Sage stepped into Draya's office like it was the lion's den—and today, the lioness looked like she hadn't eaten in days.
The lights were dimmer than usual. No screens were on, no idle holograms swirling above her desk—just two files sitting neatly before her like bait: Zayne McQueen's and Rafe Durov's. Their names were bold and ominous in red.
"Sit," Draya said, tone clipped, not even looking up.
Sage obeyed slowly, sliding into the seat across from her like he was preparing for cross-examination. The air in the room was dense, thick with unsaid things.
"Have you heard?" she asked, finally meeting his gaze. "Zayne McQueen. This morning."
Sage nodded once. "It was all over the newsfeeds. Jumped off a casino rooftop. Or… was pushed."
Her hand moved—barely a twitch—as she nudged the file toward him. "I've been trying to put some pieces together. See if you can find anything I've missed."
He took the file and cracked it open. The first thing that hit him was the smell—printer ink, cheap cologne from the crime scene, and something faintly metallic. Blood, probably. The pages were thick with details. Photos of Zayne's crumpled body on the concrete. Surveillance stills. Eyewitness statements. But none of it screamed truth.
He studied the angles, the timestamps, cross-checked with the Durov file. His eyes scanned fast—faster than most knew he could read. His fingers tapped once, twice, against the paper. Then he stopped.
Something—
Draya's stare was like a scalpel on his face. Watching. Measuring. Not the way a boss watches her officer.
The way a predator watches prey to see if it knows it's been caught.
—
FLASHBACK.
Same office. Earlier that morning.
Jean-Luc stood where Sage now sat. The sunlight painted gold over his sharp cheekbones, but the energy he exuded was absolute winter. Gloved hands behind his back. He spoke low, dangerously calm.
"Test him," Jean-Luc said, "see if he knows more than he should."
"And if he does?" Draya asked.
Jean-Luc's mouth curled in a cold little smile. "Then he dies before tomorrow." He leaned in. "Or I will handle it myself."
NOW.
Sage looked up—eyes meeting Draya's as if he'd caught the tail end of a whisper. For a second, it felt like he knew. Like the air shifted between them.
But he said, casually, "The case seems in good hands. No holes I can see. It all ties up… mostly."
Draya's expression didn't change, but something flickered in her. "I see," she said, fingers steepled together. "So… Trent is outsmarting you."
Sage gave a slow, closed-mouth smile. Not amused—deflecting. "God forbid," he said, standing. "If there's nothing else, can I leave now? Or am I getting detention?"
Draya nodded. "You can go."
He turned to the door.
She watched him walk away, her expression blank until the door clicked shut. Then her shoulders slumped. Eyes closed. A deep exhale.
She didn't want this. Whatever this was turning into. Sage wasn't a saint—but he also wasn't supposed to be a name on a body bag.
—
Outside the office, Sage paused.
His hand was still on the knob, but something tugged at his spine. Something was wrong. Off. Like there was a gun trained on him from a thousand miles away.
He blinked once, shook it off, and kept moving.
He walked down the hall, passing half-eaten lunch trays and junior officers lost in gossip. He ignored them all, heading straight to the canteen like a man on autopilot—chest tight, jaw clenched.
Whatever that meeting was… it wasn't about a case.
It was about him.
And he knew it.
But he didn't know why yet. Not fully.
As he reached the canteen doors, he muttered under his breath, almost too low to hear—
"Not today, devil. Not today."
Then he stepped in.
And somewhere, behind a locked office door, Draya opened her eyes again. Hands clenched.
She'd bought him time.
But not much.
The canteen was louder than usual. A warm haze of plantain grease, burnt rice, and scorched pride hung in the air. Fluorescent lights buzzed like anxious flies, casting a sickly yellow glow over metal tables and black uniforms. Conversations pulsed low and fast, broken occasionally by the clatter of plastic trays and the hiss of the automated espresso machine that hadn't been cleaned in weeks.
Sage stepped in like a ghost slipping through smoke. He spotted them instantly—Devon and Quinn, camped out by the window seat. Devon was laughing at something, that boyish tilt to his shoulders he only got when he felt safe. Quinn, back straight, eyes sharp, nodded along without actually smiling. And then she saw him.
Her expression didn't change. But her boot nudged Devon under the table with a precision that suggested this wasn't her first time kicking him for talking too much.
Devon blinked, confused. Followed her gaze.
Sage didn't slow down.
"Hey," Devon said, trying to play it casual, but the air between them already shifted—tightening like a belt around the neck.
Sage walked past him like he didn't exist. Didn't look. Didn't acknowledge. Just sat down in the seat across from Quinn and leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice low and deadly calm.
"She tested me."
Quinn's brow ticked. "Draya?"
Sage nodded. "Gave me the Rafe and Zayne files. Watched me like a hawk. She said it was random protocol, but I could feel it—like she was waiting for me to say the wrong thing."
Devon frowned. "Wait—what the hell? Why didn't you tell us earlier?"
