The rowhouse was silent except for the sound of shovels striking wood. Splinters cracked, nails screeched as boards were pried loose one by one. The floor opened like a wound.
Ezra Pike worked with brutal rhythm, his broad shoulders rising and falling as he tore through the planks. Sweat dripped down his brow, even in the cold. Every slam of his crowbar was final, angry.
Silas crouched nearby, his hands trembling as he held a flashlight. The beam shook across the dark hollow beneath the house, dust swirling like smoke. "It looks too shallow," he muttered. "What if someone finds it? What if—"
Cormac's glare cut him off. "Nobody's finding s***. This house been rotting twenty years. No one comes here. No one leaves here."
Naomi leaned against the cracked wall, arms folded, cigarette dangling between her fingers. "You keep saying that, Hollow. But rot don't erase history. It just hides it till somebody digs."
Ezra dropped another board with a loud crack and turned to her, eyes cold. "You talking too much again."
Naomi smirked, but her voice carried weight. "And you're not talking enough. You bury bodies and money in the same hole, it don't stay quiet forever."
Cormac ignored the tension, kneeling by the pit. He unzipped the duffel, the smell of cash and gunpowder spilling into the air. "Stack 'em in. Tight. If the house wants to groan, let it."
They lowered the bags into the darkness. Stacks of bills. A bloodied pistol. A watch ripped from a dead man's wrist. Evidence and greed, sealed in one shallow grave.
Silas swallowed hard, staring into the hole as if it stared back. "It feels wrong," he whispered. "Like the house knows."
Cormac grabbed him by the collar, dragging his face close. His hollow eyes burned. "The house don't know nothing. The streets don't care. Only thing that matters is what stays hidden. You hear me?"
Silas nodded quickly, eyes wide with fear.
Ezra dropped the last board back in place, hammer pounding nails like gunshots. Each strike echoed through the house, through their bones.
When it was done, Naomi flicked her cigarette into the corner, ashes glowing in the dark. "Secrets don't stay buried. You can cover them, but sooner or later, they scratch their way back up."
Cormac lit his own, exhaling smoke through a bitter grin. "Then let 'em scratch. We'll bury 'em again."
The floor looked whole once more—but the house groaned like it knew better.