Rigg's palm cracked across Harper's backside before he hauled her shorts up in one rough drag. His hand stayed a moment longer, pressing down hard on her hips until her body flattened against the concrete, chest and stomach grinding to the slab. Then he shoved off and rose, boots scuffing as he stepped back.
Harper rolled to her side as soon as the pressure lifted, a raw sound slipping out before she could choke it back. She curled tight, arms pulled in, the cuff at her ankle tugging until the links rasped against the post. Every breath scraped her throat, and the cold of the floor climbed through her bones faster than she could stop it.
Rigg stepped back into line with the others, tugging his zipper up as he went. His thumb hooked his belt back into place as he let out a low, pleased breath. "Sweet little thing," he muttered, grin tugging wide. "Could get used to that."
Miro's smirk dragged as he looked her over where she curled against the slab. "Damn shame we didn't find her first. Girl like that could've kept the boys calm for weeks."
Kato's head tilted, his eyes fixed on her with that calm that made the words land worse. "Felt good, didn't it? The way she shook. Pity we can't keep her around."
A tremor ran through Harper's body, small but merciless. Her muscles ached from being held down, ribs tight against the slab; every shift of her hips carried a raw throb between her legs that made her bite the inside of her cheek. The sting there was fierce enough to pull at her breath, and damp still clung where it shouldn't, leaving her sick with the knowledge of it. Her stomach knotted so hard it pressed her closer to the floor, cheek flat to concrete. Moving felt like it would only break her further. She stayed there, breathing in shallow pulls, listening. Boots shifted back in around her, shadows closing over the concrete.
Harper heard metal answer metal—small, certain—as Miro drew the slack out of her chain, links tightening where her cuff ran to the support post sunk into the slab. His hand clamped into her hair at the crown, the other braced at her hip, rolling her flat and dragging her back toward the post. A rough sound slipped from her throat as her ribs scraped grit, stomach pulled across the cold. Then his forearm slid under her arm and he used the fist in her hair to haul her upright until her knees tucked under her, chest pulled away from the floor, back to the post.
The shift left her swaying, balance gone, head pitching with every tiny tremor. The room tilted and slid, her stomach rolling slow and mean under her ribs. Her knees threatened to slide out from under her. Miro kept his fist in her hair, holding her upright by the roots, and her breath came shallow and uneven with the effort of not spilling forward.
"Get up," Kato ordered.
Harper tried to rise, pushing against the floor, but the cuff bit her ankle and her legs folded before she found any balance. Her stomach lurched hard; bile burned the back of her throat. Miro didn't wait—his hand tightened in her hair, the other hand clamping her upper arm, and he dragged her upright in one brutal pull. Her scalp screamed with it; the room snapped sideways, spots crowding her vision as her weight jolted onto unsteady feet.
He twisted her into the post off that grip and drove her forward until her sternum struck it, the impact knocking out what breath she'd managed. Her cheek scraped wood as he shoved her face aside for air. Her chained ankle wedged tight against the base, links clattering short. Her wrists were wrenched behind her and caught in a loop of nylon webbing, the strap biting as Miro fed it through a ratchet buckle.
He pitched the free length up over a joist overhead and snapped it down once by hand, dragging her arms partway up and taking out the slack. Then he started working the ratchet.
The first crank only gathered what was left loose. The next hauled her wrists higher, elbows climbing until heat flared through her shoulders, wrong in the joint. The ratchet ticked in short, efficient clicks, each one stealing room until she was locked: torso angled into the post, cheek pressed to flaked paint, arms wrenched up behind her like wings forced backward. The shortened chain at her ankle held her close, cuff biting bone, toes barely brushing concrete so her calves had to work to keep her knees off the slab. If she let herself sink, the strap dug deeper and the shackle tore at her ankle. Every breath came in shallow cuts, the position itself a punishment.
She fought for a breath that didn't tear on the way in and then saw Kato step into view, the light catching across his shoulders as he came around the post. "Eyes."
Two knuckles slid under her chin. She flinched at the touch, but he tipped her face up until her gaze locked with his. His eyes were steady, unhurried—no heat there, no visible satisfaction, just the cool attention of someone intent on putting her where he wanted and keeping her there.
