CHAPTER 39 What Friends Are For
She woke in a familiar space—the scent of clay and turpentine, the chaotic energy of creation turned stale. Jett's old studio, before his family made him respectable.
She was on a mattress on the floor, her wrists bound with silk scarves—a cruel parody of gentleness. The drug still hummed in her veins, a low-grade fever making her skin feel too tight.
Jett sat in a chair across the room, head in his hands.
"Why?" Her voice was rough.
He looked up, eyes red-rimmed. "They were going to burn it all. Every sculpture. Every painting. Years of work."
"Who?"
"Does it matter?" He stood, pacing. "They said all I had to do was give you the wine. That you'd get sleepy, we'd bring you here, they'd take some photos… leverage for negotiations. That's what they said."
"And you believed them?"
"I wanted to!" He slammed a hand against the wall. "You have no idea what it's like! You're a Wǎngshā now. You have power. I have nothing but my art, and they were going to take that too!"
Luna struggled against the scarves. "Untie me, Jett. Before this goes too far."
"It's already gone too far." He knelt beside the mattress. "They're not coming for photos, Luna. They're coming for you. And I…" His voice broke. "I have to give you to them. Or I lose everything."
She saw it then—the true depth of his despair. Not just fear, but a shattering of the person he'd tried to be.
"You once told me I was limited edition," she said softly. "Rare and valuable. Remember?"
He flinched.
"You're limited edition too, Jett. Don't let them turn you into a mass-produced tragedy."
For a moment, she thought she'd reached him. Then the door crashed open.
Three men entered—Yèshōu enforcers, by their bearing. The lead one grinned. "Time's up, artist. We'll take it from here."
Jett stood, trembling. "You said photos. Negotiations."
"Plans change." The man backhanded Jett, sending him crashing into his sculpture stand. Clay shattered. "Now get out."
The men approached the mattress. Luna fought, but the drug made her weak.
"Jett, please—"
One of the men leaned over her, his breath foul. "The great Luna Wǎngshā. Let's see how great you are—"
Jett moved.
It wasn't a heroic charge. It was a broken thing, all desperation and shattered pride. He grabbed a metal sculpting tool—a sharp, hooked thing—and lunged.
The first man went down with a scream, the tool buried in his shoulder. The second turned, pulling a knife.
What followed was ugly, brutal, and short. Jett fought like a man who'd already lost everything. He took a slash to the arm, a punch to the face, but he didn't stop.
When it was over, two men were down, groaning. The third fled.
Jett stood panting, blood dripping from his chin. He stumbled to the mattress, fumbling with the scarves. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
The scarves fell away. Luna tried to stand, but her legs wouldn't hold her.
"They'll be back," Jett said, hauling her up. "With more. We have to—"
The door exploded inward.
Leo stood in the opening, backlit by harsh hallway light. His eyes went from the bleeding men to Jett holding Luna up, and something in him shattered.
He didn't speak. He moved.
The first punch broke Jett's nose. The second cracked ribs. Jett went down, and Leo kept hitting.
"Leo, stop!" Luna tried to pull him back, but she was too weak.
It was Sylas who finally dragged Leo off. "Enough! He's done!"
Leo shoved Sylas away, but didn't resume the beating. He turned to Luna, his eyes wild. "Are you hurt?"
"No. Thanks to him."
Leo looked at Jett's broken form, confusion warring with fury. "He took you."
"He saved me."
Sylas checked Jett's pulse. "He'll live. Barely." He looked at the downed Yèshōu men. "We need to go. Now."
Leo gathered Luna into his arms, cradling her against his chest. As he carried her out, she looked back at Jett, lying broken among the ruins of his art.
His eyes met hers. He tried to smile. Failed.
Then the door closed, and he was gone.