Night, outside Sage's Apartment
Devon's car pulled up slowly in front of Sage's building. The street was quiet, soaked in pale orange light from a flickering lamp overhead. A tired breeze moved the litter on the curb. They had ridden the whole way in silence, the kind that wasn't peaceful—just heavy.
The engine clicked off, but neither of them moved. Sage stared out the window, his jaw set, cheek resting on his knuckles. Devon's hands were still on the steering wheel. He flexed his fingers like he was preparing for a fight, then finally exhaled.
"You still mad at me?"
His voice broke the quiet like a knuckle crack. Sage turned his head, slow and sharp, one brow cocked.
"Why would I be?" His tone was dry, surgical. "You're just a man protecting his peace, right?"
Devon flinched at the echo of his own words. His lips parted to explain, but Sage cut him off, finally sitting up and facing him.
"Actually," Sage continued, voice cool but steady, "I'm grateful. You did what you felt was right. Protected me… from myself, apparently.
Devon's shoulders started to relax a little, his lips tugging into a soft grin. "Sage, I didn't mean it like—"
But Sage raised a hand. Not a dramatic one. Just enough to stop the moment from turning. Enough to slap the hope out of it.
"But from now on," Sage said, "let's just work as colleagues. Keep things clean. I don't want you feeling like I'm controlling you, or giving you mixed signals, or whatever it was you imagined at the party."
Devon blinked. "Wait—Sage—"
"And if you're still thinking something could happen between us?" Sage opened the door, letting in the cold air. "Don't."
He climbed out before Devon could react. The car's dome light caught his profile—tired eyes, lips tight, posture tense like a held breath. He didn't slam the door, didn't look back.
Just walked.
Devon sat there, stunned. His jaw tightened. He sucked his teeth and gave a sharp nod like he was affirming something out loud—but it wasn't confidence. Just a cover.
A weak mask pulled over something bleeding.
He threw the car into drive and pulled off, headlights sweeping over the cracked sidewalk as he disappeared down the street.
Inside the building, Sage reached his door with his keys in hand, paused. He leaned his head against the frame for a second. No tears. Just stillness. A long inhale. Then he unlocked the door and disappeared inside, locking the world out.
Outside, the wind picked up, brushing leaves in swirls on the pavement. A faint ding went off in Sage's coat pocket from a message he wouldn't open tonight.
The city stayed up. Watching. Waiting. Whispering.
★★★★★
The air inside Jean Luc's office was heavy with cedarwood and old money. The dim light caught the edges of the bourbon bottle as Jean poured it slow, like he was measuring out trust.
Silas sat with one ankle hooked over his knee, face unreadable. Behind him stood Jace and Allen, both built like nightclub doors—silent, but dangerous.
Jean slid a glass across the polished table.
"Been a minute," he said, his accent thick with European decay. "Last time I saw you, you had blood on your collar and fire in your eyes."
Silas cracked a small smile. "Not much has changed."
Jean chuckled and lifted his glass. "To dead weight. Zayne and Durov. Well done."
They clinked. Silas didn't drink.
Jean swirled his bourbon. "You've been busy."
"I like to keep my plate clean," Silas said. "And paid."
Jean nodded. "You'll get both. This next plate though..." He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "It's spicy."
Silas raised a brow.
Jean tapped a photo on the table—Barista Margret Sanchez. Blonde hair, strict jawline, courtroom stare.
"She's a cancer. Eating through my boys' cases like termites in gold. She's trying to play hero. And I don't do heroes."
Silas glanced at the file, then back at Jean. "Prosecutor?"
"The worst kind. Righteous, loud, protected. Lily Estate."
That made Jace snort behind him. "Rich people zoo."
Jean nodded. "Elite, gated, tech-heavy security, armed guards, the works. You'll be up against luxury paranoia."
"What's the job?" Silas asked, voice even.
Jean leaned back in his chair and smiled the kind of smile that could end bloodlines.
"Erase her. Erase everything. Everyone. Burn that estate off the map if you have to. I want headlines. I want fear."
Silas's jaw flexed once.
Jean continued, "Your gear's waiting out front. Enough firepower to flip a city block. You won't be alone."
That's when Silas knew something was off.
Jean leaned in. "Scar Face. Jet Black. Spiro. They're your muscle."
Silas tensed, gaze sharpening. "Scar Face?"
"You two are my best assets. You don't have to like each other—just kill together."
Silas didn't move for a second. Then he rose, glass untouched.
"Lily Estate will be history by morning."
Jean smirked. "Now that's the Silas I remember."
As Silas turned to leave, he paused at the door. Jace and Allen fell into step behind him.
And just before he walked out, Jean added, "Tell Scar Face to behave. Or don't. Either way, I want smoke on every rooftop and screams in every hallway."
Silas didn't answer. Just kept walking.
The night air outside Fire Camp was thick with diesel, sweat, and noise.
Floodlights bathed the wide dirt compound in a sterile white glow, casting long shadows across the rows of parked trailers and half-loaded vans. It looked less like a gang's HQ and more like a bootleg Walmart distribution center—crates stacked high, bodies hustling gear, a constant clang of metal and barked orders in the air. You could smell gun oil and instant noodles.
