Zuriel’s knuckles are scuffed; grease stains his jaw, a black mark dragging down the line of his throat. He leans on the edge of a battered cart, heavy arms folded, jaw ticking as Lys strides in high-heeled boots across the concrete. Her hair is swept up in a slick knot, one loose strand curling over her cheekbone. She doesn’t look at him, not at first—her attention flicks to the clipboard pressed to her chest, lips pursed in a perfect imitation of indifference.

She’s wearing a narrow black dress that glances off the slabs of her hips, and Zuriel’s eyes won’t move, not even when she tosses her coat onto a crate and says, “You rearranged the lots. Without consulting me.” There’s challenge in her voice, in the way she stands, chin lifted, a brittle kind of dare.

Zuriel shrugs, slow and insolent, but his throat is dry. “Didn’t think you’d care which trash goes up first.” He tries for disdain, but the words catch. Lys’s mouth curls—a small, triumphant smile. She steps into his space, their bodies almost touching, and for a second, neither breathes.

“Watch yourself, dock boy,” she murmurs. There’s a pulse beating in her neck. Zuriel’s gaze drops to it, but he makes his face blank. He’s learned not to show what he wants.

Outside, the scrape of metal shutters echoes. Axton appears in the doorway, his suit impossibly crisp for midnight, shoes glinting in the blue shadow. He weighs every gaze with that sly, venom-soft smile, running his fingers through dark hair as he surveys the room. “Charming as ever,” he drawls at Zuriel, but his eyes—sharp and liquid—rest for a fraction too long. There’s a glimmer beneath the mockery. Resentment, yes. Recognition. Something else, half-hidden and dangerous.

After Axton sweeps toward the office loft, Lys follows, back straight, heels clicking. Zuriel watches her move, his hands flexing impatiently, heat clawing at his chest. Upstairs, Lys faces Axton by the cracked window, faint city lights trembling behind her. She tosses her hair, face lit by the glow. “You’re here to run the show?” she taunts.

Axton grins, lazy but edged with steel. He leans in close, his hand braced on the glass near her head. “I run what needs running.” Their banter is slick, almost rehearsed, but something real coils between them—something that makes Lys tilt her chin, daring, even as their lips meet. It’s slow, teasing, Axton’s fingers sliding over the fabric at her waist while she bites her lip, then lets him taste her mouth, just a little. He doesn’t rush. He wants her to remember who’s in control. Lys pushes him off before it’s too much, smoothing her dress, only slightly breathless.

Down in the half-dark, Zuriel paces and swears, shoving his hands into his pockets. He glances up, just in time to see Lys returning from the loft, hair mussed, lipstick slightly blurred. His jaw clenches. She flicks him a cool look, but her eyes linger. Zuriel steps closer, his voice low. “You trust him?”

Lys laughs—a brittle, shimmering sound. “I don’t trust anyone. Not even you.” Their hands brush, accidental or not, and the contact is electric, painful.

Deeper in the warehouse, Valein crouches by a metal column, paint-splattered jeans riding low, oversized sweatshirt sleeves falling over her hands. She sprays a swirling burst of color onto the concrete, humming to herself, razor-bright in her solitude. Her hair is unbrushed, wild, cheeks stained blue-green. Zuriel finds her by the echo of her laughter, drawn as if by gravity. For a moment, he just watches. She glances back, eyes wide, vulnerable, hope flickering in a wry smile.

“Didn’t peg you for an art lover,” she teases, lips stained with paint. Zuriel can’t help but grin. “Not sure what I am,” he admits, softer. For a breath, the tension in his shoulders melts. They stand together in the hush, Valein’s optimism infectious, and Lys—watching from a shadowed landing—feels something cold and sharp twist behind her ribs.

Later, as the night deepens, Lys brushes past Zuriel at a supply shelf, and his hand catches her wrist, just for a moment. “Did you enjoy your little meeting upstairs?” His voice is low, almost pleading. She turns, gaze unreadable, but the air between them is thick, heavy with something resentful and hungry. Her pulse skips in her throat, and she doesn’t pull away.

It’s Axton who lingers last, fingers drumming on the railing, eyes flitting from Lys’s face to Zuriel’s back, to Valein’s fleeting smile. He’s marking threats, cataloguing weaknesses—already plotting.

Deep past midnight, Valein creeps through a shadowed corridor and finds a battered ledger tucked in a supply crate—pages marked with codes she almost recognizes. She gasps, gold eyes wide. In the near dark, a silhouette stirs. Lys steps forward, arms folded, face caught between calculation and surprise. Their gazes lock; the secret pulses between them.

To be continued...