"Good," Kato murmured, soft, almost approving. "You don't have to say a word. Just stay where I put you." His fingers drifted to the strap above her wrists, brushing it as if he were straightening a ribbon, then gave it a light testing pull. The ratchet answered with one clean click, enough to jolt her shoulders and steal the breath she'd just managed.
At her side, Miro ran a glance and a hand over the setup—strap clean through the buckle, chain shortened to the post, nothing left to give—his motions efficient, almost bored, like a mechanic signing off tolerances.
Rigg drifted a step too near, his shadow sliding across her shoulder, grin working at the strain in her arms.
"Give us space," Kato said without looking.
Grit hissed under Rigg's boots as he shifted back, the smirk still in his mouth. Kato reached past the post, fingers finding a plug and a switch on a low shelf. Somewhere behind her, a box fan rattled to life, its thin motor chewing at the stale air and sending a cold line straight down her spine.
Harper's legs had started to shake, weight sinking inch by inch into the pull at her wrists, shoulders blazing with it as her knees drifted closer to the slab.
"Stay up," Kato said, voice low.
She forced herself higher onto her toes, chasing a breath of slack in her shoulders that never really came. Her calves knotted, the cuff biting hard at her ankle. The fan's breath skimmed sweat down her spine, raising a shiver she couldn't fight. A strangled whimper clawed out of her before she could drag it back down.
"A little higher."
She strained, shoulders on fire as the tether carved deeper, breath hissing between her teeth.
"Good girl," he murmured, almost gentle. "Don't move."
Miro dragged a hose out of the dark and thumbed it open, a thin stream cutting across her collar, shoulders, down the ladder of her spine. The first hit stole her breath—ice running sudden under fabric, chasing heat off her skin. She jerked against the tether, gasp breaking before she could swallow it, and the webbing bit deeper into her wrists. Water soaked the cotton until it clung heavy and cold, the fan worrying it against her and drawing the chill deeper until it settled in her bones. Her shiver ran wild, every muscle firing, body trying to shake free.
Kato's voice came close to her ear, low and steady. "Let it work through you."
The water crawled down her spine in icy threads, pooling at her waistband. Her knees sagged half an inch before the tether snapped her back up.
"Up again," Kato said.
She forced onto her toes, calves knotting, teeth clicking with the tremor she couldn't stop. Breath caught high in her chest; her eyes squeezed shut against the cold tearing through her.
"Open your eyes for me, Harper," Kato said, voice gentle, like he was asking a small favor.
She forced them open. His face was close, expression almost kind, his gaze steady on hers. Fingers settled light along her jaw, thumb braced against her cheekbone to keep her from turning away. He watched her pupils as though he were measuring something precise, patient in a way that made the moment worse than open cruelty.
Miro thumbed the hose shut and let it fall slack, water dripping onto the slab. His eyes tracked the tremor in her shoulders, then the way her legs fought to keep her up. "She's gonna shake herself apart if you keep her hung like this."
"That's the point," Kato replied, calm, almost mild.
The fan worried at every seam until the cold turned into a weight of its own, pressing through shirt, skin, bone. Her calves quivered with the strain, knees wanting to fold, but the chain and strap made the choice for her. Each tremor ran deeper, rattling her teeth, thinning the air in her lungs until even breathing felt borrowed.
Her hands were past feeling, wrists raw inside the webbing. Cotton plastered to her back turned cruel, heavy and clinging, each drop driven deeper by the draft until she couldn't tell sweat from water. Shivers came in waves, jarring her head against the post. She tried to steady it, tried to hold still, but her body answered the cold all on its own.
"Let her body burn through it." Kato said by her ear, tone even, as if he were watching a gauge settle. Miro shifted against the wall, arms folded, content to let her convulsions set their own pace.
Minutes blurred, marked only by fire in her calves and the hollow shakes that stole her breath. The fan dragged the wet colder, working it into her bones until her body felt more like the room's than hers. Her shoulders screamed where the tether held them high, but sagging wasn't an option; the post punished every inch she tried to steal.
Kato let her hang there long enough for silence to become its own pressure. Then he moved, unhurried, to a shelf along the wall. Metal clinked faintly as he pulled something down. By the time he came back into view, her neck had given up, chin drooping toward her chest. A small canister sat easy in his hand, turned just enough that she could catch the label before the light found the nozzle. His other hand slid into her hair at the crown and lifted, angling her face toward him.
