Matteo glances at me again. “And I’ll be accompanying you.”
My brow furrows. “Why?”
His expression shifts just slightly. Something older. Something personal. “I have an old friend I’d like to say hello to.”
Cobra.
It has to be.
The thought settles deep. And for the first time since this started something like certainty replaces fear. Not that I’m safe. Not that this is over. But that I’m going back. Back to him. Back to the chaos that makes sense. Back to the man who will burn the world for me.
My fingers curl at my sides. Steady. Grounded. Alive. Shock lingers. Relief pushes under it. Disbelief wraps around both.
But one truth rises above everything else.
Clear.
Unshakable.
I’m going back to him.
The basement smells like blood and metal.
It clings to the air, heavy and damp, mixing with the cold bite of concrete and the faint oil residue that never quite leaves a place like this. The overhead lights hum, harsh and unforgiving, casting everything in sharp edges and hard shadows.
This is where control lives. Not upstairs with the noise and the people and the weight of expectation. Down here. Where things are simple. Where pain has purpose. Where men talk or they don’t… and if they don’t, they learn why they should.
The five of them are dragged in one after the other, boots scraping, bodies half-conscious, blood trailing behind them in uneven streaks across the floor. Cain and Shadow handle most of the hauling, efficient and quiet, while Joker lingers just enough to enjoy the process without slowing it down.
No one jokes now. Not really. Not like they usually do. This isn’t the kind of night for that.
Chains are already set into the floor and the support beams, heavy links bolted into place from years of use. Each man is forced down, wrists yanked behind their backs, metal locking around them with a finality that settles into the room.
No escape. No confusion about what comes next. One of them groans, trying to lift his head. Another coughs, spitting blood onto the concrete. The third just stares, eyes wide and unfocused, trying to understand how fast everything went wrong.
I don’t say anything. I move.That’s enough. I check each restraint myself, not because I don’t trust the men who put them on, but because I don’t trust anything right now except what I see with my own eyes. Chain tension. Lock placement. Positioning. Details.
One of them finds his voice. “You don’t understand—”
My hand comes down on the back of his neck, slamming his face into the concrete hard enough to shut him up mid-word. I don’t look at him. I don’t need to. The others go still.
Good. They’re learning. Silence is safer.
For now.
I move to the next one, adjusting the chain at his wrist, tightening it just enough that he feels it bite. He flinches. Doesn’t speak. Inside, there’s no rage anymore. Not the kind that burns hot and fast and makes men sloppy. That version of me already ran its course. This is something else. Colder. Sharper. Every thought lined up in a straight path.
You’ll talk.
Not when you want to.
When I decide you do.
Joker steps closer, crouching in front of one of them, tilting his head like he’s studying a piece of art he might destroy later. “They look better like this,” he murmurs.
“Shut up,” Cain mutters, though there’s no real heat behind it.
Joker just grins.
