Time smeared into a blur of half-sleep and pain. She figured out it had been three days only once the light over her head began cutting off and on, long dark stretches she could only treat as night breaking up the hours.
Harper barely moved from the floor, blanket pulled over her head, concrete cold against her hip, her body curling tighter with each hour. The bruises settled deep, ribs aching with every shallow breath, jaw stiff where it had split beneath Vex's fist. She drifted in and out, caught in that murky place where the cell faded and other things pushed through instead—Lena's grin, Dante's smile, the shine of metal steps slick with blood. Her stomach twisted on nothing but the water the guards shoved through the door. The trays they left went untouched until someone carried them out again, food gone stale. Hours stretched thin and formless, measured only by the hum of the light above and the slow throb of her wounds.
The turn of the lock jolted her out of her half-awake haze. The reader gave a faint click, metal shifting inside the door in a short slide and heavy thud that cut through the fog in her head. She went rigid under the blanket, breath trapped high in her chest. Every time the lock turned over the last three days her mind went to the same place first—Vex stepping through to finish what he'd started. Her pulse thudded against her ribs, every ache along her side flaring with it.
The door swung open. A heavier shape blocked the light through the thin fabric.
Metal clinked faintly as someone stepped inside, boots dragging grit across the floor. Something touched the concrete with a muted scrape, and a moment later the air shifted, warmer, a small pocket of heat pushing into the stale cold. The door shut again with a metallic snap that bounced off the walls.
Her throat locked. For three days they'd brought trays in and out without a word, door already closing before she pulled the blanket down. This time the latch had snapped with someone still inside.
The blanket clung to her face, damp with her own breath. She went still, every muscle locked, hanging on to the hope that if she stayed quiet whoever stood there might leave the tray and walk back out. The air under the fabric thickened, threaded with something warmer than the bland starch and dry bread they'd been leaving by the door. Her stomach tightened, hollow enough that it hurt.
Slowly, she peeled the blanket back. The light stung her eyes.
The tray sat on the floor in front of her: scrambled eggs, buttered toast, an apple cut into uneven wedges, black coffee in a dented mug. Food she hadn't seen in weeks, something real instead of the rice and stale bread they'd been dropping just inside the door. It startled her more than it comforted her. She blinked at it once. Twice. Long enough that, for a moment, the fact that someone was still in the room slipped past her.
Then the weight of them shifted.
She flinched, head snapping up before she could stop it. Brock crouched beyond the tray, boots scuffing against the concrete. The sudden nearness pulled her muscles tight under bruised skin. She snapped her eyes back to the tray, throat tight. Everything in her waited for his hand, for the crack of impact or the drag of fingers in her hair.
His gaze stayed on her, the corner of his mouth tugging like he almost found her reaction interesting. "If I was here to hurt you, you'd already feel it." His hand settled on his knee instead of reaching for her. "It's food. Eat."
She shifted, forcing herself upright. The motion dragged a groan out of her before she could bite it back, ribs protesting as she braced against the floor. Damp hair clung to her face, the bruise on her jaw throbbing with the effort.
Brock's gaze tracked every inch of the movement, steady, measuring. When she settled against the wall with the tray between them, he spoke again, voice even. "How bad is it?"
Her throat worked around the answer. "Fine." The word came out thin, automatic.
One eyebrow twitched like he'd heard that kind of lie a thousand times. "Try again."
"Sore," she managed, the admission pushed out on a shallow breath.
Her eyes stayed low, fixed on the tray like she couldn't decide if the food was meant to help her stand or test what she'd do for it. Unlike the water, this time he left it close enough she wouldn't have to crawl if she wanted it. Steam rose from the eggs, the toast already softening at the edges, the coffee black. It smelled real. Too real for this room, for him, for her.
Brock shifted, lowering himself onto the concrete with unhurried weight. Fabric brushed, his coat settling, boots planting solid on the floor. The sound of it hit her like a jolt. He was close enough to reach her without moving much at all. Her shoulders tightened on instinct, nerves pulling tight under skin that still remembered every time he'd closed that distance before.
Nothing followed.
He stayed where he was, presence heavy and controlled, the tray between them like part of an arrangement she still couldn't read. He didn't reach for her or tell her to move. The smell of the food pushed through the stale air, and for a second her thoughts stumbled; she couldn't make the details in front of her add up. He'd never been a patient man where pain was concerned, never drawn it out with this kind of quiet. If this was a reward, he would have named it. She waited for the angle she couldn't see yet.
"Voss." Her name came low, carrying the same steadiness as every command he'd ever given her.
She didn't answer. The syllable slid past like any other order, her eyes fixed on the tray, vision blurring at the edges while her thoughts ran in slow, useless loops.
