The clothes felt wrong already. The fabric hugged her shoulders and ribs in all the places that hurt, Syndicate black sitting under the Viper ink like someone had wrapped their colors over a dead flag. She kept her jaw locked and her mouth shut, because anything she might say would either crack or come out as something Brock could use.
He pushed off the wall and closed the distance between them, wrapping his fingers around her elbow, steady and controlled. His grip carried intent without cruelty, firm as a hand on a collar. He steered her down the hall without rushing her, guiding her around corners she didn't know, until a steel door filled her view and he shoved it open.
The room beyond had been stripped down to function. A heavy bag sagged in one corner, leather scarred and split from years of strikes. A wall rack held training gear—mitts, gloves, weighted bars—everything worn, nothing for show. Near the far wall, battered pads leaned in uneven stacks. Mats covered the floor, their seams lifting, surface dulled with old sweat and impact. The place didn't bother with mirrors or clocks; time lived in muscle strain and breath. Their footsteps carried across the open space, folding into the sound of her uneven breathing as he walked her farther in.
He didn't let go right away. His hand stayed hooked around her elbow as he walked her across the mats, cutting straight through the center of the room like he already knew exactly where he wanted her. When he stopped, he turned her with a small pressure at the joint until she faced him.
Then he released her.
The space around her felt too open, the mats stretching out on all sides, leaving her exposed with nothing at her back. Brock took three measured steps backward and settled in front of her, arms folding across his chest, weight even, attention fixed.
"Square up."
Harper blinked, the words snapping against something old in her. For a second, all she heard was fight him—right here, right now, on ribs that still ached every time she drew breath. Her gaze tracked his stance, the distance between them, the door behind him, the wall to her left. Every line in her wanted to lunge or walk away, anything except give him what he asked for.
Vex's office slid in over the impulse, steady and cold. Three months. Brock standing between her and a bullet. This wasn't the kind of order she could win by refusing.
Her feet moved before the rest of her caught up. One slid back, the other planted, her body turning side-on. The shift pulled along her side, a hot line under the bruises, and her lungs tightened around it. She forced her arms up anyway, fists near her face. Muscles bunched across her upper back and along her neck, threatening to give, but they held. So did she.
He took her in without moving, gaze skimming from her feet to her hands, to the set of her shoulders. The stance came out of her like reflex, not thought, and for someone who'd been rotting in a basement it held together better than it had any right to. Then he watched her left forearm edge lower, elbow tucking in a fraction toward her ribs as she unconsciously tried to shield what hurt.
He stepped in.
Instinct pulled her weight back before she caught it, a tight jolt along her ribs that urged her to get out of reach. She held her ground anyway, boots planted, forcing herself to stay put while he came closer.
"Back heel a little further." His boot tapped her rear foot and nudged it along the mat just enough to widen her stance. "You want room to move, or you'll end up tangled in yourself."
She shifted, the adjustment tugging along her side, a tight pull under the bruises. Her lungs caught for a breath, muscles bracing before she forced them to ease.
His hand brushed her forearm next, two fingers lifting her guard an inch. Her skin went tight under the contact, shoulders locking for a second before she made herself loosen. "Keep this here. You drop it, I see every opening you've got." The words came out calm, observational, like he was talking about a piece of equipment instead of her body.
Heat crept up the back of her neck, but she nodded. Every tremor in her arms was right there under his touch, nothing she could hide. She locked her jaw and held the position anyway.
He eased back a few paces, then shifted his weight. "Hold it."
He started to move to her right. Each step was slow and deliberate, boots whispering over the mats. She turned with him in small adjustments, back foot pivoting, front foot dragging just enough to keep him in front of her. The pull along her ribs lit with every twist, a tight line that ran from her side up into her chest.
He didn't speak. His eyes tracked her, taking in every tiny compensation—the way her guard trembled, the fraction her elbow crept in, the hesitation before each pivot. She could feel him measuring her without a word, filing away where the pain lived and how much she could hide.
When he slid toward the edge of her peripheral vision, tension crawled along her spine. Instinct urged her to turn faster, keep him square in front of her, but the motion dragged at her ribs and threw her breathing off. She let him slide past her shoulder, keeping her stance pointed where he'd been, listening for each soft step as it curved behind her. The hairs along the back of her neck prickled when his presence moved through the space she couldn't see.