The hiss came without warning, a harsh citrus-chemical bite curling across her cheekbone and flooding her eyes. The burn hit brutal and instant, blooming savage under her lids until her vision shattered into water and grit. Tears poured whether she willed them or not, dragging the sting wider, hotter. The smell coated her tongue—bitter orange, solvent, acid—until every swallow tasted poisoned. Her lungs rebelled, sucking in a ragged breath that clawed its way down her throat and came back as a cough she couldn't choke off. Another followed, harsher, ribs jolting against the post, then another on top of it, until the spasms blurred together and left her gasping. Breath snagged high, glass-raw in her chest, the fan tugging the bite deeper until it owned her face, her lungs, her skin.
Instinct pitched her to turn, to grind her face against the post and rub the burn clean. The wood bit her cheek rawer before she could get far; Kato's fingers cinched tight in her hair, knuckles digging into her scalp, holding her head fixed.
"Blink," he told her, voice low, almost coaxing. "Don't fight it. Let it do its work."
Her lashes clumped; every blink dragged the burn deeper until it felt like it lived behind her eyes. The coughing fit had left her throat raw—each breath now a rough drag she couldn't ease. Her knees sagged under the tremors, calves quivering, legs threatening to fold, but the tether caught her and held her straining against it.
"Easy," Kato said, voice low. "Back up for me."
She pushed higher onto her toes, calves knotting hard, the cuff gnawing at her ankle. The tether creaked tight; she shook with the effort. His hand left her hair and settled on the strap above her wrists, firm but controlled, guiding the line instead of jerking it.
"That's it," he murmured. "Right there. Hold it."
** ** **
Brock pushed into his quarters, shoulder taking the weight of the door. The place met him in darkness, windows drowned in evening shadow, the air stale with the kind of stillness that came after hours left shut. He thumbed the switch; light spilled across the room in a flat wash that only made the quiet feel heavier. For a beat he half expected Harper on the couch, legs tucked under a blanket, hair falling loose while she pretended not to wait for him. The cushions sat smooth, untouched, no indent where she should've been.
His gaze slid to the island. The folded slip of paper still lay where he'd left it, edges squared neat against the counter. His blocky scrawl stared back at him in the glow. No extra line in her smaller hand, no smart remark added at the bottom. Just his note, sitting there like she'd never touched it.
A frown tugged at him. Maybe she'd come back hours ago, seen the place empty, and decided to call it a night instead of hanging around for round two of him being gone. Wouldn't be the first time someone got tired of his schedule. The thought sat heavy, more guilt than anything else. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, turned from the island, and started down the short hall toward the bedroom.
"Harper, I'm—" he started as he pushed the bedroom door open, voice low in the hush.
The words died in his throat. The room was empty. Sheets squared, window still cracked an inch, the air cool and thin where it drifted in.
He stood a moment in the doorway, pulse edging up, before backing out and crossing the hall. The spare room—where she used to stay—waited the same way. Bed smooth. Air dead. No Harper.
Brock's eyes cut down the hall. The bathroom door yawned open, light off, mirror dark inside. No drip of water, no towel out of place. Nothing to say she'd been there.
Dread crawled up the back of his neck, fast and cold. He turned on his heel, crossing the quarters in long strides and shoving out into the hall. By the time he reached Nolan's door, his fist was hammering—quick, hard, nothing polite.
The door swung open to Nolan with a beer in his hand, brows lifting. "What, I forget something?" he started—then caught Brock's face and the smile dropped. "What's wrong?"
"Have you seen Harper?" Brock's voice came tight, too fast.
Nolan blinked, confusion flickering. "No. Been with you all day. We literally said goodbye two minutes ago."
Brock's breath ran short, words spilling faster than he meant. "When we got back from picking up the trucks—she wasn't here. Left a note, said she was going for a run. I got back just now and it's the same. No sign she ever came back. It's been hours."
Nolan leaned a shoulder to the frame, beer forgotten in his hand. "You think she'd bolt?" he asked, eyes narrowing. "New freedom, play the long game—use this as her out?"
Brock's head snapped in a hard shake. "She wouldn't. Not after everything. Not with a note like that."
