Brock went still, weight coiled but checked by the muzzle grinding into him. His hand hovered a breath from his own sidearm—close, but not close enough. A small tic jumped along his cheek as restraint held him in place and the storm hissed around them, thunder rolling far off, the silence between the three of them gone wire-tight.
Then his eyes went to Harper, solid even now, and what he saw was her already locked: stance set, pistol unwavering, calm in a way he couldn't reach right now. She wasn't looking back at him. Her focus was past his shoulder, pinned on the man with the gun.
The figure smiled in the half-light, teeth flashing under the hood of a rain-dark jacket. His pistol drove into the small of Brock's back, hard enough that a muscle jumped under Brock's shoulder and his stance tightened against it. He was broad through the chest, wiry through the arms, the cut of his jacket patched with a painted vulture skull that the rain hadn't yet worn away. Scruff shadowed his cheeks and throat; water ran in lines off the brim of his cap, dripping down to his collar. His eyes, narrow and pale, stayed on Harper's sightline, like the pistol in his hand and the pistol in hers were the only two real things in the yard.
"I'd advise you to lower that," Harper said, voice thin but hard. "And fast."
The man's smile widened, rain streaking off his chin. He tilted his head, dismissing her with a glance. "A little girl with a gun," he drawled, voice rough with mock amusement. "That's cute." His eyes swept over her once, quick and dismissive, as if she'd already been measured and thrown aside. The pistol in his grip dug into Brock's back, forcing a tight twitch along his neck. "Why don't you drop it, huh? Ain't no use in petty little street thugs sticking their noses in business over their heads."
Harper's stance locked, shoulders square, the pistol steady even as rain slicked down her arm. Her finger settled firm on the trigger, pressure set, no bluff in the set of her knuckles. When she spoke, her voice stayed low; it cut clean through the storm.
"You think we're in over our heads?" she said. "You just walked into business you don't understand. If you want to stay breathing, you turn around and leave. Now."
The man didn't move. A humorless laugh scraped out of him, close enough to Brock's ear that it made his shoulders tighten against the barrel grinding in. "Little girl," he said, voice low and mocking, "you and your boyfriend picked the wrong place for date night. This yard isn't for petty thieves and street thugs." His head tipped toward Unit 12, water tracing thin lines along his jaw. "You may not realize it, honey, but the Black Maw rents that unit. You know who they are?"
Harper's eyes cut to Brock for a breath. Rain streaked his jaw, tension carved into the lines of his shoulders, but his gaze found hers, bedrock-solid even with the muzzle in his back. It lasted only a moment, but in it she saw the same thing he did: calm, unbroken. Then her focus snapped back to the man behind him. Her pistol didn't waver.
"You're Maw?" she asked, flat, an edge in it daring him to say yes.
The man's smile thinned, pistol still jammed against Brock's back. "That's none of your business," he said, voice dropping lower now, the humor gone.
Harper shifted slow, every motion measured, her pistol never dipping. She eased her free hand out to the side, palm open, showing she wasn't reaching for anything. Then, deliberate as breath, she caught the zipper at her throat and drew it down a few inches, rain-cold metal sliding under her fingers. The hoodie opened enough to bare the tank top clinging underneath. Over her heart, stark in the floodlight, the Syndicate's O marked the fabric black on gray.
Her chin lifted, eyes locked on him. "Are you Maw?" she asked again, harsher this time, no room left to duck.
The man's eyes widened, surprise cracking straight through the sneer. For a moment his grip faltered, pistol still pressed into Brock's back but no longer driving in. His breath slipped out ragged, a curse lost under the rain. "You're… Syndicate?"
"Yes."
He swallowed, words tumbling fast now, the edge gone from them. "No. Not Maw. Iron Vultures. We've got units rented here. Got word the Maw was moving—"
The rest never came. The man door to Unit 12 banged open, rain spilling light around Nolan and Vale as they stepped back into the yard. Both froze for half a breath at the sight—Brock pinned with a pistol to his back, Harper leveled out front—then muscle memory took over. Steel cleared leather in the same instant, two barrels snapping up, sights locked on the intruder. In a blink he was caught in a triangle of guns, the balance of power bleeding out of him with the rain.
That sliver of time was all Brock needed. His hand shot back, clamping the man's wrist, and in one brutal twist he tore the pistol off line. The intruder grunted, thrown off balance, before Brock wrenched the arm forward, turned the stumble into momentum, and slammed him hard onto the gravel. The crack of impact vanished into the storm, but the air punched out of his lungs in a ragged groan. Brock dropped with him, a knee grinding between his shoulder blades, his weight sinking in until the man's wrist bent to the mud and the pistol slipped loose. His voice came low and furious, close to the intruder's ear.