"Harper." The second time, the sound changed. Closer. Her first name in his mouth, pulled out like he'd reached for it on purpose.
It cut through the fog. Her gaze lifted before she could stop it, slow, reluctant, until it caught his.
He held her there, watching like he was cataloging every twitch, every shiver she couldn't swallow down. The quiet stretched between them, his presence close enough to touch, heavy and deliberate.
"You've taken worse than this and stayed in one piece." His voice stayed low, steady, not gentle, just controlled. "A tray of eggs isn't what finishes you."
His attention dropped to the tray, then came back to her. "Eat. Get your strength back. You're going to need it."
She didn't reach for the food right away. Instead, she watched him, waiting for the weight behind his words to land, for the turn that always followed. The silence pressed in until her chest ached with it, like the room itself was holding its breath to see what she'd do.
Slowly, cautious down to the last inch, she reached for the tray. Her fingers hovered, then closed around a piece of toast. The crust flaked beneath her grip, still warm against skin chilled from the concrete. Toast, not the stale slices they'd been dumping by the door. She lifted it halfway, pausing again like the act alone might trigger something.
Brock didn't move or speak again. He just watched her, planted on the concrete, his weight set like he could sit there all day.
Harper brought the toast to her mouth and took a small bite. The crunch was loud in her head. Heat and butter hit her tongue, saliva kicking in so fast it almost hurt. She chewed slow, the edge catching in her throat, every swallow careful. Her gaze stayed on the tray instead of on him, as if lifting her eyes might crack whatever thin quiet held the moment together. Another bite followed, smaller, more of a test than anything else.
She waited for a hand to close on her wrist, for the tray to vanish, for the usual violence to drop out of the air. Nothing did.
Her fingers slipped to the fork. They trembled around the handle as she prodded the eggs, lifting a bite that barely made it halfway before she forced herself to eat. The taste sat heavy and strange in her mouth, too rich after weeks of bland scraps, her body unsure whether to welcome it or spit it back out. She got a few mouthfuls down before setting the fork aside, shoulders tight, the food settling in her stomach like a stone.
Brock finally spoke, his voice low. "Good. That's a start."
Her hand hovered over the mug before she finally wrapped her fingers around it. The metal was still warm, a faint ribbon of heat rising into the air. She lifted it to her lips and took a swallow. The coffee hit her tongue like burnt metal, bitter and heavy, scraping over a mouth still dry from days of not talking. She winced and set the mug back down fast, the scrape of tin loud in the small space. Her stomach tightened in quiet protest.
Brock's eyes followed the motion, gaze catching on the mug for a heartbeat before it came back to her face. He didn't mention it. Just watched her, steady and unreadable.
His attention dropped to the tray. "You finished?"
She glanced at the food, the half-eaten eggs gone lukewarm, the apple slices browning. Her stomach rolled at the thought of pushing more down. She gave a short nod.
"Good." A small nod answered hers. "Your stomach will catch up." He shifted his weight back a fraction, like that closed one small box in his head.
"Three months," he went on, voice carrying the same flat certainty she'd heard in Vex's office. "That's what Vex gave me. We've already burned three days."
The weight of it settled between them, heavier than the tray.
Her stomach clenched. The words dragged her back to the office, to the blur of blood in her mouth and light splintering overhead, to the barrel of Vex's pistol leveled at her skull. She'd been too dazed then to hold onto the details, too far gone in pain to measure the threat. Now it landed, clear and heavy.
Three months. That was all she had. Three months to prove she was worth the space she occupied, worth the effort of keeping her breathing. Three months to let them hollow her out and pack the empty places with Syndicate orders until she moved when they pulled the string. The same machine that had gutted her crew, burned her home, carved every name she loved off the map.
She wasn't sure that counted as living.
Her chest tightened, ribs aching with each careful breath. If she dug in, if she clung to what the Vipers had been, she could already see the end of that path: a floor under her cheek, a gun at her head, her name added to the list they'd turned into bodies. If she bent instead, if she let Brock shape her into something he could aim, she stayed alive on paper. Breathing. Moving. Working for the man who'd stacked her people in a van and left her to lie in their blood. Survival on a leash.
She couldn't see a way forward that didn't feel like losing everything twice.
"I need to know what I'm working with," Brock said, cutting clean through the spiral. His tone stayed steady, almost clinical. "You've been in a cage too long. Hurt. Out of practice. Today we find out what still works."
For a moment the words just hung there. Hurt. Out of practice. Like the weeks on the concrete and the bruises layering over each other were something the cell had done on its own. Her gaze dipped to his hands, to the knuckles she still felt along her ribs and jaw, then to the scuffed boots planted inches from her tray. He talked about her condition the way he talked about weather—noticed, measured, as if he hadn't helped carve half of it into her.