Nolan's brow stayed furrowed, but his tone evened out. "All right. Then maybe she's downstairs. Socializing. Games room. If she isn't running, she wouldn't go far."
Brock swallowed against the claw of doubt and gave a curt nod. Nolan set the beer on the counter inside and grabbed his keys off the hook, falling into step beside him.
The elevator groaned them down, lights sliding past slow. Brock stood stiff in the corner, eyes on the numbers, fists flexing open and shut as if he could force the doors faster. Nolan watched him, silent until the bell sounded and the doors parted onto the common floor.
The games room carried its usual low hum—pool balls cracking, TV glow flickering, cards slapped down on wood. Brock cut through with Nolan close, eyes scanning every corner. "Harper been through here?" he asked, voice too tight.
Vale leaned against the back wall with a cue in hand. He shook his head once, slow. "Haven't seen her."
At the card table Gunner looked up from his hand, brow drawn. "Not here," he said, and his tone made it clear he would've noticed if she had been.
Brock's gaze went to each face in turn, waiting for something more, but the shrugs and silence all pointed the same way: nobody had seen her. The knot in his chest cinched harder as he pushed past the table toward the hall.
Nolan caught Brock's arm as they cleared the games room. "Come on. If she left, there'll be a log." His voice was steady, but the line between his brows was deeper now. He steered Brock down the hall, through the doors, out into the night air toward the guard station at the gate.
Ortiz sat inside, boots up, ledger open. He straightened quick when he saw the two of them approach.
"Evening, Ortiz," Nolan said. "Check something for me. Voss. She go out today?"
Ortiz flipped back through the pages, finger running down the column. "Yeah. Here—10:25 a.m. Doyle logged her heading out on foot."
Brock stepped closer, heat crawling up his chest. "Anything showing her come back in?"
Ortiz hesitated, flipped a few pages back and forth, slower this time. His finger stopped. The line under her name stayed blank. "Nothing on a return."
Brock stiffened, shoulders locking tight under the weight of it.
Ortiz opened his mouth. "Sometimes we miss the inbound marks, could be she—"
But Brock was already moving, taking the path to the garage at a near-run.
"Brock!" Nolan jogged to catch up, boots ringing once on the concrete. "Slow down, we'll figure it out, just—"
Brock didn't slow. The garage swallowed him in echo and oil-stink, rows of trucks lined under fluorescent buzz. He went straight to the wall, snatched a set of keys down, and headed for the nearest Suburban.
"Brock, if she—" Nolan started.
"It doesn't fucking matter!" Brock snapped, voice raw as he tore the door open. "We need to find her. She wouldn't just fucking disappear."
The keys rattled once in his fist before he jammed them into the ignition.
** ** **
Hours bled past without measure but in the ache of her body Harper knew them. The cold had worked itself deeper than skin, marrow-deep, until her shivers had turned weak and erratic, less fight than spasm. Her calves twitched without rhythm, toes barely catching the slab before the tether dragged her up short again. Every muscle ached from the hold—shoulders white-hot where the strap hauled them back, wrists swollen and numb inside the webbing, ankle cuff gnawing bone. Her fingers might as well have belonged to someone else. The worst of the burn had gone out of her eyes, but every blink still scraped grit across them, lids sticking where tears had dried. Breath fogged thin against the post, breaking shallow as if her chest couldn't spare the space.
Bootsteps shifted behind her. Kato came into view, slow, deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to take stock of her breaking. He pinched the tether between thumb and forefinger and rolled it in a lazy circle. Miro answered the cue with one neat crank of the ratchet—just enough to steal what slack she had left. Her body lurched against it, a raw sound catching in her throat.
Kato drew a small box cutter from his pocket, rolling it in his palm like a toy before thumbing the blade out. Metal slid and clicked into place, the segment gleaming thin in the bulb's hum. "Just a nick," he said, voice almost gentle, as if the promise of keeping it small counted as mercy. His hand found her temple, fingers combing through damp strands plastered to her skin until he'd cleared the scalp behind her ear.
The first kiss of steel was a taunt—cold edge tracing a shallow line, her skin puckering under the threat. Then the pressure shifted, and fire split through. It was fine, no deeper than he intended, but enough. Warmth welled fast and slick, running down her neck in rivulets that cut through the chill he'd buried in her bones. The contrast stole her breath; her whole body flinched against the tether.
