Axton slumped against the cool metal bars, wrists red where his shirt cuffs strained over flexed hands. Sweat traced elegant lines down his throat, collarbone sharp against the thin fabric of his once-immaculate button-down. His smile flickered, brittle and venomous, each time Maren Yule stalked past with her sly, sidelong glances—she in torn jeans and oversized hoodie, a ghost of mischief and wire-quick suspicion. Their eyes tangled through the bars and, for a moment, he let his facade slip, showing her a flash of wounded pride edged with promise.

“You know, you lock me in here, but you never really keep me out,” he murmured, voice low, threading intimacy into the space between them. Maren’s mouth curled into a smirk. She lingered, her palms pressed to the bars, knuckles white, as if debating whether to unlock everything or slam it shut. Axton’s fingertips grazed hers through the bars—a question, an offer, a dare. Maren’s pulse jumped; she refused to look away.

Down below, Lys’s heels rang brittle on the loading bay’s cracked concrete. She’d changed—leather skirt, black tank, red lipstick drawn in a line too careful for someone not hiding panic. She prowled the catwalk, spying for danger, for cracks in her own story. Her heart carried guilt like broken glass. Every step felt like a performance. Zuriel watched from the shadows, all tense shoulders and scuffed work boots, jaw locked in frustration. He’d given up on the warehouse that night—except for the one person left worth saving.

He found Valein curled on a pile of dust-smudged palettes, paint in her hair and despair on her face, a hoodie pulled tight around her knees. Her eyes, usually storm-bright, were greasy with tears. She barely looked up when Zuriel sat beside her, their knees almost touching.

“I screwed it up,” she whispered, lips trembling, splattered with blue where she’d wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

Zuriel ran a thumb over his lower lip, thinking about all the ways he’d failed, too. “Then maybe we unscrew it. Together. Unless you’d rather run.”

Valein’s breath stuttered. She blinked at him, searching for a trick, but his eyes—dark, bloodshot—were softer than she’d ever seen. “I don’t want to run,” she said, barely audible.

He nodded, rough knuckles brushing against her knee. “Then help me. Find the money. Clear your name. Get Lys out.”

A brittle hope flickered between them, edged in exhaustion and the ache of never quite belonging.

Back in the makeshift cell, Maren leaned so close to Axton the uneven stubble on his jaw nearly grazed her lips. “What do I get if I let you out?” she breathed.

Axton let his mask fall, eyes gone molten, voice roughened by the crack of humiliation. “A piece of the truth. Or a piece of me. You decide.”

They moved—her hand on the lock, his fingers in her hair—frantic, needy, not gentle. His desperation tasted of revenge and gratitude. Maren bit his shoulder as she undid the cuffs; he gasped her name between broken apologies and promises he would never keep. When he was free, he braced her against the cold filing cabinet, lips working down her throat, hands greedy and grateful. Their bodies crashed together—anger and longing, a bruised confession neither would speak when dawn came.

Above, Lys gripped the catwalk rail, gaze hunting the floor below, knowing the money was gone. Her heart raced with every unanswered text, every empty pocket. Guilt coiled in her stomach; she pressed trembling fingers to her lips, wondering if she might finally be caught.

Down in the dim light, Zuriel and Valein ransacked an office, turning out drawers, breathing fast. Their hands bumped; Valein startled, Zuriel caught the edge of her stare. “Why do you stay?” he asked, voice unexpectedly gentle.

“I want—” she hesitated, “to be worth something. To someone.”

Zuriel ran a hand through his hair, eyes stormy. “Me too.” He didn’t say who he wanted to be worth it for.

A sudden shout echoed—a warning, or maybe a threat. Lys’s voice, sharp and terrified: “The money’s gone. Someone used us all.”

Zuriel and Valein froze, understanding too late. The betrayal struck like a flare—red, wild, impossible to look away from. The warehouse, for a breath, was nothing but breathless, pulsing panic.

Somewhere in the dark, Rivel’s laughter crept through the shadows, promising blood and payback. Everything was falling apart, and no one knew where the next blow would land.

To be continued…