Cassian's POV
The warehouse was known locally as Blackwater Dock, though no official maps acknowledged it existed.
It crouched at the farthest edge of the coast, where civilization thinned into neglect—where streetlights stopped working, roads cracked into salt-bitten rubble, and the sea reclaimed everything humans tried to leave behind.
The structure itself was a corpse of industry: rust streaked down its steel walls like dried veins, sheets of metal groaning softly in the wind. Inside, the concrete floors were permanently slick with oil and seawater, reflecting warped shadows that moved even when nothing else did.
Somewhere beyond the thick walls, waves slammed endlessly against jagged rock.
Not a soothing sound—no. It was violent. Relentless. A deep, bone-rattling thunder that swallowed everything else. Words. Pleas. Screams.
The air carried layers of stench: salt, iron, mold, fuel, and something darker beneath it all—something unmistakably human.
Blood didn't announce itself loudly. It lingered. It soaked into places it shouldn't, into corners, into cracks, into memory.
This was why the place had been chosen.
Nothing escaped the ocean.
Cassian stood several steps back from the center of the room with his hands tucked into the pockets of his tailored coat, his posture relaxed enough to appear careless, though nothing about him ever truly was.
He leaned against a steel support beam with one ankle crossed over the other, watching the proceedings as though observing a rehearsal rather than a man's systematic dismantling. The violence unfolding before him failed to disturb his composure; his eyes remained dark, steady, and disturbingly calm.
The man tied to the chair had already stopped pretending he was brave.
That illusion had shattered somewhere between the first blow and the moment he realized no one was coming to save him.
Blood streamed freely from the split in his brow, slipping down the bridge of his nose before dripping onto the concrete in slow, uneven drops. Each one landed with a soft, obscene tap, the sound echoing far louder in his head than it should have. His face was swollen, one eye nearly sealed shut, the other darting wildly around the room as if searching for exits that no longer existed.
One arm hung at an unnatural angle, the shoulder wrenched out of place during the early hours of the interrogation. It twitched occasionally, as though his body hadn't yet accepted that it no longer worked the way it was supposed to. His fingers trembled, curled loosely, slick with blood that wasn't entirely his.
Every breath he took came in sharp, panicked bursts—too fast, too shallow.
There was a wet rattle beneath each inhale, deep in his chest, the unmistakable sound of fluid where air should be.
A cracked rib, maybe more.
Each time his lungs expanded, pain carved through him, and each time he exhaled, a small, broken sound slipped out of his throat before he could stop it.
His fear had a weight to it now—thick, suffocating. It clung to him like sweat, like oil, like something he could never wash off again. His body had already begun betraying him: shaking, twitching, responding before his mind could form excuses.
Cassian didn't speak. He never did during interrogations.
That responsibility belonged to Rafe Calderon—his right hand, his enforcer, and the man who understood exactly how much pain was required before truth surfaced.
Rafe crouched in front of the captive, wiping his hands calmly on a cloth already soaked through. He folded it once, then again, methodical even in the smallest gestures—like he had all the time in the world.
"You've cost us six shipments," Rafe said evenly, his voice low, almost conversational. "That's billions delayed. Contracts strained."
He tilted his head, studying the man's face like a doctor assessing a wound.
"You don't strike me as stupid," he continued. "Which means someone convinced you this was worth dying for."
The man shook his head violently, spitting blood. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"That's unfortunate," he said softly. "Because this part only gets worse when people insist on pretending."
He rose slowly to his feet and took a step back, giving the man space. That, more than anything, made the captive panic. Space meant anticipation. Space meant something was coming.
Rafe sighed, straightening slowly, and glanced over his shoulder at Cassian.
Cassian didn't move.
That was permission enough.
Rafe stepped behind the chair and pressed down sharply on the injured shoulder. The scream that followed was raw and unfiltered, tearing through the warehouse and echoing violently off the steel walls.
The man thrashed uselessly, restraints cutting into his wrists as his body fought against pain it couldn't escape.
"Let's try again," Rafe said, releasing him just enough for the scream to collapse into hoarse, broken gasps.
The man sagged against the ropes, chest heaving, saliva and blood stringing from his mouth as he fought for air. "Who ordered the interference?"
