I jolt awake on a cold floor with a skull-splitting headache, the kind that pulses behind my eyes like something alive is trying to claw its way out. For a second, I don't move-not because I can't, but because instinct slams the brakes on everything at once, sharp and immediate and loud. The last thing I remember is light-too bright, too sudden-and then impact, the kind that rattles your bones and scrambles your thoughts into static. Angels. Boots in the corridor, too precise to be anything else. The fight. The cuffs. The blue flash. And then-nothing.
Which means I didn't get away.
That realization settles in slow and heavy, like something sinking its weight into my chest just to see how much pressure I can take before I crack. I don't let it show-not even to myself-but it's there, coiled tight under my ribs, sharp enough to make breathing feel like work if I focus on it too long. So I don't. I keep my breathing steady instead, controlled, measured, the way you do when everything around you is uncertain and the only thing you can control is how much of yourself you give away. Panic is useful in short bursts. But sustained? It gets you killed. Or worse.
And I have a very unpleasant suspicion I'm about to find out what "worse" looks like.
I open my eyes slowly this time, letting the dim light bleed in around the edges instead of stabbing straight through my skull. The ceiling comes into focus first-clean lines, muted color, no obvious seams or imperfections. Not industrial. Not improvised. Intentional. Designed. The kind of place that doesn't just hold people-it processes them. I let my gaze drift without moving my head, mapping what I can see from the ground up: smooth walls, no visible exits from this angle, no clutter, no wasted space. It's almost... elegant, in a cold, detached sort of way.
Figures. If you're going to lock people up, might as well make it look good.
I flex my fingers against the floor, slow and subtle, testing sensation. Everything responds. No restraints either-not on my wrists, not on my ankles. That's... interesting. Either they're confident enough that I won't try anything-unlikely-or they want me functional. Cooperative. A conversation piece instead of a problem.
I almost laugh at that.
"Wow," I murmur under my breath, voice rough but steady, scraping a little from disuse and whatever they hit me with. "You guys really know how to show a guy a good time."
The sound of my own voice helps, grounds me just enough to keep the edges of that coiled panic from digging any deeper. Humor's not going to get me out of here, but it does wonders for pretending I'm not currently sitting on the world's worst side of a very one-sided situation. Because let's be honest-this? This is bad. Not "oops, I tripped an alarm" bad. Not even "I picked the wrong target" bad. This is Angel custody bad. The kind of bad people don't walk away from unless someone up top decides they're more useful alive than dead.
And I'm not arrogant enough to assume that's me.
My jaw tightens just slightly at that, enough that I feel it but not enough that it turns into anything visible. Career's gone. That much is obvious. You don't get dragged in by Angels-public Angels, no less-and walk back into your old life like nothing happened. Best case scenario, I get repurposed into something neat and controlled, stripped down until I fit whatever shape they need. Worst case...
Yeah. Not finishing that thought.
I shift carefully, pushing myself up onto my elbows, ignoring the way the room tilts for a second before settling again. My head protests immediately, a sharp throb that spikes behind my temples, but it's manageable. Pain means I'm conscious. Conscious means I still have options-limited, terrible options, but options all the same. I roll one shoulder, then the other, testing range, cataloguing damage out of habit. Bruised ribs. Nothing broken. Limbs intact. No immediate signs of tampering.
Yet.
That word lingers longer than I'd like.
Because if they went through the effort of knocking me out clean and dragging me here instead of just ending it on the spot, then this isn't about punishment. Not entirely. This is about control. About deciding what I am now that I've been caught. And that's...
Well.
That's a problem.
I drag a hand over my face, fingers catching briefly in my hair-still there, still mine-and for a split second, something tight in my chest loosens before I can stop it. Small victories, I guess. They haven't started taking pieces off me yet. No shaved head, no branding, no obvious markers screaming owned. Just a cell, a headache, and the distinct feeling that I've stepped into something a lot bigger than a bad arrest.
"Alright," I mutter, letting my hand drop as I finally push myself upright, posture loose despite the tension coiled underneath it. "Could be worse."
A beat.
I glance around the room again, slower this time, sharper. "Actually, no," I add dryly. "This is pretty high up there."
Silence answers me, thick and deliberate, the kind that isn't empty so much as waiting. I can feel it-eyes I can't see, attention I can't track, the quiet certainty that I'm not alone even if it looks like I am. Observed. Evaluated. Picked apart piece by piece before anyone even bothers to step into the room.