His footsteps came around from the other side, closing the circle. By the time he settled in front of her again, her lungs had tightened, and her arms shook from holding the guard in place, but her hands stayed up. His gaze flicked over her once more; something shifted in his expression, quick and contained, like he'd just confirmed a suspicion.
He moved before she'd fully reset her breath. A small change in his shoulders gave it away, weight rolling forward as he closed the distance in two unhurried steps. Her body tried to brace, heels digging into the mat, ribs tightening in warning.
His palm hit her shoulder in a solid, driving push that sent her sliding back. Panic kicked through her chest as the mats slipped under her boots. She let the first step go and caught the second, forcing her weight down, boots grinding against the vinyl until the slide stopped.
The jolt ran through her torso and lit up the bruises along her side, breath snatched short. For a moment she felt her stance wobble, then she hauled herself upright again, guard crooked but still up. Air sawed in and out of her lungs while she locked her eyes on him.
"Fix your guard." The words came out flat, almost bored.
She dragged her hands back into position, shoulders burning.
He didn't close the distance this time. He stood where he was, hand lowered, watching how quickly she planted, how long it took for the shake in her arms to settle, how she still held his gaze.
"Stay there."
The words pinned her in place. She tightened what she already had—heels driven down, core braced, guard firmed up as much as the bruises allowed. Her body set itself for another hit to the upper body, ribs already clenching in anticipation.
He watched her for a breath, then shifted his weight.
The warning came low. His hips turned, gaze dipping for a fraction, and instinct yanked her focus down with it. She started to drag her lead foot back out of range.
He still found her. His leg swept in a controlled arc, boot catching behind her ankle rather than scything straight through it. The contact hooked and lifted just enough to knock her balance off.
The floor tilted as she lurched sideways, ribs clamping down as her body braced for impact. She let one knee drop and shot a hand toward the mat, catching herself before her side could slam into the ground. Pain ripped along her torso anyway, a hot stripe that clawed up her chest and tore a hiss from her throat.
For a second her vision tightened at the edges. She stayed there on one knee, one hand planted, the other still half raised in a crooked guard, breath rasping. Then she forced her leg under her again and pushed up, joints trembling, until she was upright. Not clean, but standing.
He tracked every part of it—the stutter in her recovery, the way her hand pressed a little too close to her ribs, the shallow drag of air through her teeth. His eyes lifted to hers, assessing, like he'd just logged the exact angle and effort it took to put her on the mat and how much it cost her to get back off it.
He moved in again, before she'd fully settled her balance. She started to bring her hands higher, and his closed around her wrists, catching them mid-rise. His grip turned her forearms inward and pressed them down just enough to open her chest, leaving her ribs feeling exposed.
Every muscle went tight. For a breath she braced for the drag into something worse, the twist of her arms behind her back, the snap of cuffs. His hold didn't shift. He just stood there, solid in front of her, waiting.
"Push. Give me all you've got."
Her pulse jumped. She planted her boots wider and drove forward, tendons standing out along her forearms as she tried to force his hands back. At first he might as well have been part of the wall; the strength in him didn't move. Then he started to give ground in small increments, letting his arms slide back an inch at a time, making her work for every bit of it.
Her own arms shook, effort burning through biceps and across her upper back. Each surge of force dragged at her ribs and turned her breathing rough. Still she leaned in, jaw locked, dragging his weight with hers one stubborn step at a time.
Without warning he drove back against her. The jolt rolled through their joined grip and into her frame. Her stance buckled, boots skidding on the mat, a flare of pain ripping through her side as her center tipped. She caught herself on a stagger, heel grinding down until she found her balance again and shoved once more, teeth grit, refusing to let him walk her under.
He watched her over their linked hands, eyes on the strain in her face, the exhaustion, the refusal to let go. After a few more seconds he released her, and her arms snapped up out of habit, guard reforming even as her muscles trembled under the weight of it.
He didn't retreat far. He stayed within reach, her breath still rough between them. One hand lifted, palm open, the gesture almost casual as it floated into the space near her face.
The first flick came without warning. His fingers cut in toward her cheek in a fast, tight motion that would sting if it landed. Her head jerked to the side, guard tightening. Air brushed along her skin where his hand passed through empty space.
