Steam clung to the tiled walls, the hiss of the water loud enough to drown the compound hum beyond the door. Harper braced one hand against the shower's tiled wall, head bowed, letting the heat pelt her shoulders until her skin flushed raw. Dried blood streaked down in thin ribbons, diluted pink as it slid from her nose and lip, the copper sting still sticking to the back of her throat. Her eyes burned, no sting of soap or spray to blame, just the hollow ache of hours spent awake in the dark, listening to her pulse pound against the bruises Brock had left. Every blink dragged heavy, grit in her lashes, her body begging for sleep she never found. Last night's voices echoed— Brasso's laughter, the snarl in Brock's tone before the punch, Nolan's fury heard through her closed door—all of it replaying in fragments she couldn't silence. She rubbed at her face, the sore bridge of her nose, the split at her mouth, and found herself trembling anyway, exhaustion so deep it left her bones weak.
She twisted the handle until the water cut off, the sudden silence pressing heavy against her ears. Steam hung dense in the air, curling off her skin as she stepped onto the cold tile. The mirror was a blank fogged sheet until her palm dragged a streak through it, clearing just enough for her reflection to bleed through. The face that stared back didn't feel like hers—swollen lip, nose raw from clotting blood, eyes rimmed red from a night without rest. She held the gaze longer than she meant to, searching for some trace of the girl who'd once laughed in neon bars, who'd once believed in a home that still stood. Nothing there but hollow eyes and a stranger's mouth. With a quick pull, she snatched a towel from the rack, wrapped it around herself, and slipped out, padding barefoot across the hall.
Her room greeted her like a cold box. The bed was still perfectly made, covers pulled tight, save for the faint rust smear near the top where she'd let her face rest without ever crawling under. On the desk, the glass of water from last night sat beading condensation, untouched since Brock had set it down. Beside it, a plate waited with eggs gone rubbery and toast curled at the edges—his morning delivery, ignored the same as the glass. She didn't move toward either, just let the sight sit there, reminders split between night and day, proof of a span endured but not lived.
She dressed in silence, every motion stripped of thought, stripped of care. Black cargo pants pulled up over damp skin, belt threaded and buckled without a pause. A black tank top yanked down over her shoulders, fabric clinging to the heat still radiating off her. The routine felt mechanical, like her hands belonged to someone else, fastening, smoothing, tucking without urgency, without anything that felt like choice. Each piece of clothing slid into place like armor she didn't quite believe in anymore.
She dropped onto the edge of the mattress, tugging her boots close. The leather creaked as she slipped her feet inside, the motion easy until she bent to lace them. Pain flared through her face, the bruised swell at her cheekbone pulling tight, her split lip stinging as her jaw flexed. She winced, fingers pausing against the laces before finishing the knots in silence.
The door swung open before she'd finished, hinges groaning in the quiet. Brock filled the frame, voice flat. "You ready to go?"
She didn't answer. Just rose to her feet, smoothing her hands down her thighs, and moved toward him with her gaze fixed low, refusing the weight of his eyes. His stare caught her anyway, flicking once to the dark bloom under her cheekbone, but no words came. He only turned on his heel, stride carrying him into the corridor.
Harper followed, half a step behind, the silence between them pressing as they wound through the hall, into the waiting elevator, and down toward the thrum of the training floor.
** ** **
The mat slammed Harper's shoulder and rattled bone through muscle, a shock that climbed her spine. She sucked in air, rolled to her knees, and forced herself upright before Brock could bark at her for staying down too long. Salt stung her lashes, burned at the corners of her eyes, her pulse hammering so hard it felt like her skull was keeping time.
Barely twenty minutes into drills, and he hadn't let up once. Every exchange came fast, precise, brutal—testing her guard, punishing her timing, dragging every ounce of effort from her body. She wasn't green. She knew these rhythms. But the memory of his fist from last night kept flashing in the corner of her vision, and each time it did, her hands faltered that fraction he never missed.
