The range swallowed her like everything else in the compound—concrete walls, air stale with gunpowder and oil, sound chewed down to a hollow echo. The rifle lay cold across her palms, the heft familiar now, but no lighter. Routine had burned the strangeness out of it, leaving only the monotony of muscle and motion. Brock set a single magazine on the bench between them, the thud of it loud in the quiet.
"Three-round burst today." His thumb flicked the selector until it clicked. "Three shots per pull. Same stance, same sight picture. The only difference is what the gun does after the first round. You don't correct late—you stop it from moving in the first place."
She glanced at the rifle, then at him, the words catching against the memory of Brasso's hand and the muzzle she'd jammed into his ribs. Several days had passed since then, each one ground down under Brock's drills until her body was a map of bruises, shoulders tight with strain, sleep shallow at best. He hadn't eased up once. Every day he kept her under, never giving her room to breathe, yet now he was trusting her to manage three-round burst—trusting her to keep control when control was the very thing he'd broken her down on. The thought of it pressed down in her chest, the rifle stock a smaller weight resting in her hands.
Harper planted her boots, weight tipped forward. Brock didn't tear her stance apart like he had that first week; he only stepped close enough to press a hand at her hip, nudging her a fraction deeper into her lean, then caught her left hand and drew it farther down the rifle's forend until her fingers settled near the balance point. Her muscles still went tight under his touch, a reflex she couldn't shake no matter how many times he'd moved her into place.
"Gives you more control," he said, his voice even, as though control was something she should still be trusted with.
She seated the mag with a hard push, tugged it once to make sure it locked, then rolled the rifle into the hollow of her shoulder. The stock dug into bone already tender from days of drills, the familiar ache setting in before she'd even lifted her sights.
"Half breath. Press smooth. Hold the trigger until the burst's done—then let it all the way forward to reset."
She drew air through her teeth, held it in her chest until the edges of the room seemed to narrow. The silhouette downrange blurred against concrete, then steadied, the front post poised square at its chest.
"Go."
The rifle roared three times in the space of one drawn-out breath, the reports merging into a rhythm that rattled through her teeth. Recoil hammered into her shoulder faster than single fire, dragging the front sight high off the paper target before she wrestled it down again. Her whole frame absorbed the fight—knees locked, jaw clenched, muscles screaming to keep the weapon tamed in her hands.
"Reset." Brock's hand closed on the barrel shroud, pressing it down until the muzzle dipped. "First shot was clean. Second started to walk. Third went wide. Don't relax after the break—tighten your hold, drive it forward."
Harper shifted her grip, rolling her shoulder until the stock dug deeper into bone, her knuckles whitening on the forend. She leaned in, forcing her stance harder into the line of fire.
"Once more."
The next burst tore through the range, brass clinking against concrete as it scattered across the lane. The sight still leapt, but she caught it quicker this time, dragging the post closer to the silhouette's chest and holding it there through the climb.
"Better." His knuckles tapped against her side, firm and grounding. The word landed strange after days of nothing but correction, a small hit of approval she didn't want to need. "Your core does more than your arms. Lock it before you fire."
She reset again, lungs pulling a steady breath, jaw tight. Exhale, press. The rifle barked three times in brutal rhythm, recoil pummeling her shoulder in quick succession, each round slamming out before her body had fully recovered from the last. Heat shimmered off the barrel, the air rippling faintly in front of her sights.
Brock bent to the spotting scope on the bench— he always kept one, even at fifty meters, so he didn't have to send the target back and forth between strings. His voice carried without lifting his head. "Two in the chest, one just above. That's the line you want." He straightened, gaze cutting back to her. "Keep it there. Make it muscle memory."
They worked in short strings—fire, reset, adjust—until the smell of burnt propellant clung to her skin and her palms slicked against the forend. Spent brass pinged across the concrete and rolled into dark corners. Each set tightened until the groups chewed into the same patch of paper, her arms trembling from the effort of keeping the rifle pinned.
Finally, Brock lowered the glass. "That's clean enough."
She started to ease the rifle down, waiting for the usual nod toward the rack. It didn't come.
"Keep it up," he said instead, chin tipping toward the target. "Convoy rolls tomorrow. You're riding with me."
Her shoulders pulled tight, the stock still locked against her chest. For days she'd trained like she'd already lost her place, half sure Riverside had bought her a spot on the bench while someone safer took her seat. The thin slice of relief she'd built around that thought slipped away in an instant.
