The room was a sea of tension so thick you could spread it on toast and feed it to the desperate.
The drug lords sat like schoolboys caught cheating on an exam, twitching, sweating, and avoiding eye contact with the teacher who'd just burned the answer key. Every few seconds, one of them would glance my way—quick and nervous, like I might start juggling their heads for entertainment.
But that wasn't what grabbed my attention.
Across the table, Freya and the Boss were already back to locking themselves in a silent duel so intense that it made the air hum with barely restrained violence. The way she glared at him—eyes narrow, jaw set, fingers twitching wasn't hatred. It was memory.
I sighed loudly, theatrically, tapping the table with a single manicured nail. "Well," I said brightly, "this is cozy. Nothing like a good old-fashioned death glare to start the morning. Anyone fancy some tea? Maybe a group therapy session? I've got a few breathing exercises that might stop you from murdering each other before lunch."
No one laughed. Shocking. My humor, as always, wasted on the emotionally stunted.
Freya's glare didn't falter. The Boss just rolled his shoulders and looked vaguely amused, which, frankly, made me want to set something on fire. Preferably him.
With a another sigh I rose from my seat, stretching until my spine gave a series of satisfying pops. "If anyone asks, I'm going to the bathroom," I announced to the room, flashing a grin that dripped with insincerity. "You know, to relieve myself of both bodily fluids and moral restraint."
Freya rolled her eyes. Atticus pinched the bridge of his nose. Dregan let out a bark of laughter that was half cough, half wheeze. "Try not to flood the place, sweetheart," he rasped.
"Oh, darling, I make no promises," I purred, winking as I waved for Brutus to follow. "Come along, big guy. Someone needs to hold my hand in case I slip and fall into sin."
The others in the room chuckled nervously. Brutus, of course, groaned and lumbered after me like a reluctant chaperone on his way to detention.
We slipped down the corridors, leaving the echo of whispers and suspicion behind. The passages wound around us like intestines—cramped, dark, and smelling faintly of decay. My boots clicked against the stone floor in perfect rhythm, each step echoing like the ticking of some patient clock waiting for something dreadful to happen.
The deeper we went, the colder the air became, until the damp started creeping under my skin. I shivered dramatically and shot Brutus a look over my shoulder. "You know," I said, "for a man your size, you give off surprisingly little body heat. Very disappointing. You could at least try to smolder."
Brutus didn't rise to the bait. He never did. Which, of course, made him the perfect audience.
We reached the door—heavy iron, crusted with rust, the hinges moaning like a dying choir as I shoved it open. Inside, the room was dimly lit by a single lantern that flickered on a crate. The air was thick with the scent of damp wood, iron, and the faint, bitter tang of narcotic residue.
And there he was.
Malrick.
Unbound now, sitting slumped against the wall with a bowl at his feet. His eyes were glassy, his pupils blown wide, his movements slow and uncertain. The drugs had turned the man into a marionette, leaving him pliant, docile—almost peaceful.
"Ah," I said softly, stepping closer, "our little experiment lives."
He looked up at me, slow and unfocused, lips parting in something that might've been a greeting. Or maybe he just forgot how breathing worked. Either way, I couldn't help smiling. There was something oddly tender about it. Like a stray cat too dazed to hiss.
I found another bowl of what passed for gruel on the crate and crouched beside him. "Eat," I said, scooping up a bit and bringing it toward his mouth. "Open wide. There's a good boy."
Brutus made a noise somewhere between a cough and a laugh. "You feed all your lovers like that, or just the brain-dead ones?"
I turned my head slowly, fixing him with the sort of look that could curdle milk. "Only the ones who don't talk back," I said sweetly. "It's a surprisingly short list."
He snorted, arms crossed. "You sure you're not gonna start licking the spoon next?"
"Don't tempt me," I replied, my voice light but my eyes gleaming. "You know how I get when there's porridge involved."
He groaned, muttering something about saints and sinners, and I laughed softly under my breath, setting the bowl down.
But then—because I can never resist making a moment uncomfortable—I turned toward him, the humor fading just a little. My gaze lingered on the hard line of his jaw, the exhaustion in his eyes, the tension buried in those enormous shoulders.
"Tell me, Brutus," I murmured, tilting my head, "what exactly happened between you three?"
His reaction was immediate. A full-body flinch, so quick it almost startled me. He looked away, hands clenching into fists, jaw working like he was grinding down a mouthful of glass.
"Don't," he said. "You wouldn't care."
"Oh please," I breathed, stepping closer, "you mistake me. I care about everything—especially when it's messy."
He shot me a sidelong glare. "You're not gonna drop this, are you?"
"Not even if you begged," I said cheerfully. "Though I'd probably let you try."