"You need to walk out of here. Now." Brock's knee dug deeper between his shoulders, weight grinding him into the gravel. "We're not starting a war with the Vultures over a case of wrong place, wrong time." His voice dropped harsher, teeth bared as he forced the man's wrist further into the mud. "Nobody here needs that. Least of all you."
The man coughed against the gravel, rain plastering his hood to his skull. "Alright—alright," he rasped, voice stripped of its earlier swagger. "No harm meant. Just… bad timing." His free hand lifted, palm open, hoping that might soften the weight still pinning him. "We don't want trouble with Syndicate."
Brock held a moment longer, the snarl still carved into his face, then shoved the man's wrist deeper into the mud before finally letting go. He rose slow, deliberate, stepping back only when he felt the gun slip clean out of reach.
The intruder scrambled upright, dripping and unsteady, chest heaving. He froze at the sight waiting for him—three barrels trained and unblinking, Harper's tracking him in lockstep while Nolan's and Vale's aim hadn't wavered once.
"Walk," Nolan said, voice flat, no give in it.
For a second the man teetered, eyes darting between muzzles, but bravado drained quick as rain off his hood. He dipped his chin once and slipped backward into the dark, his steps splashing until the storm swallowed him whole.
Harper kept her pistol trained on the dark until the last ripple of the man's footsteps vanished into the storm. Only then did she lower it, arm starting to ache now that the line of her aim was gone, breath easing out as her eyes found Brock.
He was already looking at her. For a long second the rain filled the silence between them, neither moving, both fixed in the other's gaze.
Then Brock turned, voice rough but controlled. "Anything inside?" he asked Nolan.
Nolan shook his head once, rain dripping from his hood. "Nothing important. Looks like they kept it mostly empty. Probably cleared it out as soon as they realized the trap didn't work—and that we'd come looking." His mouth tightened. "Dead end."
** ** **
The mirror threw back the low amber of the bathroom light, catching the fire-red spill of Harper's hair as she worked the brush through it. Each pull loosened another knot, strands falling over her shoulders with a soft shine that shifted toward copper when she leaned close. Satin whispered against her skin with the movement, a strap slipping down until she caught it absently with her thumb and drew it back into place. The hem of the gown barely kissed her thighs when she bent toward the sink, fabric clinging as though the room didn't want to let her go.
Harper paused with the brush mid-stroke, eyes catching her own in the mirror. The light traced every pale mark scattered across her skin, tiny white lines and freckles of memory she couldn't unsee. For a moment she let herself stare, caught between recognition and resentment, until the weight of it crowded in. She shook her head hard, trying to jolt herself loose, then set the brush down on the counter. The fabric tugged faintly as she turned, her bare shoulders catching the last strip of light before she flicked the switch and slipped into the dark hall.
The hall gave way to the bedroom's softer dark, broken only by the lamplight pooling low at the nightstand. Brock was already there, leaned back against the headboard, bare above the waist with nothing but a pair of sweatpants slung low on his hips. His eyes found her as she stepped in, steady and warm, and something in his mouth eased when she smiled at him. She crossed the room in quiet strides and climbed onto the mattress beside him, the satin of her gown whispering against the sheets.
His arm came around her at once, drawing her in against his chest, holding her like she'd always belonged there. He bent, lips brushing the crown of her head in a kiss that lingered longer than habit, heat and breath sinking into her hair. "Thanks for having my back today," he murmured, voice low. "Out there in the yard."
Harper nuzzled into the curve of his neck, her breath warm against his skin as her nails traced a light drag across his abdomen. "Always," she whispered, the word soft but sure, a promise given without hesitation.
A shiver moved through him, quiet but undeniable. He pressed his mouth to her hair once more before drawing back just enough to meet her eyes. "I've got something for you," he said, voice low but carrying a thread of intent.
She lifted her head, curiosity tugging her upright, eyes fixed on his. Brock's mouth curved, subtle and warm, before he twisted toward the nightstand. One arm braced on the mattress, he slid the drawer open, drew something small from inside, and turned back to her.
Resting in his palm was a phone—scuffed at the edges, wrapped in a purple silicone case.
Harper froze. Her eyes locked on it, unblinking, the room thinning to just the shape of it in his hand. She knew that case, the nick at the corner where she'd dropped it once on the steps of the Viper Den, the faint clouding on the back where her thumb had worn the plastic smooth.
Her phone.
Memory slammed in hard and disjointed—Nolan's hand slipping it into his pocket that night while Brock held her by the back of her neck against the chainlink, the world blurring in and out. She'd written it off as gone with everything else she had lost.
And now it was here.
He held it out to her, steady. "You need a phone," he said, voice even, almost casual but with weight under it. "Dragged it out of the equipment room. Figured you might as well have your own back."
Her hands shook as she reached for it, fingertips brushing his before she drew the phone into her lap. The plastic was familiar under her touch, every scuff a memory she hadn't asked for. She pressed the side button with her thumb. The screen blinked awake, and the lock gave without hesitation.