The rifle felt different in her hands, the same weight suddenly carrying something else. She'd watched the Syndicate roll over people from the outside, felt the crush of it when they came for her in Yard Forty Two. Maw had their own reputation—roads painted in blood, crews that vanished instead of losing ground. Now she was slotted on the side that planned to take their trucks apart in the open. It should've settled her. Instead, a thin, crawling doubt ran under her skin, whispering questions she couldn't afford: whether she'd keep pace once the first rounds flew, whether she'd freeze when it counted.
Brock reeled a fresh silhouette downrange, the motor whining overhead. "Again," he said, as if nothing had shifted.
She shouldered the rifle, but her grip felt off, the sight slower to steady. The first burst climbed high, rounds walking toward the top edge. The next dragged left, pulled by a hand that couldn't seem to listen.
"Focus." His voice stayed level, carrying the kind of weight that settled between her shoulder blades.
She tried. Checked her stance, rolled her shoulder, drew in a breath that sat useless in her chest. Her mind kept tilting toward tomorrow, to the simple fact of riding out there with them instead of standing safe on this lane. Each time it slipped that way, the target downrange lost shape. By the time the magazine clicked empty, her rounds were scattered across the paper, stray hits instead of the tight center she knew he wanted.
Brock watched the silhouette through the scope, silent. He didn't call out corrections this time. When he finally straightened, he stepped back from the bench without a word.
** ** **
That evening her room held her like a box too small for air. Harper lay diagonal across the bed, boots still on, one arm flung over her face. The covers stayed tight and undisturbed beneath her, the space around her silent but for the hum of the vents. Thought circled without landing—fragments of the range, the smell of oil and scorched powder still clinging in her head, the word tomorrow hanging heavier than the rest.
The hinges whispered, the door easing open. She jerked upright, legs swinging off the mattress, pulse ready for the reprimand she'd been expecting all day—another word about her stance, her scatter, the way her hands hadn't listened.
But Brock didn't come in with that weight. He stood in the doorway instead, a takeout bag hooked in one hand, the smell of fried food drifting out as he tilted it up for her to see.
"Come on," he said.
She didn't move at first. Every night until now he'd left her dinner on the desk, tray cooling beside a glass of water, and walked out without a word. This—standing in her doorway, waiting—wasn't the script. Harper stayed on the edge of the mattress, eyes narrowing at the bag in his hand, suspicion flickering through her before she could choke it down.
Brock's stance didn't change. He just held the bag steady, gaze fixed, as if the silence was hers to break.
Finally, she pushed to her feet, legs heavy, and crossed the room to him.
She expected him to stop in the kitchen, maybe drop the bag on the counter and wave her toward it. Instead, he stepped out of his quarters and turned for the stairwell, the takeout bag swinging loose in his hand. He offered no explanation and never checked if she was behind him, just walked with that same steady, unhurried stride.
And she did follow, though every step felt like it might be a mistake. Her arms folded tight across her midsection, the gesture automatic, protective. He never took her out like this. Training, yes. Cafeteria, yes. But not at night, not with food in hand and no word of where they were going. Nothing that looked like kindness ever came without a cost.
Her chest wound tighter the closer they drew to the stairwell, every step feeding the thought that this was some kind of test—one more way to see where she'd crack. Harper kept close enough not to lose him, but not so near she could touch him if she wanted to. The distance felt necessary, like armor.
Brock pushed through the stairwell door without pause, and the clang of metal closing behind him echoed off concrete. Harper stepped in after, the air cooler here, tinged faintly with dust and old paint. He started up the narrow flight without hesitation, boots striking steady against the steps.
She frowned, catching the direction at once—they were already on the top floor. Up meant only one thing. Roof.
Her arms tightened around her middle as she followed, the weight of it settling heavier with each step. The stairwell ended in another door, this one heavier, scarred metal bolted into the frame. Brock shoved it open with his shoulder, hinges groaning, and a rush of night air swept in, heavy with city grit and the faint ozone of neon below.
He didn't stop, just stepped out onto the roof and held the door long enough for her to come through.
The skyline unfolded beyond the compound walls, not a distant horizon but a sprawl of rooftops and arteries of light. Amber streetlamps pooled along the avenues, brake lights flared in broken chains, and neon signs pulsed in uneven bursts, their letters too far to read from here. Across the nearer blocks, air vents exhaled smoke that drifted into the night. From the streets below came the churn of engines and the occasional horn, noise carrying upward to mingle with the deeper, steadier thrum of the Syndicate's generators underfoot. Together it all pressed against the air like a single restless current.