My lips curve anyway, slow and easy, like I've got nothing better to do than entertain an invisible audience.
Because if they're watching-and they are-then the last thing I'm giving them is fear.
No need to talk to myself anymore. Ms. Pigeon finally decided to join the party.
I don't hear the door open. Of course I don't. That would be too generous-too honest. One second I'm alone with my thoughts and a headache that refuses to quit, and the next there's a presence in the room so deliberate it might as well have weight. I don't turn immediately. Not out of fear-out of principle. If she wants an entrance, Dove can earn the reaction.
"Bit rude," I say instead, voice easy as I shift my gaze just slightly to the side, enough to catch her reflection in the polished wall. "Sneaking up on people like that. I could've been in the middle of something important."
A pause.
Then, smooth as silk dragged over a blade: "You were talking to yourself."
I turn at that, slow, deliberate, letting my eyes settle on her properly this time-and yeah, the reputation checks out.
Up close, Dove's even more composed than I remember. Tall in a way that doesn't just come from height (despite her height definitely starting with a six) but from presence, like the room adjusted itself to fit her instead of the other way around. Dark skin flawless under the low light, sharp features set into something that isn't quite disinterest but leans heavily in that direction. Her hair-no longer that bright, artificial blue I saw before-falls in natural, dense coils around her face, framing it with a kind of effortless control that makes me immediately clock the earlier color for what it was. A filter. A performance.
Figures.
The suit doesn't help. Tailored, clean lines, open collar just enough to suggest she knows exactly what she's doing without needing to prove it. It's not flashy. It doesn't have to be. Everything about her screams precision-measured, intentional, expensive.
And then there's the way she looks at me.
Not angry. Not even particularly interested. Just... assessed. Like I'm a file she's already read and decided wasn't worth the paper.
Oh, I'm going to enjoy ruining that.
"Multitasking," I correct lightly, leaning back on my hands like I've got nowhere else to be. "Thinking, coping, maintaining my charm under pressure. It's a skill."
Dove's gaze flicks over me once-quick, clinical-before she steps further into the room. "If that was your attempt at charm," she says coolly, "I would recommend recalibration."
"Harsh," I murmur. "And here I thought we were getting along."
"We are not."
"Tragic."
Dove doesn't rise to it. Of course she doesn't. Instead, she moves with that same controlled ease to the far side of the room, pulling a thin, translucent display into existence with a flick of her fingers. It hums faintly to life between us, casting a pale glow across her face as lines of data scroll into place.
My data.
I can tell before she even speaks again.
"Ashton Blythe," she says, like the name is something she's testing for flaws. "No confirmed family tree. No stable affiliation. No consistent pattern of operation." Her dark eyes flick up to mine briefly, then back to the display. "You've been flagged in connection with at least nine separate breaches over the last two years, yet somehow..." A faint, almost imperceptible tilt of her head. "...you've never stayed in custody long enough to be properly processed."
I grin. "What can I say? I don't like commitment."
Dove's expression doesn't change. Not even a flicker.
"You evade, you adapt, and you disappear," she continues, tone smooth, almost conversational in a way that somehow makes it worse. "Your record is... frustratingly incomplete. Like reading a book that survived a toddler. Half the pages torn out, the remaining half scribbled over."
"Ouch," I say. "I was hoping for 'impressive.'"
"No," Dove replies flatly. "Inconsistent."
That one lands a little closer than I'd like.
I roll one shoulder, shrugging it off like it doesn't matter. "Funny. I'd call it efficient."
"I would call it sloppy," she counters without missing a beat. "You rely too heavily on improvisation. You succeed because you are unpredictable, not because you are precise."
I let out a soft laugh at that, tilting my head. "And here I thought unpredictability was kind of the point."
"It is," she says, finally looking at me fully again. "For amateurs."
I feel something sharp spark under my ribs at that-not quite anger, not quite amusement, but something that sits comfortably between the two. "Damn," I murmur. "You really know how to make a guy feel special."
"I am not here to make you feel anything," Dove retorted coolly. "I am here to determine whether you are an asset or a liability."
"Those are my only options?"
"For now."
I hum, letting my gaze drift over her again, slower this time, more deliberate. "And what's the current verdict, Ms. Pigeon?"
A beat.
