Page 6 of Grim

“I think you listen to Havoc,” Grim said. “And you don’t try to be a hero.”

Brick nodded, serious now. “Got it.”

Grim started the engine. The rumble drowned out the clubhouse noise, but not the feeling in his gut.

Something was coming. He could feel it.

The road opened up in front of him, long and dark and empty. Grim let the bike eat the miles, the steady rumble beneath him usually enough to quiet the noise.

Not tonight.

The air felt wrong, too still and too heavy. The night carried a quiet that didn’t just lurk; it waited.

His phone buzzed in his cut. One vibration. Then another. Then a third.

Havoc’s emergency pattern.

Grim answered before the third buzz finished. “Talk.”

Static crackled, followed by Havoc’s voice — low, tight, nothing like the man laughing on the couch twenty minutes ago.

“La Luna’s hit.”

Grim’s spine went rigid. “Reapers?”

“Yeah. They came in swinging. Civilians everywhere. Brick’s…” Havoc’s breath hitched. “I lost eyes on him.”

Grim’s grip tightened on the handlebars. “How the hell did you lose him?”

“Because I was dragging a bleeding bartender out the back door,” Havoc snapped. “Kid doubled back to help someone. I’m trying to get to him but…”

A crash exploded through the speaker. Shouting. Glass breaking. Someone screaming.

Havoc cursed. “Grim, get here. Now.”

The line went dead.

Grim didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think. Didn’t breathe.

He twisted the throttle until the engine roared like something feral, the bike leaping forward beneath him. Wind tore at his cut, the night blurring into streaks of shadow and streetlight.

La Luna was ten minutes away.

He’d make it in five.

If the Reapers had spilled blood tonight, if they’d left a mess behind, Grim would make sure they paid for it.

Chapter 2

Sophia

The ICU at night had its own heartbeat, slow, steady, deceptively calm. Machines hummed in soft, rhythmic pulses. Monitors blinked in muted greens and blues. The scent of antiseptic clung to the air, threaded with the faint sweetness of the cinnamon gum one of the nurses chewed to stay awake.

Sophia moved through it like she’d been carved into the space: quiet, efficient, steady. She didn’t rush. She didn’t fumble. Every movement had purpose, the kind that came from years of crisis work. People trusted her hands. They always had.

Her sneakers moved soundlessly across the polished floor, her badge swinging lightly against her scrub top with each step. Eight hours into her shift, her shoulders ached, her bun was barely holding on, and her stomach had long forgotten what food felt like.

But she was still moving. Still giving. Still holding the weight of the unit the way she always did.