Brock didn't slow to look. He walked straight to the ledge and lowered himself against the parapet, posture easy, the takeout bag set between them with a paper crackle that cut through the hum.
She stopped a few paces short, arms still folded tight across her midsection. For a moment she thought about staying on her feet, letting the distance hold, but the weight of his silence left no room for refusal. Slowly, she lowered herself beside him, back to the parapet, legs stretched out toward the dark edge of the roof.
Only then did she let herself look out.
From this height the view felt different. The same grid of roofs and running lights lay below, but the whole city seemed to move under her in one slow, constant flow. The noise rose soft through the air, stripped of edges, the city's pulse slowed enough to feel almost steady. None of it belonged to her, but watching from above unraveled a knot inside her chest. Just a thread, just enough to loosen the tightness she'd carried through every drill, every correction, every hour in his shadow. The strangeness of sitting here beside him, the faint crinkle of the bag in the quiet, pushed up against that loosened knot in a way she couldn't name.
Brock pulled the bag open, the smell of fried chicken rolling warm and greasy into the cool air. He took out two cartons, set them on the concrete between them, the paper crackle loud against the hush of the roof. One nudged a little closer to her side.
"Eat," he told her. "It'll get cold."
Harper didn't reach for it. Her hands stayed locked around her middle, fingers knotted in the fabric of her shirt. Down on the street a siren wailed and slid away again. Up here, the silence between them thickened.
"Harper."
Just her name, low. Her back went rigid anyway. He'd used that exact tone in the gym, on the range, any time he wanted something fixed. The spread of rounds across the paper flashed up in her head, the way he'd gone quiet behind the scope afterward. She could feel the lecture waiting in his throat, even if he hadn't drawn it out yet.
He watched the city for a breath, then, "About—"
"I really don't want to do this right now." The words slipped out before she could bite them back, rougher than she meant. Her gaze stayed on the carton by her boot. "If you dragged me up here to go over every round I threw, I get it. I screwed up. I just…don't have it in me for another pass."
His head turned, brow tightening as he looked at her instead of the view. "I didn't bring you up here to fight."
She let out a brittle laugh with no humor in it. "Then what? Because every time you look at me it's like you're waiting for me to fuck up again. Like if I breathe wrong you'll be on me for it." Her arms locked tighter across her stomach. "You've been riding me for days—stance wrong, guard wrong, aim scattered—and I can't remember the last time you looked at me without finding another way I wasn't enough."
Brock flinched, so quick she almost missed it. His voice came rougher than before. "It isn't about you—"
"It's always about me," she cut in, heat snapping under her words. "Always what I can't do, what I should have done, how I'll never keep up. And you never let me forget it."
His mouth opened, like he meant to shape an answer, but she buried over it, voice low and final. "Nolan was right."
Brock looked at her then, really looked, and caught the wetness gathering at the corners of her eyes. It froze him in place, just long enough for her voice to drop hard into the space between them.
"He was right." Her throat worked around the words. "You should've put a bullet in my head the second I fucked up in that shipping office—saved everyone the trouble. Hell, you should've done it back in the yard, when you caught me. It would have made your life a lot easier than having to deal with me."
His jaw shifted, the start of a protest, but she steamrolled over it, her voice cracking against the night.
"And now you're dragging me onto a real job? Not drills, not dummies—a real fucking job. With guns in play and people who'll shoot to kill. People's lives on the line, and you want me there? Me, who can't even keep my goddamn hands steady on a burst?"
Her breath shuddered out, raw and fast. "If I fuck up here, it's not just me. It's them. And you know it."
"Enough." Brock's voice cut clean through her spiral, firm but not raised. He turned to face her fully, the city's light washing against the hard line of his jaw. "I fucked up in that office. I went at you when I should've pulled you out and reset. I kept seeing you laid out on that floor with a hole in you, and I was the one who'd put you in reach of a man like Brasso. I carried that into the truck and put it on you with my hands. That's on me. Not you."
Harper let out a humorless laugh, wet and raw. "And you think you've prepped me for tomorrow? For Black Maw?"
His gaze held steady, the muscle in his jaw working. "No one's ever prepped enough for what's coming. But you'll be there, and you'll fight, because we are running out of time."
She snorted, dragging the heel of her palm hard across her cheek, wiping the damp away. "Thanks for the reminder. Big clock over my head, ticking down until Vex snuffs me out." Her eyes slid to his, swollen, the skin around them rubbed raw. "Or does he get to give you the honor of pulling the trigger?"
