The acrid scent of burnt powder followed them out of the range, stitched into Harper's clothes, her skin, her lungs. No words passed between them as they moved down the corridor—shoulders sore, collarbone welted raw from the sling, the ghost of his hand still burned against her side where he'd adjusted her aim. But she didn't lag. The quiet wasn't cold. It was aftermath. Weight without edge.
The corridor climbed in tight concrete stairs, the air cooler as they rose from the range. Brock's hand stayed closed around her arm as they moved, steady, not crushing, firm enough to remind her who set the pace. His stride carried the same even rhythm it always did on these stairs, boots landing sure on each step, and she matched it, shoulder brushing the wall when the stairwell narrowed.
At the top, the sounds she knew waited for them rolled in ahead of the door—distant voices, the rattle of trays, the low murmur bleeding out from the cafeteria. Training meant she was on her feet again, steady enough to walk the halls, steady enough to be walked back through that room and set under all those eyes. The smell rode with it: grease, coffee, that metallic edge of canned vegetables cooked until they barely held shape.
Brock didn't break stride. Just before the door, he released her arm. The absence landed sudden, her skin still warm where his grip had been. The sounds on the other side pressed through the metal and her shoulders pulled in, breath sitting higher in her chest. His hand brushed her elbow, a quick pass that felt like a check, and she caught the flick of his eyes down, weighing her. Then he reached ahead, pushing the door open into the familiar wash of light and noise. Trays clattered, voices cut over one another, benches scraped along concrete. Heat rolled out from the food line at the far wall, grease and burned coffee hanging thick in the air.
Brock cut through the space without pause, his pace steady, shoulders carrying enough weight that the crowd shifted on its own. Harper slipped in just off his shoulder, steps tucked into the line of his, the bulk of him an easy thing to follow. In his wake, the room felt held at arm's length.
Glances still found her. The silence and hard stares that had gutted her the first time they'd walked this stretch had thinned out to quick looks, measuring and bright, sliding off as soon as she met them. Curiosity. Calculation. Her skin prickled under every pass. Weeks locked in silence upstairs with only Brock for company had narrowed her world down to plaster walls and the sound of his voice. Now, with the press of bodies and the sprawl of the hall, something in her chest drew tight, and she kept her eyes on his back instead of the faces turning as they went.
At the counter, Brock caught two trays from the stack, the metal edges clanging together. The sound snapped close enough to drag a small jolt through her, tray sliding against her palm before she caught it. He didn't look back, just nudged the metal into her hands and stepped into line. Steam curled up from the battered pans, carrying the smell of roasted meat and salt. He moved without hesitation, scooping a generous portion of beef stew thick with carrots and potatoes, a slab of cornbread dropped beside it, and a mug of coffee poured black and strong. His plate filled quick—substantial, heavy, the way a man his size ate by default.
Harper followed in quieter measure. Her tray edged down the line, her hand choosing smaller portions—a ladle of rice dotted with vegetables, a piece of chicken pulled lean off the bone, a slice of apple from a dented tray tucked to one side. At the drink urns she paused, watching dark coffee stream into Brock's mug ahead, the smell turning in her stomach. The tray behind her clipped her hip, metal kissing plastic and jolting her cups.
"You going to move?" a man muttered, close enough that his breath brushed the back of her neck.
She fixed her eyes on the water cooler, thumb tightening on the edge of the tray as she filled her tin cup, the faint chill a cleaner promise against the burn in the other pots.
Bodies stacked up behind her as the line crept forward again, the awareness of them sitting between her shoulder blades. She edged closer to Brock until the gap between them thinned, eyes on the food and her own hands, letting his back take the room while she tracked the shift of trays and boots at her rear.
She trailed him out of the line, tray balanced carefully in both hands, the weight of food suddenly secondary to the pull of the room. Instinct dragged her eyes up in a quick sweep—fast, cursory, chasing three faces. The ones who'd held her down in the cell weren't here. Relief flickered through her chest and slipped away just as quick, washed out under the wider press of attention that lingered anyway.
Brock's stride cut through the rows, steady as a blade parting water, and Harper felt her stomach knot as she caught where he was headed. Nolan sat planted at the center of a table, broad shoulders filling the space, a mug loose in his hand. Two men bracketed him, their voices falling away when Brock's shadow crossed their table. The noise of the cafeteria dulled in her ears, everything narrowing to that path, that table, the length of bench waiting for her.
