Lys Carrow’s hair is a mess of sweat-stuck curls, her dark blouse clinging and torn at the shoulder. She stumbles back against a row of metal lockers as Tash Brek storms through the ruined auction floor with a wild, glassy stare. Tash’s knuckles are white around the grip of a pistol, her jaw clenched so hard a vein pulses beneath her skin. Zuriel steps forward, breathing heavy, his broad hands splayed in surrender; his shirt is open, chest streaked with old bruises and the fresh scrape of a new altercation. Shadows flicker in the gutted light, everyone defined by the ragged desperation written on their faces.

Tash spits out, “You really thought you could trade me for this?” She points the gun at Lys, who lifts her chin but can’t stop her hands from shaking. Her mascara’s smeared, lips bitten raw. Zuriel’s eyes flick from Lys to Tash, then back—he knows if he moves wrong, he’ll lose them both, maybe forever. “I never loved you like that, Tash,” Lys breathes, but the words tremble. Tash laughs, a cracked, ugly sound. “You never loved anyone except yourself.”

Axton hovers in the periphery—dark suit smeared with dust, tie loose, face half-shadowed, half-exposed by ugly yellow light. He watches, calculating, the line of his jaw rigid with fury and regret. For a second he locks eyes with Zuriel—memories flash, old loyalty drowned in betrayal. Valein flinches behind a column, her patched jeans streaked with paint, arms wrapped around herself like armor. Her eyes shine, bottomless with hurt, but she doesn’t cry. She doesn’t dare.

The secrets—Zuriel’s thefts, Lys’s lies, Axton’s vendetta—crash out in shards as Tash prowls closer, spitting each name, each sin, like bitter candy. Every accusation is a wound reopened. Lys crumples, voice breaking, “It was me. I framed you, Axton. I was scared. I’m sorry.” She doesn’t look at him, but Axton’s breath stutters, his expression a brutal mix of rage and something softer that fizzles and dies. Valein chokes out, “Stop! Please. Stop hurting each other.” Her voice is too thin, but she straightens—no longer the child desperate for approval.

Tash swings the pistol toward Zuriel, hands shaking now, mascara tracks wet on her cheeks. “Did she lie to you too?” Zuriel doesn’t answer. He only turns, gently grabs Lys’s wrist and pulls her behind him. Their bodies press together, Lys sagging into him, tears seeping ugly and hot down her cheek, soaking into his chest. “I’m done bleeding for this,” Valein says, and it’s like glass breaking—her voice flat as concrete. She steps into the open, chin up, and faces Tash. “Shoot me if you want. I’m not your pawn.”

Tash’s resolve withers. She lowers the gun, stumbling back, voice suddenly small. “You all deserve each other.” The weapon clatters to the concrete. For a long moment, everything is still.

Valein turns, glancing at Lys—one last, raw look of longing—then slips out through a side door, paint-stained fingers trailing on the battered wall. Axton steps after her, but stops short, shoulders bowing under the dead weight of forgiveness. He gazes at Lys, voice low and uneven, “I wanted to hate you. But I can’t.” The pain is real in his eyes, but so is release. He walks away too, suit jacket slung over one shoulder, vanishing into the neon dawn.

Zuriel and Lys are left alone. He cups her face, gentle now, thumbs away her tears and presses his forehead to hers. “You could’ve ruined me,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. Lys laughs, one sharp, broken breath against his lips. “I did. But I wanted you to see me.” Her hands fist in his shirt as he pulls her in, their kiss deep and desperate—no more deception, no more armor, only bruised mouths and unspoken promises. The taste of salt and sweat, the press of bodies in the silent warehouse, the world shrinking to just this: tangled limbs, whispered names, a feverish need to be seen, to be held, to be forgiven.

When it is over, they lie side by side on the cold loading bay, bruised but breathing, fingers laced together. Outside, the sky purples to morning. Footsteps echo, faint and then gone. The warehouse, emptied of secrets and heat, waits in the new light—echoing with what was lost and what, impossibly, was left behind.