He sighed, long and heavy, the sound of a man who'd rather be anywhere else. For a while he said nothing, just stared at the far wall, the lanternlight painting harsh shadows across his face. Then, finally, he began.
"Back before you," he said, voice low, rough as gravel, "Freya and I weren't much different than we are now. Partners, yeah. But more than that. Family. Didn't have blood ties, but that didn't matter. In this place, loyalty's the only thing that keeps you breathing."
He paused, rubbing a hand over his face. "The Boss found us early. Pulled us through, gave us work. He ran us hard, but he kept us fed. Kept us alive. That kind of thing gets under your skin. You start thinking you owe him. That you'd bleed for him."
I leaned against the crate, crossing my arms, lips curling in a faint smirk. "Let me guess—you did."
His jaw flexed. "We all did."
He stared at the floor. The silence between his words was thick, stretching longer each time, like it hurt to pull them out.
"There was this job," he went on. "Routine run. Product shipment through the lower tunnels. Freya and I led the crew. We'd done it a dozen times before. Only difference was… this time, he gave us new maps. Told us to take a detour. Said the guards had caught onto the old route."
My brows arched. "Oh, the classic 'new map, same doom' routine. A favorite."
Brutus ignored me. "We followed orders. Halfway through the run, everything went to hell. Guards waiting in ambush. Crossfire from both ends. People dropping faster than I could blink. The Boss called me for extraction. He told me to fall back with my half of the crew, said reinforcements were coming from the rear."
His voice went quiet then, the weight of it pressing heavy on the walls. "I fell back. Just like he said. But the reinforcements never came. Freya… she was still in there. Covering the retreat."
I swallowed, the smirk fading. "And let me guess," I said softly. "She didn't get the memo."
He shook his head. "She got a beating instead. They dragged her out. Used her as an example. I didn't find her till hours later. Crawled through the bodies. Blood, smoke, fire—she was half dead. Barely breathing."
For a long moment, the room was silent except for Malrick's slow, steady breathing.
"And the Boss?" I asked quietly.
Brutus laughed then, a dry, brittle sound. "Said it was unfortunate. Said sometimes sacrifices had to be made. Said we'd learn from it." His fists tightened until his knuckles popped. "I learned plenty..."
I studied him, the big brute of a man hunched over in the dim light, his face carved with exhaustion and old rage. For all his size, he looked small right then. Like a child trying to hold back a flood with his bare hands.
"Saints above," I murmured, a smile creeping back despite myself, "you really do have a flair for tragedy. The two of you—bound by loyalty, broken by betrayal, driven by revenge. It's practically romantic."
Brutus shot me a look. "You call that romance?"
"I call it good storytelling," I said, shrugging. "Though if you two ever kiss, please give me warning so I can sell tickets."
He groaned. "You're insufferable."
"I know," I said brightly. "It's part of my charm."
For a while, silence again. The kind that hums, that fills the space between heartbeats.
I crouched beside Malrick once more, brushing a hand through his hair as he stared vacantly at the floor. "Poor boy," I murmured. "All of us broken in our own ways, hm? Some by betrayal, some by fate, some by truly terrible management."
Brutus snorted. "You talk like you're not one of us."
"Oh, I'm worse," I said with a grin. "I'm the fool who thinks he can fix the mess with a smile and a bit of lipstick. But that's the trick, isn't it? In a world like this, pretending to have hope is the only real rebellion."
He looked at me, expression unreadable, and for a fleeting second, I thought he might actually smile. It didn't happen, of course. But there was something softer in his eyes, just for a moment, before he shook his head and muttered, "You're going to get us all killed."
"Probably," I said, standing. "But we'll look fabulous doing it."
We left Malrick there, dozing in his stupor, and made our way back through the winding halls. The stone corridors swallowed our footsteps, the air heavy with dust and old secrets.
As we walked, I thought about Freya's glare, about the Boss's smug little grin, about Brutus's voice cracking when he said I fell back. The weight of it all pressed at the edge of my thoughts like a bruise I couldn't stop touching.
This place—this whole cursed prison—was a web of betrayals dressed up as alliances. Every promise was a knife waiting for your back, every smile a prelude to blood. And yet here we were, building our little empire of misfits, bound not by trust but by the mutual understanding that we'd stab the same enemy before we stabbed each other.
It wasn't loyalty. But it would do.
As we rounded the last corner, the faint sounds of argument drifted down the hall—Freya's sharp voice, the Boss's low rumble.
"Think they've killed each other yet?" I asked, tilting my head.
Brutus grunted. "Not yet. But give 'em time."
"Good," I said with a smirk. "Wouldn't want to miss the show."
When we emerged, I was met by Atticus standing in the center of the room. He turned toward me the instant I stepped inside. "Loona," he said briskly, eyes gleaming behind his spectacles. "The preparations are complete."
I froze mid-step, grin widening. "Perfect."