Nolan spotted them first. He leaned back just enough to mark their arrival, a grin spreading wide across his face. "About time. We just rolled back in—quick delivery out east. Mason handled the wheel; Vale kept the crates from walking." His chin jerked toward the men beside him.
The names landed heavy. Mason—broad, restless, fork scraping idle against his plate—she remembered him from the night everything collapsed, the grip that had hauled her into that dark SUV when her world was already bleeding out. Vale sat opposite, quieter, straighter, his tray half-cleared with neat, precise bites. He hadn't spoken that night, hadn't even met her eyes, but she still remembered the way instinct had pulled her toward him in the dark, the softer face among harder ones when everything else was gone.
Brock set his tray down with deliberate weight and motioned her into the bench beside him. The scrape of steel legs against concrete sounded loud as Harper slid into place, her tray rattling faintly when it touched down. The seat felt too hard beneath her, her back too stiff against the room, hemmed in on three sides by Syndicate bodies and the knowledge that if those other men walked in, they'd find her pinned here with nowhere to move.
Mason's glance flicked up, quick and dismissive, then dropped back to his plate. Vale's lingered. His gaze tracked over her face, taking in the way her shoulders held too tight, the tray braced in both hands as if she expected someone to knock it loose. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—brief, unshowy, gone as soon as it came. Not inviting, not mocking, just a small acknowledgment that didn't try to pin her in place. Something in her chest loosened a fraction and she let a slow breath slip out, eyes dropping to her food. She cut the chicken into smaller pieces and lifted one to her mouth, chewing without focus, more for something to do with her hands than any real hunger.
Nolan's grin didn't fade, but his attention shifted. It slid from her face to the thin red line along her throat, the healed edge that still sat angry against her skin. His fingers tightened around the handle of his mug, knuckles whitening, and the ease in his shoulders went still. The smile stayed broad for the room, teeth on display, but his eyes had cooled by the time he tipped the mug back and drank.
"Hell, Brock." Nolan set his mug down with a hollow thud. "Didn't think you'd drag her out here again so soon. Figured you'd keep her upstairs with books and bruises." The grin edged wider, his tone carrying its usual bite. "Guess she's still breathing after all."
Mason chuckled under his breath, while Vale's glance cut sideways. Harper fixed her eyes on her tray, shoulders curling in until her collarbones ached, the small ease Vale had given her gone in an instant. The rim of her cup dug into her fingers as she held it, knuckles blanching, the food on her plate swimming in her vision. Her throat felt too exposed, the scar along it prickling as if every set of eyes in the room sat there.
Brock noticed. His knee found hers under the table and stayed there, a deliberate press, steady and controlled. The contact ran up through her leg and into her chest, something solid to brace against while the rest of the room shifted around them. She kept still, letting it hold. A reminder. An anchor. His gaze slid back to Nolan, expression unchanged.
"Breathing, yeah," Brock replied, voice flat. "And working. Sidearm and rifle this morning. First run, and she held center mass."
The words settled in Harper's chest, solid and unfamiliar. He didn't talk like that when it was just the two of them. On the range it was counts, corrections, the next order. Hearing him lay out what she'd done in front of his crew twisted something under her ribs, tight and uneasy, and she fixed her attention on the rice and chicken so none of it showed on her face.
Mason's fork stilled mid-motion. Vale's eyes came back to her and stayed there. Nolan's grin lost some of its bite as he studied her past Brock's shoulder, still wide but carrying a different kind of weight.
"She'll keep training," Brock went on, unblinking. "She'll keep standing. That's the point."
Nolan leaned back, one arm slung across the bench. His grin shifted toward casual, almost like the conversation was no more than weather. "So what's it been now? Month in? That leaves her two."
The numbers slotted into place in Harper's head with awful clarity. One month gone, burned up in drills and locked doors and nights she didn't fully remember. Two left on the clock Vex had hung over her, every day another step toward either becoming something the Syndicate could use or being written off and erased. Her fork scraped hard across the plate, loud in her own ears. She still didn't look up. Rice and chicken smeared together as she forced another mouthful down, chewing too fast, jaw clenched, fingers choking the handle until the metal dug deep into her palm.
Brock's voice cut across the table. "That's enough, Nolan."
He hadn't raised his voice, but the tone carried a weight that settled over the four of them. Nolan's grin held a breath longer, then tilted off-center as he lifted his mug again, swallowing whatever else he'd been about to say. Mason dropped his eyes to his tray. Vale's glance flicked to Harper, catching the rigid set of her shoulders, then shifted away.