"I swear—" the man choked. "It wasn't—"
Rafe's fist connected with his ribs.
The sound was dull, final.
Cassian felt his jaw tighten almost imperceptibly as he listened—not to the screaming, but to the pattern. Lies always came in rhythms. Fear had a tempo. And this man was circling something he didn't want to say.
Rafe knelt again, this time closer, until they were almost face to face. His voice dropped, no longer threatening—just intimate.
"You knew who these shipments belonged to," he said. "You knew whose name was on them."
The man's breathing hitched.
"You still agreed," Rafe continued. "Which tells me you either believed you were untouchable… or you were promised protection."
The man swallowed hard.
"You don't look protected," Rafe murmured.
Cassian stepped forward for the first time.
The warehouse went quiet.
Cassian stopped just within the man's line of sight.
His shadow fell over the captive completely, swallowing what little light reached him, as though the room itself had decided Cassian was the only thing worth seeing. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't posture. He didn't threaten.
His expression was unreadable—no anger, no disgust, no satisfaction. His eyes were cold, precise, stripping the man of the illusion that he was still human in this moment.
"Say the name," Cassian said calmly.
The man's body betrayed him before his mouth did. A violent shudder ran through him, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably as something inside him finally collapsed. His teeth chattered, not from cold but from the sheer force of panic ripping through him.
"No—no, I can't—" he sobbed, words slurring together. "They said— they said you'd kill me—"
Rafe shifted slightly behind him, watching with quiet interest.
The man's breathing spiraled, fast and shallow, his chest barely managing to pull in air. Tears streamed down his ruined face, cutting clean lines through blood and grime.
"I didn't mean to," he whispered. "I didn't know it would turn into this. I thought it was just a disruption. Just a message."
Cassian tilted his head a fraction.
That tiny movement made the man flinch like he'd been struck.
"Say it," Cassian repeated.
The man broke.
Tears mixed with blood as he shook violently, words tumbling out in a rush, the name finally escaping his lips in a broken whisper.
Cassian's mouth curved—not into a smile, but something close.
Of course.
He had expected nothing less.
How foolish, he thought, to believe proximity to power equaled protection.
Cassian stepped back.
Rafe didn't wait for instructions.
The man's screams returned, louder this time, echoing wildly through Blackwater Dock as Rafe finished what they had started.
Cassian walked away without turning back, his footsteps steady as the noise followed him down the length of the warehouse and out into the night.
Minutes later, he was seated in the back of his car, the interior quiet, pristine, untouched by what had just occurred.
He lifted his phone.
"Proceed," he said into it, his tone flat. "No delays."
The call ended.
The car pulled onto the coastal road, headlights cutting through the darkness as the warehouse disappeared behind them.
Rafe slid into the front passenger seat, glancing into the side mirror as they drove.
"Boss," he said after a moment, his voice shifting slightly.
Cassian looked up. "What is it?"
"There's something on the road ahead."
Cassian's gaze sharpened.
The car slowed.
At first, it looked like debris—something thrown from a crash, maybe. Then the shape shifted, resolving into something unmistakably human.
A body.
Blood smeared the asphalt, dark and glistening under the headlights. The figure lay twisted near the edge of the road, clothes torn, skin marred with injuries that made survival seem unlikely.
Rafe opened the door, stepping out cautiously.
"Looks like she came from the forest," he said quietly. "Lost a lot of blood."
Cassian stepped out as well.
He approached slowly, the world narrowing as he took in the details—the damage, the stillness, the way her body barely moved with each shallow breath.
Her face was almost unrecognizable beneath the blood, swollen and broken enough that beauty, if it existed, was hidden entirely.
Then her eyes opened.
Ash gray.
Narrowed slightly at the corners.
They locked onto his with an awareness that didn't belong to someone dying on the side of the road.
Cassian stopped.
The ocean roared somewhere behind him, distant and endless, but all he could see were those eyes—watching him through blood and ruin without fear, without pleading.
Something in his chest tightened.
"You don't belong here," he murmured, not realizing he'd spoken aloud.
Behind him, Rafe shifted uneasily.
Cassian didn't look away.
For the first time that night, he spoke without calculation.
"Get her," he said.