Naomi Glass sat in the kitchen alone, cigarette smoke curling against the cracked ceiling. The rest of the crew was upstairs—Ezra pacing like a caged animal, Hollow scribbling in his notebook, Silas muttering to himself in half-sleep.
The silence gave her room to think. And that was dangerous.
She pulled the loose floorboard up just enough to peek inside. The beam of her lighter flickered across the duffels, the edges of bills glinting faintly. The bloodied pistol lay on top, its metal dark, almost oily in the light.
Her fingers itched. She could take one bag—just one—and vanish before dawn. Hollow would rage, Ezra would hunt, but she knew places they'd never think to look. She'd start over in another city, leave the rot and paranoia behind.
But she didn't pull it out. Not yet. She slid the board back in place, exhaling smoke.
Because the real temptation wasn't the money. It was watching Hollow lose control. Watching cracks form in the walls he thought he built strong.
She'd seen it before—leaders who thought they were gods until the floor opened up and swallowed them whole. And Cormac "Hollow" Vance was already circling the pit.
Naomi stubbed her cigarette out against the counter, her reflection catching faint in the dusty window. Her own eyes stared back, sharp, unreadable.
"Not yet," she whispered to herself. "But soon."
Behind her, the house groaned again, louder this time, as if it agreed.