Her eyes narrow-just slightly.
"Dove Sinclair," she corrects, voice dropping a fraction colder.
I smile wider. "Right. Of course. My mistake."
It's not.
She knows it's not.
And for the first time since she walked in, there's the faintest shift in her posture-not enough for anyone else to notice, probably, but enough for me. A tightening. A recalibration.
Good.
That's something.
"Based on your record," Dove continues, each word now just a touch sharper than before, "you are reckless, undisciplined, and far more fortunate than you have any right to be."
"Luck's a skill," I shoot back easily.
"No," she says, cutting straight through it. "It's a crutch. And one that has just run out."
Silence settles between us again, heavier this time.
I hold her gaze, grin still in place, posture loose, like none of this is getting under my skin in the slightest.
I know that this isn't an interrogation to decide if I walk out of here. It's an evaluation to decide what I become.
And the way she's looking at me now-cool, calculating, already halfway to a conclusion-tells me exactly how this is going to go if I don't change the narrative. Fast.
I tilt my head, letting the grin sharpen just a little. "Careful," I all but purr. "You keep underestimating me like that, you might start to look unprofessional."
Her gaze doesn't waver. "If you were worth overestimating," she replies, voice smooth as ever, "we wouldn't be having this conversation."
Dove lets the silence sit between us long enough to start feeling expensive.
Then she folds her hands behind her back, posture straight and composed, like she has all the time in the world and I am merely the unpleasant detail in her afternoon. "You can keep performing whatever this is," she says, voice polished enough to cut glass, "but do not confuse it with leverage. You are in a cell. You are injured. You are under Angel custody. If I leave this room, you will remain here until the city forgets your name or you rot badly enough to stop being interesting."
I laugh, because it is that or bare my teeth. "That your sales pitch?"
"It is the truth."
"Mm." I tilt my head, rubbing a thumb along my jaw like I'm bored instead of one headache away from biting through a wall. "You come in here, call me sloppy, threaten me with a decorative prison sentence, and expect me to thank you for the opportunity?"
Her expression barely shifts, but her eyes sharpen by a fraction. "I expect you to be intelligent."
That one lands with enough force to make my grin turn a little meaner.
Behind her, the display flickers to life again, and this time she actually gives me something useful. My record blooms in pale light between us, ugly and incomplete and somehow even more insulting than I remember. Arrests that did not stick. Detentions that ended in broken locks, broken noses, or me already gone by the time the paperwork caught up. Theft. Sabotage. Trespassing. Improvised violence. A handful of entries that might as well have been written by someone who hated me personally. Which, considering who's reading them, might not be far off.
Dove watches my face instead of the data. "You have never been easy to hold," she says. "That is not an accident. You know Calypsoris too well for that. Not the upper districts. Not Asgara." The corner of her mouth twitches, faint and disdainful, like even the name carries a certain kind of polish she approves of. "The lower city. The alleys. The access routes. The dead ends. The places people disappear into when the Angels are not looking."
I give her a lazy look. "You say that like you've been studying me."
"I have."
Well. That is annoying.
She keeps going, voice smooth and measured, each sentence placed with irritating care. "I watched the way you fought. You adapt too quickly for a common thief. You read space, you read timing, and you use whatever is in front of you without hesitation. You are reckless, yes, but your recklessness is informed. There is a difference."
I snort softly. "That sounded almost complimentary."
"It was not meant to be."
"Shame. I was ready to start blushing."
She ignores that with the kind of discipline that makes me want to set something on fire just to see if I can crack it. "We need someone who knows the lower city from the inside. Someone who can move where our people cannot move without drawing attention. Someone who understands where the infection spreads, where the smugglers hide, where desperation breeds faster than law does. Someone who can survive contact with that chaos and still return with useful information."
"And you think that's me."
"I know it is."
There it is. No flattery. No softening. Just certainty, laid down flat like a verdict. And somehow that is worse, because part of me wants to argue on principle and another part wants to snap that she is right. I hate both impulses equally.
She flicks her fingers, and the data changes again. A contract. Clean lines. Clean terms. Of course it is a contract. The Angels probably turn every mercy into paperwork before they let themselves breathe.
"Employment," she says, as if the word itself tastes better than the rest. "Accommodation in Asgara. Rent free. Fully provisioned. Meals delivered. Clothing allowance. Medical care. Access to restricted information. A salary that is far more generous than anything you have ever stolen."