Silas stepped out first, lithe and slow like a predator exiting its cave. Behind him, Jace unwrapped the silver chain from his wrist and let it dangle loose again—his version of rolling up his sleeves. Allen sauntered behind, still chewing his damn toothpick, smirk intact like he enjoyed the chaos already building in the space between footsteps.
They didn't even get twenty feet before Scar Face and his crew emerged from between two trailers, cutting them off.
Jet Black stood like a statue, sniper bag over one shoulder, eyes hidden beneath a black cap. Spiro was twitchy, pacing a little behind, goggles pushed to his forehead, fingers tapping the device strapped to his chest.
But no Spice.
Silas's eyes swept the crew. "Where's your rabid little rainbow?"
Scar Face stepped forward, scar tugging his face into a half-permanent sneer. "Spice doesn't take orders when it's boring. Said she'll meet us in the estate when it's time to paint."
Jace tilted his head. "Paint?"
Spiro snickered. "Blood, dumbass."
Allen leaned into Silas with a whisper and a grin. "I miss when we used to be the crazy ones."
The air got real still. A standoff wrapped in streetlights and restraint.
"Get outta my face, Scar," Silas said, voice like broken glass. "I just sat through Jean-Luc's little royal court speech without putting a bullet in your head. Don't test my patience twice in one night."
Scar Face took one step closer. "You think you're top dog because Jean-Luc handed you this kill job? Please. After this mission, I'm putting you down like the flea-bitten mongrel you are."
Silas didn't even blink. "You better bring more than that dusty face and two background dancers when you try."
Allen whistled, "Damn."
Jace just tightened the chain around his knuckles, click by click.
Jet Black shifted for the first time, and Spiro stopped tapping.
Silas and Scar Face stood toe to toe, heat rising, breaths measured like they were both waiting for the cue to explode.
But Jean-Luc's voice still echoed in their heads: "I want Lily Estate cleaned. No noise. No ego. No sabotage."
So nobody moved.
Eventually, Scar Face scoffed and turned away, muttering, "Save it. You're dead after this."
Silas muttered back, "Only thing dead will be your chances of ever stepping in my shoes."
Their crews walked past each other like ships about to fire cannons—but for now, the mission came first.
The night was sharp and mean in Dusane—sky bruised violet, pavement slick with old rain. A breeze whipped through the street like it had somewhere better to be.
Quinn stood on the curb, exhausted, folder clutched tight against her chest like it was smuggling secrets. Her coat flapped in the wind as she flagged another cab—her fifth attempt in twenty minutes.
"Lily Estate?" she asked the driver through the half-lowered window.
The man blinked. "You a cop or a ghost?"
She frowned. "I'm just trying to drop this off."
He rolled his eyes. "Not after dark. Not up there." And peeled off.
She sighed and muttered, "Goddamn it, Xavier. You want me to die for a manila folder?"
Flashback hit her like a backhand.
_
Earlier at the Houndhouse, she'd just settled into her desk, coffee #3 barely touched, when a senior officer with all the charm of a deadlight slapped a thick folder onto her keyboard.
"Hand-deliver this to Prosecutor Margret Sanchez," he grunted. "Chain of custody. She's at Lily Estate."
"Why can't the drones do it?" she asked, already regretting the question.
"Drones don't testify in court," he snapped, and walked off without another word.
—
Now she was stuck on a ghost street after hours, no ride, no backup, and a gut feeling that something about tonight was about to twist sideways.
Across the street, under a flickering streetlamp, someone crouched low with a phone out—coated in shadows, face half-lit, smile full chaos.
Tina Rodrigo.
In a floor-length coat that billowed like drama itself, Tina leaned against the pole like a villain monologuing to no one but her own recording app.
"Look at her," Tina whispered into her mic, zooming her phone camera in on Quinn from across the road. "Miss Rookie on a midnight errand like she's special. Baby girl, you should've stayed in bed."
She checked the signal from the device she'd planted earlier. Still active. Audio feed was clear. Movement detected. She felt like God with a TikTok account.
"Oh, what's that, you cold? You confused?" she cooed to her phone, watching Quinn curse at the empty street. "Awww. Maybe next time don't snoop through homicide files and try to be Batman."
Quinn finally managed to wave down a cab. It slowed. Stopped.
Tina gasped like a game show host. "Ohhh we got movement, girls and gays—she's on the move!"
Quinn jumped in the cab, gave the driver an address, and disappeared into traffic.
Tina turned to a parked car, knocked on the window like she owned the world.
"Follow that cab," she said as she slid into the back seat.
The driver—a thick-bearded man with existential regret in his eyes—blinked at her through the mirror. "Like… follow it? For real?"
Tina grinned. "Like in the movies. Except I'm the hot villain, and she's the idiot who dies in act two."
The driver shrugged. Dusane was full of weird women with vengeance in their eyes. He pulled out, tires hissing on the wet road.
Tina opened the camera again, zoomed in on Quinn's tail lights, and played the Mission: Impossible theme on her phone while lip-syncing and kicking her heels in the back seat like a child high on spite.
"I'm gonna eat your whole career alive, Quinn," she whispered to the screen. "And then floss with your security clearance."
She giggled, then stopped. Smiled. The kind of smile that knew something no one else in the room did.
This wasn't a game anymore. Quinn was walking into something. Something deep. Something planned.
And Tina? Tina was just making sure she had front-row seats.