He rose, his shadow stretching over her. "Up." The single word landed like a hand on the back of her neck, pushing her toward only one choice.
Harper's fingers twitched against the blanket before she pushed it aside. Her body obeyed because it had to, knees locking as she forced herself upright. Every muscle felt stiff, her ribs ached with the shift, but she stayed standing.
Brock's hand closed around her arm, firm enough to steady her and keep her moving. His grip settled just below the healed graze along her bicep, thumb pressing into sore muscle as he turned her toward the door. Her wrists felt wrong without the weight of metal, skin light and bare where the cuffs had sat. His hand was the only thing holding her in line now, guiding her instead of steel and chain.
He turned her toward the door, steps slow but certain. "First, you clean up," he told her, voice even. "Then we get you in something better than rags. After that, we start."
Brock's grip stayed fixed just above her elbow as he steered her into the hall. The hum of the lights followed them, steady as her uneven steps. He didn't aim her toward the elevator; he turned for the stairs.
Her chest tightened at the sight of concrete rising steep above her. Each step demanded more than she had, ribs aching, legs stiff from days curled on the floor. Brock didn't slow. His hand stayed locked on her arm, keeping her upright, guiding her forward.
The climb dragged her breath ragged. Bare feet slapped against the concrete, skin scraping raw at each misstep. Her palm caught the rail once when her knee buckled, but Brock's grip steadied her, forced her on. By the time they reached the landing, sweat clung cold along her spine, her ribs burning with every shallow inhale.
He didn't pause. Another flight. Another grind of concrete underfoot. By the top, her vision swam, the light overhead smearing pale. Brock finally eased his pace, steering her into a wide hall lined with steel doors and muted fixtures.
"This is the training floor," he said simply, like that single label could cover the ache hollowing her chest.
She tracked the levels in her head as he steered her along. Basement for the cell and the room with the chair. Ground level for the med bay and the garage. Fifth floor for Vex's office and whatever other rooms he kept up there, glass and carpet and a gun pressed to her skull. She hadn't seen the second until now. Training. So they'd given that word a whole floor to work with.
He kept her moving. The corridor narrowed, and the smell hit first, cleaner and rust. Then he pressed her through a heavy door into a shower block she didn't recognize. Tile spread out underfoot, cold against her raw soles, rougher than the smooth stall she remembered from the first floor. The ceiling ran lower here, pipes exposed overhead, the space echoing with distant drips and the faint groan of old plumbing.
Brock released her arm at last. "Here," he told her, gesturing toward the open row of stalls.
She followed the line of his hand first—the tiled cubicles, curtain rails, drains cut into the floor between them—then her gaze caught on the counter running along the wall.
On it sat a folded stack—black cargo pants, a black tank top, her old boots. The leather looked scrubbed, laces threaded clean, the worst of the grime and blood stripped away. They should have felt like hers, the same pair she'd worn through back alleys and rooftops, through the Den and out into the yard. Instead they sat there like props, laid out for someone else to step into the shape of her life. Something twisted in her chest at the sight, tight and sudden.
"Clean up. Change into those." His gaze stayed on her, flat and steady. "You start looking like one of mine before you set foot on the floor."
He glanced toward the stalls, then back at her, as if checking she'd registered every word.
"I'll be outside." He turned for the door, hand closing around the handle. "Don't do anything stupid."
He held her in that same assessing stare for a moment longer, then pulled the door open. His boots carried him out, hinges giving a tired groan as it swung. The heavy scrape of it closing rolled through the room and settled in the tile.
Harper stayed where she was, bare feet planted on the cold floor, the smell of cleaner and rust thick in the air. The stalls stood in a neat line, drains cut into the concrete between them, water controls waiting under her hand. Clothes sat within reach, familiar shapes turned into a uniform.
For a few heartbeats she just listened. Nothing moved outside the door. No footsteps circling, no jangle of keys, no scrape of chain through metal. The room held only the drip of old pipes and the faint rush in the walls. Brock was on the other side; she could feel the fact of him there like weight against her shoulder. But he'd turned his back. Left her upright in a room with a closed door and nothing on her wrists.
Her fingers flexed at her sides, skin bare where metal had sat for weeks. The emptiness around her felt wrong, too open, like a trick she hadn't spotted yet. Last time he'd pushed her under running water he'd stood in the doorway, eyes on her while she scrubbed weeks of grime off her body. This was different. No eyes watching. No chain clinking with each move. It still felt like more room than she'd had since she got here—a sliver, thin as a breath, hers for as long as it took to shower and pull on the clothes they'd chosen. The echo of his words clung to her, catching against the new room and the old bruises alike, that single claim lodged hard in her chest. One of mine.