"Wow," I mutter. "You really do know how to romance a guy."
Her gaze stays level. "Do not mistake practicality for affection."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
"Good."
I scan the display, and despite myself, my eyes catch on the apartment line first. Upper city housing. Asgara. Clean walls. Heat that works. Food that arrives because someone decided I deserved it, not because I made someone else bleed for it. The offer is obscene in the way only luxury can be obscene, because it assumes I have never wanted any of these things badly enough to swallow my pride. Which is rude, frankly. Accurate, but rude.
Dove notices where I'm looking. Of course she does.
"You would be housed above the lower districts," she says. "No rent. No ration waiting. No scrambling. No sleeping in doorways or warehouses or anywhere else that makes you smell like mildew and bad decisions."
I lift my brows. "You've really done your homework."
"I am excellent at mine."
"And the catch?"
Her eyes cut back to mine, cool and direct. "You work for us."
"Cute."
"You do not get to call it a trap after I have listed the benefits."
"It's still a trap."
"It is a choice," she corrects. "A highly favorable one. You accept, and you leave this cell with a bed, money, clothes, food, and a role that gives you movement instead of confinement. You refuse, and you remain here. Indefinitely."
That lands harder than the rest, because she says it without malice. Like she is describing the weather.
"Indefinitely," I repeat, dry.
"Yes."
"And if I get difficult?"
"You will learn that the walls here are patient."
I stare at her for a long moment, anger crawling hot and restless under my skin. I hate her for how calm she is. I hate the fact that she is not bluffing. I hate that she knows exactly which buttons to press and which ones to leave alone. But mostly, I hate that prison is worse.
Because I know what prison means. I know what cages do to men like me. They do not just keep you in one place. They sand you down. They take the shape out of you one piece at a time until even your own thoughts start sounding like a warning. I can deal with Angels. I can deal with being watched. I can deal with being used, as long as I am still moving. Still choosing. Still able to bite if I need to.
Dove sees the decision forming before I say a word.
"You understand," she says quietly.
"Don't get smug."
"I have no reason not to be."
I huff a laugh through my nose, then glance back at the contract. Money. Asgara. Food. Clothes. Fame, probably, if they decide to parade me around like some cleaned-up little miracle story. Public visibility. Access. A leash disguised as a reward. It should disgust me more than it does.
It does disgust me. That is the problem.
It also sounds better than rotting in a cell until my name turns into a number.
"You think you can buy me," I say.
"No," Dove answers at once. "I think I can make refusal more unpleasant than agreement."
I bark out a laugh at that. "You are a real delight."
"I am effective."
"Disturbing."
"Alive," she says, with that same composed certainty, "is what you will be if you accept. Fed. Sheltered. Useful. Not forgotten. And perhaps, in time, even famous."
I give her a flat look. "That last part was supposed to help?"
"It is a benefit."
"Now I know you're lying."
For the first time, something almost like amusement touches her mouth, though it never quite becomes a smile. "You underestimate how many people would kill for your position."
"Yeah?" I lean back against the wall, then push off it just enough to make it clear I am not broken, merely cornered. "And how many of them would do it with this much attitude?"
"Very few," she says. "Which is why you are being invited instead of replaced."
That shuts me up for half a second, which is frankly offensive.
I look at her again, really look, and there is no softness there, no invitation to trust. Just control, wrapped in silk and dipped in precision. She does not want me because she likes me. She wants me because I am useful, difficult, and already half in her reach. I hate that too.
And still-
I hate Angels.
I hate prison more.
The thought arrives clean and ugly and final.
I exhale slowly through my nose, like I can breathe the choice into something smaller. "If I say yes," I mutter, "I get the apartment."
"Yes."
"The food."
"Yes."
"The clothes."
"Yes."
"The money."
"Yes."
I narrow my eyes. "And I get to leave this charming little hole in the ground?"
Dove's gaze stays on mine. "You will be escorted to Asgara immediately."
I hold that look for another beat, then another, letting the silence do what it always does-pressure, test, pry. In the end, it cannot outstare me. It only exposes the truth.
I am furious. I am insulted. I am very much aware that I am being cornered by a woman who could probably recite my life back to me with a straight face and never once raise her voice.
And I am saying yes anyway.
"Fine," I say at last, the word rough but solid. "I'll play."