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Acid's fist hits his stomach, once, twice, three times, each impact driving the air out of him in wet gasps. Gidge grabs his hair again, forces his head up, and Hunter leans in close.

"Try again."

And it keeps going.

The questions blur together—methodical and relentless—punctuated by the sound of fists breaking bones, boots finding soft tissue, the wet thump of a body hitting the ground and being hauled back up. Peter stops trying to answer. He just makes sounds now. Grunts, whimpers, and wet, rattling sobs that are more reflex than emotion.

I press deeper into Briggs’ arms, feeling his heartbeat through his chest. Not one of them has flinched. They’ve not once even looked away.

The blood pools under Peter, soaking into the dirt, until it looks like he's lying in a wound of the earth itself.

His fingers twitch, reaching for something—help, mercy—but there's nothing here for him. Just questions and fists.

Gidge steps back, breathing hard, knuckles slick and red. Acid rolls his shoulders like he's just finished a warm-up.

"Break time," he says, and his smile hasn't changed at all.

Gears looks down at his phone, then at me. Something flickers in his eyes—not pity, not quite, but recognition. Like he's acknowledging that I'm still here, still watching.

I'm not destroyed. I'm here.

Acid steps back, cracking his neck while Gidge wipes her knuckles on her jeans and frowns.

"Ugh. I couldn't bring Mr. Stabby," she says, looking around the shed. "TSA's a bunch of dicks. But there's gotta be something..."

Her eyes land on the wall. A pegboard filled with old tools—a hammer, a bent screwdriver, a utility knife with a snap-off blade. She grabs it, clicks the blade out, and turns back to Peter.

"This is gonna be shallow," she says, crouching in front of him. "But it's gonna hurt like a motherfucker. So you're gonna talk, and you're gonna talk fast."

She lifts his shirt and the blade touches his stomach just below the navel. She drags it sideways; not deep, maybe a quarter-inch, but his skin parts in a neat red line and he screams, arching backward.

"Okay! Okay, okay, okay!" he sobs. "I got a friend in the skin trade. He helped me track her phone. Then I just had to get here, follow and watch her."

"Who's the friend?" Gidge asks, pressing the blade a little harder against his belly.

"Mario Weatherbee!" he cries. "He sold his own omega at auction, and he helps the auction track down omegas, betas, even female alphas to sell. Please… please that's all I know⁠—"

Gears steps forward, looking down at the man with cold eyes. "Finish it."

Acid reaches over to the wall, and his hand closes around a machete hanging beside the pegboard. He tests the weight, brings the blade up, arm cocked back⁠—

"Wait!" Gidge shouts, and everyone freezes.

She's bouncing on her heels, arms pumping up and down like a kid on Christmas morning. She spins to face us, eyes wide and bright.

"You guys have horses, right?"

Tripp blinks. "Yes."

"Are they safe enough that I could ride one and not die?"

"Probably. Why?"

"I watched this movie the other night. The Mummy, not the first one, maybe the third? I don't know. Anyway, General Ming died a very interesting death, and I'm intrigued if it's possible."

Tripp coughs. "You want to draw and quarter him. On our horses?"

"Yes."