Page 22 of Crusher's Illusion

“Intent doesn’t unpull a trigger.”

I look at him, at the same man who once brought me hot tea when I was hungover in my car, who looked at me like I was worth the weight I carried. That man is buried under steel now. Maybe I killed him.

Then, just for a breath, his voice softens. “I didn’t want this for you.”

Later, I’m in the main room, skimming my backup files on a club laptop under supervision. I find fragments of names I hadn’t noticed before. Shell companies linked to the Mt. Pleasant Youth Restoration Fund. Laundered money. Military surplus orders. Locations. Names. Some redacted. Some not.

And I feel sick. Because someonewantedthis exposed.

And I sit alone in a room that smells like borrowed time, wondering what hell I’ve started. By midnight, Erik comes back. He stands in my doorway, not coming in, not walking away.

“You still think this is a story?” he asks.

I stand. “I think this is a war.”

He doesn’t argue.

“I’m going to move you to another location. One away from prying eyes.”

“Is that safe?”

“Safer than here, where no one trusts you and you have to look over your shoulder,” Crusher responds. He pushes off the door. “We leave in five.”

He walks away without waiting. I want to fight him. But after the Syndicate?

I’m done arguing with people who want to keep me alive.

ELEVEN

THE LINE BETWEEN

CRUSHER

Crusher

I wanted Nevaeh to have clothes and shit while she’s with me, but I never thought this would happen again.

Nevaeh’s apartment looks like it held a fight between desperation and rage. Drawers overturned. Couch slashed. Her framed awards shattered like they insulted somebody. It’s the type of chaos that isn’t just looking for something.

It’s meant to send a message.

I step through broken glass, my fists already clenched.

“Stay here.” I stalk past her, clearing rooms. I check the closet, bathroom, and kitchen, but it’s empty. Someone was here, and they weren’t here for cash or electronics. They were here for her.

She doesn’t say anything, but I can feel her vibrating with fury. Or fear. Or both.

“They didn’t take anything,” she says eventually, her voice low and brittle. “They just... destroyed things.”

“No,” I growl. “They took something all right, your fucking safety.”

I return to the living room, every nerve in my body lit like a fuse. “Pack a bag.”

I wait for her to argue, because she always does, but this time, she just looks at the broken glass and destruction left behind, then quietly turns and walks to her room.

Ten minutes later, she’s back. She changed her clothes to a pair of jeans and a hoodie with a bag over her shoulder, not saying a word. I wonder what she packed. Hopefully not much. I can’t be trusted to look away if she sleeps like she did the other night. A part of me hopes she didn’t pack pajamas at all. Dangerous thought. One I shouldn’t be having, not now.

Nevaeh straightens her spine and looks me right in the eyes, drawing me out of my fantasy of her sleeping naked. She doesn’t argue when I lead her out. Doesn’t argue when I throw her bag on the back of my bike. She looks at me like she’s counting the steps between control and eruption.