immovable.
All of them.
Waiting.
Something tightens and steadies at the same time. I didn’t realize until this second how much of me was still braced for this to be a fight.
Now it’s something else.
Now it’shome.