Her home screen bloomed into light.
The photo hit her square in the chest. For a second her lungs forgot their job, everything in her tightening around the small frame of the screen.
It was a freeze-frame of mischief and warmth—five of them tangled across the rusted metal steps, the kind of moment that could only happen once and never again. At the bottom, Dante sat close against Harper, his cheek pressed to hers, both of them grinning, bright enough to try to outshine the sun. His arm hooked easily around her shoulders, pulling her in until they blurred into one shape caught mid-laugh. Above them, Wedge leaned in from the side, mouth open in a shout of laughter that almost drowned the photo in noise. Lena crouched a step below, chin balanced on her fists, eyes rolled upward in the most theatrical exasperation imaginable, her whole face saying she couldn't believe she was stuck with this crew. And Skiv, perched up at the back, half-turned toward the camera, flashed a broad grin and his middle finger—an unbothered punctuation mark to the chaos, smug in the way only someone who already knew how good the snapshot was could be.
She remembered this photo. It was taken the morning before everything changed, not even ten hours before Yard Forty Two went to hell.
Her face on the screen was bright, easy, unscarred. A girl pressed close to someone she thought would always be there.
Below the image, the rest of the screen waited. A red badge sat fat over the Messages icon, the number high enough that it blurred at the edges. The call log tile glowed with the same unfinished hunger. For a moment she let her gaze skim the previews—Dante's name stacked over and over, Ollie, Lena, Skiv, each line a frozen last attempt to reach someone who never answered.
Her thumb hovered over the Messages icon. The pressure in her chest climbed, a different kind of panic rising at the thought of seeing the words they'd thrown into that silence. She drew her hand back instead, a small retreat, and let the home screen settle in her lap like a weight she wasn't ready to open any further.
Brock let her stare, gave her a moment, then spoke into it—low, steady. "Cole set it up. Loaded in numbers. You can get a hold of any of us, any time."
Her thumb twitched, dragging the contacts screen open with a swipe. She hit Contacts fast, almost desperate, the list spilling out in clean white letters.
Nolan.
Price.
Onyx.
Vale.
They were all there, present, reachable. Anchors.
But threaded between them were ghosts. Ollie. Juno. Wedge. Ash. Names that shouldn't light up but still lived in the memory of silicon, each one a knife. Her breath snagged; she scrolled, fingers trembling harder now, the characters starting to blur at the edges.
Then she saw them.
Brock.
Cole.
Dante.
Her thumb froze on the glass. Her mind slid over Cole without really taking him in, caught instead on the way Brock and Dante ended up sharing a line, one on top of the other. Dante—gone, but still glowing in pixels. Brock—here, real, solid at her side. Past and present pressed into a single column of names, and for a long second she couldn't pull in a full breath.
She swallowed hard, jerking back, trying to erase what she'd seen. The photo filled the glass again—her and Dante mid-laugh, faces tipped together. Her fingers shook as she tightened her grip, vision going wet at the edges until the details wavered. She'd almost forgotten how striking his eyes were, that rich brown set against the deep tan of his skin, the way they always looked lit from the inside. She stared until the edges of her own smile in the picture blurred, a ghost she couldn't reconcile with the girl holding the phone now.
"Harper."
Her name came quiet, steady, pulling her out of the spiral. She blinked, dragging her eyes from the screen to find Brock watching her. For the first time she noticed what she'd never lined up before—the way his eyes carried the same deep brown Dante's had, warmth threaded through the dark, the dark hair that both of them shared. Dante's face in the photo was open, kind, the boy she'd once thought the world would never take from her. Brock's was harder, edged by years Dante never lived to see, but there was something in it she had learned to lean on—solid, unshakable, the kind that kept her here.
She became aware of the wet on her cheeks only when the room came back into focus. A tear slipped free, tracking warm along her face. She swiped it away with the heel of her hand, only to feel another follow.
He held her gaze, unflinching. One hand lifted, knuckles brushing a quick path along her cheekbone, catching the fresh track before it could fall. "I asked Cole not to change anything else on it," he said, voice low, almost careful. "That's yours. Only if you want to."
Harper swallowed again, throat tight, and let the phone slip from her hand. She set it face-down on the far side of the bed, as if distance alone could soften the weight of it. Then she turned back, edging closer until Brock's arm opened and pulled her in. She settled into his lap, the warmth of him grounding, the reassurance in it undeniable.
"Thank you," she whispered, the words catching but clear. Her hands lifted, cupping his face on instinct, thumbs brushing the rough line of his jaw. One pass caught the last damp trace on her cheek where his skin met hers, smearing it away. She leaned in, pressing her mouth to his—soft, lingering, the kind of kiss that carried both gratitude and need.
"Always," he murmured into the kiss, his hands sure at her back.