"Again." The word landed flat as he circled, gloves up, his free hand snapping against hers to flick her stance back into place.
She shuffled across the mat, fists raised, weight braced the way he demanded.
"Lower." His glove rapped hers down, a sting of contact that forced her arms into line before he slid back a pace. His gaze stayed on her, waiting. "Go."
She lunged, sequence burned into her body—jab, cross, hook, kick—the first two hammering into his forearms, the hook clipping his jaw. For a half-second satisfaction flared, until his shoulder crashed into her chest and shoved her off balance.
"Reset." He gave her nothing—no flicker of recognition, no slack in his stance. Already he'd shifted footing, angling for the next line of attack. "Go."
Each set came faster than the last, strikes snapping toward her before her breath steadied. He never slowed to explain, never gave her space—just a glove cracking against her ribs to punish an opening, a boot driving her stance wider, a clipped "No" when her rhythm slipped a fraction. Every correction carried weight, each one leaving her body stinging even as she pushed through.
By the tenth exchange her shoulders burned, muscles quivering under the strain, every punch dragged out by will alone. Her lungs rasped, sweat running into her mouth, but still he pressed, offering no slack, only demand.
Without pause, he shifted her into a timed strike circuit, the watch on his wrist ticking down a ruthless thirty seconds per run. Cross the mats, tag the dummy three times with clean form, retreat to start before the buzzer. Simple in theory. In practice, each pass blurred into footwork and recalibration, every slip magnified by his presence shadowing her shoulder.
On the third pass she overreached, her knuckles glancing off the padded surface at a bad angle, pain sparking up through her arm into the muscle at her shoulder. She bit down on the sting, reset, and drove forward again, pace refusing to break.
Brock's voice stayed even, but his corrections came quicker now, giving her barely a breath to adjust before the next demand snapped out.
By the final run her arms felt like they'd been poured full of lead, every swing pulling at her joints, every step heavier than the last. When the buzzer split the air she caught it more as reprieve than triumph, chest heaving, heat crawling down her spine. Still, she squared her shoulders at the line, forced her breath into control, and met his stare head-on—refusing to give him the satisfaction of watching her break.
He stepped in close and pressed the hilt of a training knife into her palm. "Keep it."
Before she'd even settled her grip his hands closed over her wrist—iron snapping shut. A wrench, a twist, and the blade was gone in less than two seconds, clattering to the mat between them. He didn't glance at it. "Again."
She stooped, scooped it up, forced her stance back into line.
This time she angled her body, trying to shield the weapon from his reach. His hand still found her forearm, twisting hard until pain fired through her nerves and her fingers spasmed open. Steel hit the mat with a flat smack.
"Tighter," he said, already stepping back. "Again."
She bent, retrieved it. A tight pull knotted through her upper arm now, stance pulling taut on reflex.
He came in harder, shoulder slamming into hers, his grip crushing down over her hand. "Move your feet," he snapped when she froze that fraction too long. He tore it free and let it clatter down between them. "Again."
And again. And again. Each attempt stripped from her faster, each failure met with a correction that landed like a blow.
"Guard your side."
"Stop turning into me."
"Clamp down."
By the eighth run her forearms shook, her fingers raw from clenching the hilt, every knuckle screaming. Moisture slicked her grip, the handle sliding inside her palm no matter how tightly she crushed down. Brock's voice stayed clipped, his grip rougher with every disarm, his presence crowding hers until the mat felt like it held no air at all. Heat pricked behind her eyes, the same useless sting that had chased her through too many nights. For a breath she felt it tilt, the urge to let it spill over, to let everything give way right there on the mat in front of him. She ground her teeth and swallowed it back down. She'd run out of tears for men who only watched to see when she would fold.
When the knife struck the floor one final time, she watched it wobble and settle, the small clatter hanging in the air. Brock peeled the pads from his hands, dropped them into the bin, and walked for the doors like she'd already fallen in behind him.
"Done." The word came over his shoulder, clipped and final, and then he was gone from the mat, pushing through the exit without a backward look.