Brock's head snapped toward her, the words hitting harder than she'd meant them to. "That's not why you're here." His voice carried weight, stripped of anything soft. "You think I'd put you through this just to line you up in someone's sights?"
Her laugh came out jagged, breaking in her throat. "I don't even know what the fuck I'm doing," she said, words tumbling fast, almost tripping over each other. "I don't know why I'm here, why I even try. I've lost everything—everyone I ever cared about—and now look at me." Her hand swept out toward the skyline, toward the towers glowing over the sprawl. "Sitting here like I'm part of the machine that took it all away."
Her throat tightened, the words scraping raw. "But if I stop… if I just stop… then I've gotta face what's left. And there's nothing. Nothing but empty space where they used to be."
Harper's eyes found his again, blurred and red. For a moment something pressed at the edges of her thoughts—a couch, a doorway, traffic outside a window, the rough shape of bodies where they used to be. It came from the cramped corner in her head where she'd shoved the Den and jammed the lid down, pushing to spill out into the open. She drove it back on reflex, holding that place shut until the pressure dulled. "I don't even know who I am without them. I don't know what I'm supposed to be."
"Harper." His voice came quiet, close.
Her head dropped before he could say more, words scraping out harsher than she meant. "Don't."
Silence stretched. Out of the corner of her eye she caught his hand shift against the concrete, fingers flexing once like he'd thought about closing the gap between them and decided against it. When he spoke again, his tone had settled into something steadier, almost formal.
"The Syndicate takes care of its own. You make it through your three months, you'll have a place. You'll have purpose. You'll be on my team."
His gaze slid to her then, steady and direct, like he wanted the next words nailed in.
"And you will make it through," he said. "You won't be chasing scraps anymore. You won't spend every night waiting for the floor to give way. You'll know exactly where you stand."
She risked a look his way, uncertain, but he held her there.
Harper looked away first, the skyline pulling her focus outward. The city was a jagged smear against the faint glow at the horizon, windows blinking like scattered embers in a fire that never burned out. She blinked hard, dragging the back of her hand across her face before the air could sting them into more.
Brock didn't speak again, but she felt him watching—not with the hard edge of training, but with a focus that cut everything else away.
The quiet stretched until it pressed at her chest. Finally, a breath slipped free, shivering on the edges. "You always this sure about people?"
"Only when I'm right."
That dragged a sound out of her, the smallest huff of laughter, so thin it almost wasn't there. She shook her head, stealing a glance back at him. "Cocky."
"Confident," he corrected.
They let the quiet settle again, the city breathing beneath them, the cartons cooling between. After a while Brock cracked one open, the scent of fried chicken bleeding into the night, and passed her a piece. She took it without looking, picking at the skin more than eating, breaking it apart in her hands.
He ate in silence, methodical, but his attention kept cutting to her, watching the way she worried the food instead of swallowing it. Finally, he spoke, voice quiet enough it nearly slipped into the noise below. "You'll be fine."
Her head tipped, the smallest shake. "I hope so."
"You will." He leaned back against the parapet, gaze steady on hers. "I'll be right there tomorrow. You don't have to worry about that. You'll get through the job, and the next, and the next. And I know it doesn't feel like it now, but you'll find your place here. You'll have purpose again."
Her mouth pulled, not quite a smile, not quite a wince. "You don't know that."
"I know you." He leaned back against the parapet, eyes steady on hers.
That made her blink, and she stared at him for a long moment. He didn't know the version of her who used to tuck herself into Dante's lap on the Den couch with a book in her hands, his fingers threading through her hair while traffic hummed outside the windows and the crew argued about nothing that mattered. He'd never seen her cut down East Halworth alleys with Lena chasing her, boots slipping on wet brick, laughter tearing out of her like the whole city belonged to them for one more night. That girl lived in the walled-off corner of her head now, too bright, too careless with her own life. What he knew was the way she moved when the only thing left in front of her was survival—the tight flinch when a hand passed too close, the way her shoulders braced before any touch landed, like she'd learned to expect hurt first and everything else after.
She didn't answer. The meat in her hands had gone cool, grease slicking her fingers, but she only stared at it, as if there might be something in the shape of it she could read if she looked long enough.
Beside her, Brock finished his piece and set the empty carton back in the bag. He didn't press or repeat himself, just let the promise sit between them with the same weight as the city pressing in on every side.
The skyline stretched wide and restless, lights pulsing against the dark, the hum of engines drifting up like a tide. Harper sat in it, hollow and full at once, caught between the gnaw in her chest and the quiet certainty at her side.
Tomorrow waited at the edge of the night.