She pulled the scrubs off piece by piece, letting them fall where they landed. Bare skin prickled in the cooler air, every mark and bruise exposed to the room, but it didn't read like a threat this time. For the first time in weeks, she undressed without a hand on her or metal biting at her wrists, her own movements the only thing she had to answer for.
She stepped beneath the spray and twisted the handle. Water burst down, hot from the first rush, hammering over her scalp and shoulders. Her breath caught as the heat struck bruised ribs and the split along her jaw, but she didn't move away. She tipped her head back, letting the stream pour through her hair, soaking every strand until it clung heavy down her spine.
A small bottle of shampoo waited on the ledge. She grabbed it like proof this was real and worked it hard through her hair until lather foamed thick between her fingers, running white over her shoulders before the water stripped it clean. She hadn't had time to get truly filthy in the days since her last shower, not like the first time they'd dragged her in here, but there was still a tacky line at her hairline, clots caught at the ends where blood had dried and stayed. She scrubbed them out anyway. Once. Twice. Again. She didn't stop until the weight of her hair changed, until it fell straight down her back with nothing dragging at the strands but water. For a moment it almost felt like the Den. Like she was just scrubbing off after a morning run, getting ready for the day.
Soap sat beside the bottle. She worked it into her palms and scoured her skin, chasing the faint rust stains along her wrists where cuffs had rubbed, the smeared patches along her chest from where blood from her face had settled. Thin threads of pink spiraled toward the drain, lighter with each pass. Nobody shoved her under the spray or pinned her to the tile; every motion was hers, at her own pace, the heat driving into her shoulders while she stripped off the last cling of cell air and dried blood.
By the time she twisted the handle off, steam clung thick in the air, damp on her face. She stepped out, dripping, breath slower, steadier, the silence wrapping around her like a second skin, with only the door and the man on the other side of it reminding her this wasn't freedom.
She dragged the towel over her skin once, rough and quick, not bothering to chase every drop, then turned to the stack of clothes waiting.
The cargo pants sat on top, folded with a precise, squared edge. She lifted them, feeling the weight of the fabric—thicker than what she'd worn in the Den, newer, the faint bite of industrial detergent clinging to the black. Someone had guessed her size close enough that it made her stomach tighten. The tank beneath matched, simple and dark, no logos, nothing to mark it as anything but theirs. Her boots sat beside the pile, leather scrubbed clean, laces threaded neat through every eyelet. They were the only thing in the stack that lived a life with her before this room.
She pulled the pants on. They hung loose on her hips until she cinched the belt tight, fabric bunching at her waist but holding. The weight of them felt wrong and solid all at once, new cloth over old bruises. The boots followed, strange after weeks barefoot—clean leather, stiff laces, solid weight grounding her to the floor.
The black tank slid over her head, clinging damp to her skin. Its sleeveless cut left her shoulder bare, the serpent's head just visible at the edge of the fabric. The healing graze pulled when she moved, skin still tight around the line.
Harper dragged her fingers through her damp hair, shaking loose the last clinging strands. Water still tracked down the side of her neck, catching on the collar of the tank.
A strip of dull metal ran along the wall above the sinks, warped and scratched, but reflective enough. She caught sight of herself by accident at first, then turned into it fully, drawn in like she was looking at someone else.
Black tank. Black cargo pants. Boots that looked cleaner than she felt. Bruises bloomed yellow and purple along her jaw, shadows under her eyes making the green look too bright, like they didn't belong in her face. The scar from the graze cut through the serpent on her shoulder, pink and raised, splitting the inked jaw. The tattoo had always marked her as Viper—crew, Den, home. In the metal, it sat above Syndicate black, the old loyalty framed in their colors.
For a second she couldn't pin down which part of the reflection felt worse: the bruises, the scar, or the way she already looked closer to what Brock wanted than she ever had to the girl in Silas's warehouse. The words he'd thrown at her curled around the image, catching under her skin. One of mine.
Her shoulders squared before she was ready, the motion pulling a tremor through her arms. She watched it happen in the metal, watched herself hold anyway. A shaky breath slipped out; she caged the next one, forced it steady, and turned toward the door.
The handle was cold under her palm. She cracked the door and stepped into the hall.
Brock leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, boots planted wide, like he'd been there the entire time and could've waited another hour without shifting. His eyes swept her once, slow, taking in the tank, the pants, the boots, the exposed shoulder with its split serpent, then settled on her face. Something flickered at the corner of his mouth—thin, edged, an almost-smile that never reached his eyes.
"Better," he told her, voice dry. "You're starting to look like you belong here."