Harper pulled air into her lungs until her ribs ached and forced herself upright. His hand didn't find her arm this time. The bare skin at her elbow felt exposed where his grip should've been, light in a way that didn't feel like freedom at all. She jogged two quick steps to catch up, then settled a few paces behind him as they moved off the mats and out into the corridor, arms dragging at her sides, breath rough in her throat on the walk to the elevator.
The ride down was a cage of flickering lights and her shuddering breath, Brock's reflection fixed forward in the steel. When the doors opened, he strode out into the corridor, and she followed the length of his shadow down the hall until the low murmur of voices bled out from the cafeteria ahead.
The cafeteria hummed with steady voices and the scrape of trays, the smell of fried oil and boiled starch thick in the air. Brock took a tray from the stack without slowing, eyes skimming past the spread as he stepped into the line, the plastic sliding free in his hand like he'd done it a hundred times. Other mornings that same motion had ended with a tray pressed into her grip, part of the routine that kept her hooked to his side. Today he just moved ahead. Harper paused at the stack, fingers brushing the top edge before she pulled one out for herself, hands still trembling faintly as she lifted the weight of it and fell in behind him.
She moved down the options without appetite, sliding a spoonful of vegetables onto her plate, a strip of chicken beside them, nothing more. The heat rising off the steam trays turned her stomach, but she forced her movements steady, refusing to draw his eye.
Brock's tray filled quicker: protein and starch, fuel more than food. He moved on without a word. Harper trailed in his wake, balancing her half-empty plate, eyes fixed on the floor as they wove between crowded tables.
When he finally stopped, she raised her gaze just long enough to see Nolan already seated, broad shoulders angled toward them. His eyes met hers for a breath before they dropped to the dark bloom rising under her cheekbone. The flicker of recognition there was quick, heavy, and she lowered her stare again, sliding into the seat beside Nolan, tray set down as though it might make less noise if she willed it.
Across from her, Brock dug into his food without ceremony, knife carving through meat, fork clattering steady against the plate.
Nolan leaned back in his chair, eyes cutting across the table. "Everything set for Maw?"
Brock gave a short nod, chewing, then swallowed. "I trust Pike to keep his word."
Nolan tilted his head, an edge sliding into his tone. "How're you running it?"
Brock didn't hesitate. "Overwatch front and back. Two SUVs—one for each truck. We box them in, clear their escort. Vale and Mason take the cabs. Once the drivers are down, we roll the freight straight out."
Nolan grunted, neither agreement nor objection, just weighing the shape of it.
Harper stayed quiet, eyes fixed on her plate. The vegetables cooled into limp colors, the strip of chicken untouched, her fork still resting where she'd set it.
Nolan speared a bite, the scrape of metal on tin undercutting his voice. "Vale'll be glad to stretch his legs. He's been itching since the river job."
Vale's name tugged her gaze up before she could stop it. Her eyes drifted over the room, skimming the line at the steam tables, the doors, the cluster of tables near the back where he sometimes sat. She searched for the neat cut of his hair, the quick quirk of a mouth that hadn't looked at her like a problem. Only unfamiliar faces and turned shoulders met her. After a few seconds she let her stare drop to her tray again, shoulders drawing in. Some stubborn part of her had pictured him passing by, offering that small nod from the other day, something that might cut the size of the room down to where she didn't feel quite so small.
"Then he'll get his chance," Brock said, the words carrying weight but not warmth. He chased them with another mouthful, shoulders loose, tone steady enough to pass for casual.
The two of them drifted into lighter talk after that—old jobs, names Harper didn't know, shorthand between men who'd run the same streets for years. To anyone else it might have sounded easy, but she heard the tightness under it, the pauses where there used to be flow.
She kept her head down, nudging a fork through her vegetables, chewing nothing. Her eyes rose once without meaning to, catching Brock's gaze on her from across the table. It lingered a second too long before he turned back to Nolan, his voice resuming like the moment hadn't happened at all.