Brock broke off a piece of bread, movements unhurried, like the matter was closed as far as he was concerned.
The quiet that followed pressed at Harper's ears. Cutlery clattered and voices rolled on around them, but at the table everything felt closer, air thick in her chest. She kept her gaze pinned to the plate, nudging a strip of chicken through the smear of rice, appetite knotted too tight to let anything else down.
Vale shifted, elbow propped against the table. His boot tapped lightly against hers under the bench, not enough to hurt, just enough to cut through the fog around her plate.
Her head came up before she could stop it, shoulders twitching. Vale already had his eyes on her, expression open in a way she didn't expect. Up close he looked younger than most of the men crowding the room, close to her own age. Dark hair sat cropped neat against his head, brushed back off his forehead, and a short beard framed his jaw, giving his face a steadier, grounded look. His features were clean and even, the kind that didn't read as cruel at a glance.
"Place is loud as hell, huh?" he murmured, voice low, easy. "Takes a while to tune it out."
Harper held his gaze. Long enough to really see him this time, not just a shape in the front seat while she bled in the back. Something in his eyes met her there without flinching, without gloating, just present. The corners of his mouth lifted, small and steady, and the knot in her chest loosened on a thin, careful breath.
A tray dragged across metal at the next table, the scrape knifing through the air. She flinched, shoulders jumping, and her eyes dropped back to the rice and chicken as if they'd burned. Vale let her go, turning back to his own plate without pushing.
Brock saw. His attention ticked from her to Vale and back again, marking the exchange. He didn't cut in or shift his leg away from hers under the table. He just tore another piece of bread free, the new shape of the table settling into him in silence.
The noise of the room crept in again by degrees—cutlery, low arguments, a laugh from somewhere behind her. Harper lifted her cup and took a swallow she barely tasted, the water sitting cold in her throat. The place still felt too bright, too crowded, but the knot inside her hadn't climbed all the way back up.
Across the table, Nolan's gaze moved between Brock, Vale, and Harper, tracking the lines that hadn't been there a month ago. His fingers tapped once against his mug before he settled back in his seat.
"Word is, we've got something lined up," Nolan said, tipping his mug. "Convoy run. Black Maw."
Mason's fork tapped a slow pattern against his tray. "Heard it's weapons. Heavy load."
Vale stayed quiet, though his gaze flicked once across the table, measuring.
Harper froze mid-bite. She didn't lift her head, didn't shift her gaze from the plate, but the name sliced clean through her. Black Maw. Second-strongest outfit in East Halworth, dug into their side of the river with guns and bodies to match. Everyone knew the stories—smugglers who'd carved themselves into a gang with fire and steel. If the Syndicate was moving on them, it wasn't just for cargo. It was a flag planted in blood.
Nolan leaned in, shoulders crowding the table a little. "Vex finally signed off on it?"
Brock tore off a strip of bread, crumbs dusting his tray. "Meeting this afternoon," he said. "Routes, timing, who's on the road and who sits in the convoy. He wants the trucks taken clean and driven back through our gate, not scattered across the district."
Nolan's grin crooked. "Hit the escort hard, roll the Maw's colors right out from under them, park their gear in our yard." His eyes slid briefly to Harper and back. "That'll get the city talking."
The words were pitched to Brock, but they settled under Harper's skin, heavy and cold.
Brock didn't twitch. "Then they can talk," he replied, voice even. "Job's the same. We take the convoy and bring it home."
Nolan smirked into his mug. "Then it'll be worth watching."
Her fork hovered over the plate, forgotten. Two months. A convoy. Black Maw. The name pressed into her chest until her ribs felt ready to give. Nobody had said she was part of it. They didn't have to. Every drill, every order, every time Brock put a weapon in her hands had been setting a course. Maybe this run. Maybe the next. Her place in it sat just out of reach, waiting for someone else to point and fire.
The cafeteria's noise surged back in on a lag—laughter cracking across the room, trays clattering, boots grinding against the floor—but it all rode distant under the rush in her ears. The math ticked loud in her head. Two months to learn fast enough to matter. Two months before somebody decided she went on a truck or into the ground. She nudged a piece of chicken through the smear of rice, Brock's knee still braced against hers under the table, and swallowed down the taste of nothing.