Sage finally looked at him. "You were busy being cute."
Devon's jaw clenched. He leaned back in his chair, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him.
Quinn folded her arms, eyes locked on Sage. "And? You give her anything?"
"Of course not." Sage shrugged. "But the way she was watching me… I think someone tipped her off."
Devon scoffed. "It's gotta be Tina. Or Trent. Those two are basically mold in badge form."
Quinn chuckled dryly. "Trent couldn't spell 'tip-off' if you gave him two hints and a prayer."
"Right?" Devon laughed. "That man's brain got rebooted mid-sentence last week."
Sage allowed a small smirk, fingers drumming the table. "Either way, someone's feeding her info. She wouldn't waste her time testing me otherwise."
The air shifted again—slightly warmer now, but the undercurrent of paranoia still ran beneath their words like a slow-moving sewer.
Then—shouting.
It started near the vending machines.
"Get the hell off me, you paranoid—!"
"You touched my bag, bitch!"
Trays scraped the floor. Chairs screeched. A pair of junior officers—both soaked in sweat and ego—lunged at each other like caffeinated wrestlers. One swung wide and missed; the other grabbed a collar and shoved.
The room surged like a tide. Laughter. Gasps. Footsteps pounding as everyone turned toward the fight like moths to a streetlamp.
"Seriously?" Quinn muttered, already standing.
Devon cracked his knuckles. "Houndhouse Entertainment Hour."
Sage rose wordlessly, eyes still flicking back toward the window.
None of them noticed Tina Rodrigo until it was too late.
She floated in from the left like a gossip ghost, smile sugar-sweet, clipboard hugged to her chest. Her hair was coiled in perfect rings, bouncing as she walked. Her heels clicked, but her steps were deliberate—measured, practiced.
She reached the trio's empty table.
Her eyes scanned. No one watching her. Good.
Her fingers dipped into her pocket. Then, with a swift motion that could've been mistaken for brushing off crumbs, she let a small object drop into Quinn's half-open satchel.
A faint clink.
It looked like a kid's toy—round, smooth, a faded green light pulsing faintly at its core. Not big enough to raise suspicion.
Not small enough to be forgotten.
Tina smiled, straightened, and turned just as Devon glanced back toward the table.
But she was already moving—walking toward the crowd, heels echoing, posture impeccable. She didn't even glance at the fight. Her eyes stayed focused on the satchel.
Or more accurately... what she'd left inside it.
The apartment was low-lit and calm, an expensive kind of quiet.
Silas sat back on his wide leather couch, shirtless, hair damp from the shower. His gun was on the table beside an untouched bowl of grapes. One leg tossed lazily over the couch's arm, he looked like a painting someone might steal for the danger it radiated.
On his phone screen: Zara.
Facebeat set to God-mode, LED lights dancing in the background of her pink-plastered bedroom like she was mid-makeup tutorial. Because, well—she was.
"Do you know how broke we're about to be?" Zara flailed a lip brush in one hand, her other hand deep in the latest Margiela catalog. "They just dropped a Fall-Winter capsule, Silas. And it's giving apocalypse chic—like end-of-the-world-but-make-it-runway. I'm obsessed."
One of her friends in the background leaned into frame, grinning.
"Zaraaa, your brother is sooo fine, oh my God."
"Don't start," Zara laughed, not looking up. "I don't need groupies inside my group chat." Then, smirking at the screen, "Ignore her. She has a thing for emotionally unavailable men with tattoos."
Silas sipped from a lowball glass—just water, but with the swagger of whiskey. He raised a brow.
"You're attracting more broke admirers."
"They broke, we just fashionably strained," Zara corrected like a CEO dodging tax. "But let me get this straight—Margiela's playing in my face with these prices and you can sit there unbothered? God didn't give you a sister so she could live like a peasant."
She swatched lip colors across her forearm dramatically.
"Tell Jean-Luc to sponsor me."
Silas actually chuckled. A rare sound. Low. Velvet and bite.
Another friend waved in the background, "Thank you for existing, Silas. You make the world prettier and scarier."
"Goodbye," Silas said, already hitting the red button.
Zara's voice was still shouting "NOOO don't end—" when the call cut off.
Peace.
Silas tilted his head back, resting his eyes.
He hadn't even exhaled properly before—
BZZT.
A message lit up his screen, cold and familiar.
> Luc the Boss:
Where are you?
Silas stared at it a second too long.
Then:
A tired scoff. A muttered curse.
And that soft, dangerous click of gears shifting.
He stood, already reaching for his black shirt on the armrest. As he pulled it over his head, he picked up his phone, dialed on speaker.
"Allen. Meet me."
A second number.
"Jace. Fire Camp."
No names. No greetings. Just movement.
The room felt like it exhaled with him—whatever calm had lived here, left with him.
Outside, the city groaned with neon and sin.
And somewhere in a dark corner of that city, Fire Camp waited.
Where loyalty burned hot, blood spilled quietly, and Jean-Luc made monsters move.