Page 11 of Crusher's Illusion

Crusher. He walks into the Civic Banquet Hall like he’s dragging thunder behind him.

No cut tonight, but he doesn’t need it. The tailored blazer can’t hide the broad shoulders, the way his jaw ticks like a fuse is burning somewhere deep inside.

Even dressed like the rest of them, moneyed, polished, clipped, he doesn't belong here. He doesn't want to.

He looks like a problem I used to pray for, and right now, he’s pissed enough to level the room. Every step he takes slices clean through the silk and pretense of the room.

“Ms. Humphreys?” The mayor taps my arm, reminding me I’m still supposed to be playing nice. “You were explaining your inspiration for the article?”

I smile like I didn’t just forget my own name.

“Yes, of course,” I say smoothly, shifting my glass to my other hand. “I wanted to spotlight the unseen work being done in citieslike this. Real contributions that don’t fit the traditional mold. People who give without the expectation of applause.”

Mayor Harding hums politely. But his eyes flick again toward Crusher, who’s moving through the crowd like a lit fuse no one dares touch. Every politician, donor, and suit turns to track him. They smell danger, but they don’t know the man behind it like I do.

Mayor Harding clears his throat. “It’s a bold angle. Highlighting that... sort of organization.”

Like he can’t quite say outlaw out loud without needing to rinse his mouth after.

“It’s truthful,” I say. “And maybe if more people had a fraction of their loyalty and grit, we’d have less corruption in our schools and fewer kids on the street.”

His brows lift slightly, and he gives that political smile I hate. Wide, polite, and void of real thought. “Of course. Well, enjoy the rest of the evening.”

Translation:Stop shaking the boat, Ms. Humphreys.I nod and watch him leave, already bored with me.

Good. I’m done pretending for these people.

I turn, eyes scanning until I find Crusher again. He’s staring down Duke Travers now from the Iron Cross Syndicate. Just one look. That’s all it takes. Duke mutters something to his VP and walks out. The air shifts. But I know better than to feel safe. That man doesn’t walk unless it’s to circle.

Then, Crusher turns and sees me. It hits like static across my skin. I hold his gaze, not blinking. I think I forgot to breathe.

He walks toward me like it’s a decision he hates making. Each step looks carved in restraint, like he’s weighing whether to strangle me or say something that will leave bruises under my ribs. When he stops in front of me, the heat between us is immediate and volatile.

“Crusher,” I say, aiming for casual, but my voice sounds too soft, too hopeful. Like I forgot I threw his life under the spotlight and lit the fuse. “You made it.”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink. “You made me. Into a fucking headline.” The hurt in his voice slices cleaner than any insult.

I straighten, folding my arms. “It was a good headline.”

Crusher doesn’t agree. He spits out words like bullets, and I match him, angle for angle, even when my throat tightens. Even when I want to grab his face and make him understand.

He doesn’t know what it took to write that piece. How much heart and soul was ripped out of me with every word, every phrase?

He doesn’t know aboutLena, my little sister. She was fifteen when she was picked up by a street crew that ran girls out of a nail salon in Kansas City. Everyone knew. Cops knew. The neighbors knew. No one lifted a damn finger.

I was seventeen. Useless. Too scared to storm in, too angry to sleep. I promised her I’d find justice. All I found was silence.

Except for one man. I never even saw his face. Just a black leather jacket, a deep voice telling her,“Time to go, kid.”He didn’t stick around for thanks. Didn’t wait for a camera crew. He disappeared. That man saved her. And through her, me.

Lena never forgot, and neither did I.

“You’re a writer,” Crusher says. “You make stories. This one just happened to be mine.”

That lands too deep. It echoes in the hollow place I keep behind my ribs. So I say the one thing I shouldn’t. “Dance with me.”

His brows pull together. “Excuse me?”

“The donors are watching,” I say quietly, already reaching for his hand. “Let them see you’re not the monster they’re whispering about.”