"Feel that?" he murmured, close enough for his breath to brush her ear. "Means you're not numb yet." His thumb pressed beside the line, smearing wet across cold skin, and the sting leapt higher, riding into her eye where pepper-burn already lived. Tears streamed heavier, salted and red.
A hoarse cry tore out of her, helpless and raw, dragged up from somewhere deep. She crushed her face against the post, and the wood swallowed most of the sound.
The second cut landed in the tender web between thumb and forefinger, where nerves lit fast and skin always overreacted. The sting jumped up her arm like live wire; her fingers jerked, trying to fist against the pull, but the tether answered with a vicious pinch that dragged her wrist higher instead. Pain doubled back on itself, coil after coil, until she bit down hard on breath that wanted to break loose.
He didn't pause long. The blade whispered again, this time along the soft underside of her forearm. A shallow strike, no longer than a match flare, running parallel to veins he didn't quite touch. Enough to threaten, to remind. Heat surged in a thin line; a ragged hiss tore between her teeth, the sound cracking through the room. Instinct tried to haul her taller, as if more height could pull her free of it, but the chain had already taken every inch she had to give. Her calves quivered, shoulders burning as the tether dragged her back down into the post's cold grip.
Kato's mouth curved faintly at the corner, taking stock of every flinch. "Don't worry," he said, low. "Nothing that stops you breathing. I just want you to feel where the edges are." He didn't look away when he added, just a shade quieter, "Bottle."
Miro crouched, twisted a cap, and the distinct scent of alcohol cut through the damp-stale air. He tipped it slow, deliberate, letting it fall in precise coins.
The first drops struck her scalp and turned the shallow cut into fire, liquid searing along the raw edge before the fan dragged it wider, a cold blaze that spread as it flashed off her skin. The burn was so sudden, so total, that her vision went white. She gasped hard, chest seizing, head twitching instinctively toward the post—but the strap wrenched her back square, and the cuff bit clean at her ankle until bone flared.
Another pour found the tender split at her hand. The liquid needled deep, nerves sparking all the way up her arm. She jerked so hard her shoulders rattled against the tether, breath breaking apart into chopped pieces that wouldn't come whole. The alcohol trailed on, thin and merciless, soaking through to every new cut until her body was shaking between cold, fire, and restraint.
Kato watched it bloom across her skin—the flush, the blanch, the quiver— in the slow, intent way of a man checking his work. His eyes didn't gloat, didn't flare. Just measured, satisfied, as if pain itself were the metric he'd been waiting for.
Kato didn't rush. He lifted the hem of her collar with a knuckle, exposing the rise of bone, and drew two quick crosshatches over the sternum—so fine they could've been scratches until breath pulled them open. Her mouth twitched into a half-grimace she couldn't bury, teeth catching her lip, a pulse ticking hard in her throat.
He found the line of the strap across her back and slipped the blade under just enough to carve at the hinge of her shoulder blade, where the pull lived deepest. Her face creased tight, lashes squeezing once, breath leaving her in a hiss she tried to choke silent. Pain rooted there, answering every inhale like it had been built into her.
He caught her forearm next, turning it without hurry, and set a neat stroke inside the wrist bone where a watchband would chafe. Her fingers spasmed open, useless against the tether, nails scrabbling at air like they might find purchase. Then he dropped lower, crouching to draw a short, cruel line just above the ankle cuff. Her teeth locked, chin trembling as metal ground into it immediately—bite against sting, cut and chain arguing over which would own her nerves.
"Stay still," he said, almost gentle, when her foot hunted for the floor.
Alcohol fell in cold pours—sternum, shoulder, wrist, ankle—each drop stinging mean under the fan, each one finding raw edges and lighting them up. She tried to bank the noise, swallowing hard, but a sound still broke free—half-gasp, half-moan—hanging in the air between them.
He chose one last place, sliding two fingers behind her other knee, parting the joint until the skin stretched thin, then kissing it with the blade. Her leg jolted hard, chain and strap snapping her back into place, and whatever she'd held cracked clean—an involuntary cry, raw and unguarded, spilling before she could bite it down.