"Eyes on me," he reminded her, voice even.
The next feint came from the opposite side, quicker this time. She brought a forearm up on instinct, catching his wrist with bone-on-bone contact. The impact thudded through her arm, a small shock that rattled already burning muscles, but her guard stayed where it needed to be.
The third test dropped lower, his hand darting toward the line of her ribs. Pain flared just at the idea of a hit landing there. Her elbow snapped down, cutting across the path of his wrist and jamming it off course before he could tap the bruised side.
For a moment he held there against her block, pressure steady, feeling the tremor in her arm. His mouth shifted the slightest amount, not quite a smile, more an acknowledgment.
"Reflexes are intact," he noted. "Speed's good, even tired."
He eased back a step, posture loosening like he'd relaxed, though his eyes never left her. Then he started to move again—small fakes at first, a shift of one shoulder, a half-step in and out of range. Harper tracked him, boots adjusting on the mat, guard high.
The tempo changed by degrees. His feet cut in tighter angles, closing then stealing space, hands flicking near her guard as if a strike might follow the next twitch. Each false start pressed nearer, testing how she braced, how her weight rolled from heel to toe. She kept up, reading the set of his body, letting training drag her through the pattern even while her ribs burned and her arms shook.
Then his hand came higher than the rest, a quick lift that bent his arm in the same rough shape as every blow that had already crashed into her face. It didn't land. It didn't have to.
Her guard jumped wide, arms flaring instead of staying tight. Her body curled back a step, spine bowing away from him. A harsh breath ripped through her teeth, louder than she meant. For a blink she wasn't on the mats. Office walls. Blood in her mouth. The clock on her life ticking down while they watched her choke on it.
He stopped moving. He didn't throw the punch he'd hinted at. He just stood there in front of her, watching the tremor in her hands and the way tension coiled through her whole frame. The silence between them thickened.
He didn't comment. A nod was all she got before he shifted his stance and stepped back into her space again.
What came next smeared into a pattern that kept changing just enough to keep her off balance. A hand at her shoulder or forearm, a sudden shove that forced her feet to find purchase. A low feint toward her ankle to see if she'd flinch or reset like he'd just taught her. Fingers twitching near her face, stopping just shy of contact unless her guard dropped a fraction, then a light tap to remind her where it should've been.
His voice cut in only when he wanted something altered.
"Wider base."
"Guard tighter."
"Breathe."
Each correction landed like another weight. Her body staggered, adjusted, then staggered again. Every shove rattled her ribs; every time he hooked at her leg and made her catch herself, her knees scraped the mats raw. She pushed up anyway, over and over, the motion turning clumsy as fatigue dragged at her.
He never drove a full strike into her. He never offered rest either. He lived in that narrow line where her lungs scraped for air and her arms felt ready to drop, keeping her there like he'd found a setting he liked and refused to touch the dial.
Time thinned out. The hum of the lights overhead, the rasp of her breathing, the constant shuffle of boots on vinyl all blurred together until she couldn't have said if ten minutes or half an hour had passed. Panic surged in flashes—always when his hands rose too quick, too close to her face. Each time, he didn't move in. He just watched, waiting while she forced herself to drag focus out of the memory and back to him.
Her skin ran hot, sweat slicking her hairline and soaking the tank against her ribs. Muscle tremors crawled through her arms and legs, the bruises under her clothes throbbing with every shift. By the time he finally stepped fully out of range, she was swaying on her feet, fists still raised mostly because he hadn't told her otherwise.
He watched her for a long moment, expression unreadable. Sweat blurred the edges of her vision. Her arms felt hollow, hands gone heavy, but she held them where they were.
"Stand still."
Her boots stayed rooted. There wasn't much room to obey more than she already was, but something in the tone made her lock her knees, clamp down on the sway in her frame. Her chest heaved, each breath dragging against bruised ribs.
"Hands behind your head."
The order dropped quiet, without threat, which made it worse. She let her guard sink by degrees, arms lowering with a slow burn, then threaded her fingers together at the back of her skull. Elbows edged out and up until the pull along her sides turned into a steady throb.
"Face the wall."
