The hands pull back a little, but they’re still there. Still watching. Still too close.
I keep screaming, but it breaks now, turns rough, my throat burning. My chest hurts every time I try to breathe. The chain rattles hard with every movement.
A sharp metal sound cuts through the noise. Then another.
The pressure at my neck loosens. I freeze. It feels wrong. The weight is gone. I don’t understand.
The crate door moves. It creaks open.
I’ve never heard that before.
There’s nothing in front of me now. No bars. No metal. Just open space.
I don’t move. My body locks tight, waiting for something to hit, waiting for hands, for pain, for something.
“It’s okay,” the softer voice says again. Slower this time. Careful. “You don’t have to stay in there.”
A hand comes toward me. Slow. Too slow. Too careful. It doesn’t matter.
I scream again, louder, my whole body jerking back, slamming into the wall behind me. My hands fly out, hitting the arm reaching in. Not hard. But enough.
“Alright, alright,” the voice says fast, pulling back. “No touching. No touching.”
The hands disappear. They stay back this time.
I press into the corner again, shaking now, my whole body trembling and I can’t stop it. My eyes flick between them.
Strangers. Dark clothes. Bright lights. Things on their chests that catch the light. Nothing makes sense. Nothing feels safe.
“Hey…can you tell me your name?” someone asks.
I don’t answer. I can’t. The words don’t come. I just stare. Breathing hard. Waiting.
The door stays open. No one closes it. No one drags me out. They just stand there.
And wait.
The quiet comes back slowly. But it’s not the same. It’s still heavy. Still tight. But there’s something else in it now.
Something I don’t know.
Something I don’t trust.
Not yet.
Church smells like smoke, leather, stale coffee, and bad tempers.
It always does when shit’s gone sideways.
I sit back in my chair with my arms folded over my chest, shoulder pressed to the wall, boot planted flat on the scarred wood floor while the rest of the room fills in around me. Logan stands at the head of the table, hands braced on the surface, jaw locked hard enough to crack a tooth. The old wood beneath his palms is carved up with years of knives, rings, fists, and men who didn’t know how to keep their mouths shut. Tonight it looks like it’s waiting for blood.
No one’s smiling.
No one’s bullshitting.
Even Blaze, who usually finds some smartass thing to mutter under his breath just to see who bites, is quiet for once. Shadow’s got his elbows on his knees, head dipped slightly, eyes sharp under the brim of his cut. Joker leans back in his chair like he’s loose, but I know better. There’s a stillness in him that only shows up when he’s ready to put someone in the ground. Hammer’s posted near the wall like he’d rather be standing than sitting through this, and Landon’s got a folder open in front of him, papers spread out, phone faceup by his hand.
The room’s crowded enough that heat clings to the walls, but it doesn’t soften anything. It just makes everything feel tighter. Pressure does that. Builds. Holds.