Kato leaned close enough that she couldn't mistake the tone. "That's it," he murmured. "Breathe it. You're with me now."
He flicked two fingers in Rigg's direction. "Phone. Wide angle. Get her and me."
Rigg lifted a cell, angling it steady, glass catching her mouth, the cuff, the short drag of chain. The lens hovered, waiting.
Kato stepped in slow, gathering the wet weight of her hair in his hand like it was something precious. Not a yank—just a quiet, deliberate hold that drew her head toward him on the tether until the flinch ran out of room. "That's better," he whispered. "Eyes on me, honey."
He set his cheek against hers, close, intimate, so the lens couldn't miss either of them. His thumb smoothed back a soaked strand at her temple as if he were tidying her for a photograph, careful not to graze the blood. "Breathe with me," he coaxed, voice low. "Nice and easy. I'll do the heavy lifting—you just keep those pretty eyes open."
Then his gaze shifted, locking onto the glass. He gave Rigg a small nod. The record icon pulsed red.
Ink at his wrist brushed her cheek as he spoke, voice calm and deliberate. "Brock."
He didn't bother with rank or title—just the name.
Kato's smile was small, camera-ready, his cheek still pressed to hers. "Look what we picked up this morning," he said, voice smooth, the way a man sounded when he showed off a prize. "Out walking without a leash. We've been getting acquainted." His hand stroked the damp hair at her temple like he was petting something he already owned.
"She goes quiet when I ask," he went on. He kissed her cheek—soft, unhurried, obscene in its gentleness—and kept his mouth near her ear like a secret. "And she screams when I choose."
His hand dropped from her hair to his belt, fingertips finding the flat sheath there. A slim push-blade came free and settled easy into his free hand—T-grip, ordinary, practiced. "Shh, baby," he breathed into her hair, cheek still pressed to hers. "Just stay with me." On his nod, Miro ticked the ratchet one clean tooth. Kato set the point into the soft shelf where neck meets shoulder—high, away from the lung, shallow enough to miss what mattered—and pressed a measured half inch.
The scream ripped out of her whole and raw; her body shook with it, straining against the tether, while his own face stayed calm against hers. The hand that had been in her hair slid to her jaw, palm cupping the far side of her face and forcing her cheek tight to his. His fingers moved there instead, stroking damp strands back like comfort as the blade sat in her. He held it in long enough for the lens to drink it, then withdrew slow. Blood welled bright, ran beneath his wrist ink, and traced down the line of her collarbone—red laid out deliberate for the camera.
"That's my girl," he purred. "Breathe with me. In and out. That's all." He kissed her cheek again, soft, obscene in its care, and kept his hand firm at her jaw, holding her there while what was left of her voice rasped out in short, helpless breaths.
Kato finally turned his eyes to the lens, tone steady as if reciting fact. "You want her? Come take her. East dockyard, unit twelve—black siding, rusted bay doors. You'll smell the river before you see it." His fingers tipped Harper's chin just enough so the frame took her face, the wet red at her temple, the chain at her ankle, the ink on his wrist striped with her blood. "Come hot, Lawson. I'll be waiting cold. And when you get here, ask yourself—who fucks her better?"
He held her cheek to his for a long breath after the words left the room, letting the silence weight the frame. Then his hand slipped away from her jaw and her head sagged, no strength left to hold it up on its own. His gaze slid past her. A small flick of his fingers, and Rigg killed the recording. The screen went dark.
"Send it," Kato said without raising his voice. "Straight to Lawson's phone."
He turned back to Harper, eyes settling on the slow seep at her shoulder where the blade had kissed deep. His smile was almost soft. "That address? Not where you are, honey. But it's where a lot of men with a lot of guns are waiting. He'll come running anyway."
The box cutter whispered open in his hand again, fresh steel catching the bulb. He brought it level between them, expression warm as if offering a gift.
Harper's world had shrunk to pain and cold: the burn along her shoulder, the sting riding her skin in thin, scattered lines, the ache in every joint the tether touched. Even so, the glint of the blade found her. Her fingers twitched uselessly against the webbing; a thin, broken sound leaked out before she could swallow it. There was nothing left in her for fight—only the old reflex to pull away, trapped inside a body that couldn't go anywhere.
"Now," he murmured, voice smooth and pleased, "where were we?"