She turned in small steps, mats whispering under her boots, until blank expanse filled her view. The wall offered nothing back—just painted surface and the wide open room at her back. The air felt different with nothing in front of her to brace against.
"Don't move."
Every part of her wanted to shift, to ease the strain in her shoulders and ribs, to see where he was. She fixed her gaze on a scuff near the base of the wall and held there. Her arms shook from the pose; sweat slid down from her hairline, tickling along her temples. Behind her, his presence settled into the space—subtle shifts of weight, the quiet drag of breath, the faint scrape of a boot when he changed position. No strike landed. The waiting itself turned into its own kind of pressure.
Time dragged. Her muscles burned, then moved past burning into a numb, quivering hold. Fingers cramped where they laced together. Her lungs started to find a rough rhythm, each inhale shallow enough that her ribs didn't fully flare.
"That's all for today."
The words reached her back more than her ears. She heard them, registered them, and still didn't lower her arms. The command had told her to hold; nothing had canceled that. Tricks lived in those gaps. Move too soon and you earned whatever followed.
So she stayed.
The silence that followed felt different from the earlier ones—sharper at the edges, attentive. She could feel him there, still behind her, but there was a brief hitch in his movement, like he'd expected to hear the rustle of cloth and didn't. Heat gathered between her shoulder blades where his attention settled, heavy as a hand.
Footsteps approached, unhurried. They stopped close enough that she could feel the warmth of him at her back, the faint stir of air when he breathed. For a few long moments nothing changed: her arms locked overhead, his presence pressed in, the wall filling her vision.
"Turn around."
Harper pivoted in place, keeping her hands laced behind her head until she faced him again. He studied her, eyes moving from her shaking elbows to the tight line of her mouth. Something like surprise flickered there, quickly buried.
"Hands down."
She let her arms fall. The drop sent pins and needles sparking through her fingers, joints aching from the release. She flexed her fingers at her sides, working feeling back into them.
His gaze stayed on her for another moment, measuring, as if he'd just learned something he hadn't expected to find. Then, he turned away. He crossed to the wall and picked up a bottle set on the counter there, plastic crinkling in his grip as he twisted the cap. When he came back, Harper was still on the mats, spine stiff, arms loose at her sides, sweat streaking her temples.
He held the bottle out. "Drink."
Her hands shook as she lifted them, fingers unsteady when they closed around the plastic. A stray thought flickered—drugged, maybe—but if they'd wanted her gone, Brock wouldn't have bothered with all of this. The water hit her tongue cold, clean, and she nearly choked on the first swallow. It didn't matter. Her body latched on, throat working until she'd drained half the bottle. Breath tore in rough pulls around each mouthful.
He watched without a word, eyes on the line of her throat, the twitch of her grip, the way her shoulders dragged with every inhale. When she lowered the bottle, he took it back, screwed the cap on, and set it aside.
"Come on."
His hand found her elbow again, the same steady hook as before. The mats gave way to concrete under her boots, then the doorway, then the hallway. The walk back felt longer than the climb up had—legs heavy, muscles hollowed out, that drained, floating sense that came right after the worst of the adrenaline bled off. Each step sent a dull echo through her ribs and into her spine. She tried to keep her pace even; without his grip she wasn't sure she'd stay straight.
He steered her to the stairs, turning her toward the same flights she'd dragged herself up before. Going down turned out to be its own kind of test. Her knees jolted with every drop in height, thighs trembling as they caught her weight. Brock adjusted with her, never dragging, never quite supporting, just correcting her balance whenever her foot slid too near the edge.
Neither of them spoke. The low buzz of the overhead fixtures soaked into the silence, blending with the scuff of their boots and the rough pull of her breathing, until the air cooled and the familiar press of the basement settled in around them.
At her cell, he pulled the door open and nudged her inside, his hand falling away from her arm at the threshold.
"You'll stand tomorrow." His tone made it a fact, not a hope. "That's what I need."
His gaze tracked over her once—sweat, bruises, the way she drifted back to the wall like her body knew the route now. She reached out, palm finding concrete, using it to steady the tremor still running through her arms.
The door swung shut. Metal met metal with a solid thunk. A second later the lock slid into place, clean and final.
Harper stayed there with her hand on the wall, catching what breath she could, while the faint echo of his footsteps faded down the hall and the basement swallowed the sound.