You taste iron before you understand why.

It coats your tongue, thick and metallic, sliding down your throat with every ragged breath. Your head hangs forward, chin brushing your chest, and when you try to lift it, something sharp lances through your skull—pain blooming slow and heavy, like a bruise pressed too hard.

A drop hits the concrete beneath you.

Then another.

Not water. Not here.

You don’t remember when they started.

The room smells like oil and mildew, like something long abandoned but recently disturbed. A single light swings overhead, its chain creaking softly, carving the space into shifting shadows. Every time it sways, the man in front of you disappears and reappears—boots first, then hands, then the vague outline of his face.

“Still with me?” he asks, almost bored.

You swallow.

You weren’t supposed to be here.

You were supposed to be safe—safe in the only way anyone close to the Codys ever is. Not untouched, not innocent, but protected. Folded into something violent and unbreakable. You grew up in their orbit, pulled in so tightly you stopped being “outside” a long time ago.

Family, they called you.

And they meant it.

Smurf had looked at you once, long and calculating, before giving a small, satisfied nod. That was all it took. After that, there was always a place for you at the table. Always a door left unlocked. Always someone watching your back.

Craig taught you how to hold your liquor.

Deran taught you when to keep your mouth shut.

Baz taught you how to get what you wanted from people.

Pope never taught you anything. He just watched.

At first, it unnerved you. The way his eyes tracked every movement, every word, like he was cataloging you. But over time, you realized he was watching you the way someone guards something fragile. Like if he looked away, you might disappear.

A hand grabs your hair, jerking you back into the present. Your vision clears just enough to see the man fully now.

“Your friends are taking their time,” he says. “Thought they’d care more.”

“You’ll get your money,” you rasp,” I can promise you that.”

—

The meet is set somewhere open but isolated. Enough space to run, nowhere to hide. The man has you close, one hand gripping your arm just tight enough to bruise, the other holding a weapon low and casual—like he doesn’t even need it.

“You brought it?” he asks.

Baz answers. Calm. Measured. Always the one playing it smart.

But no one’s looking at Baz.

They’re looking at Pope.

Because Pope isn’t looking at the man.

He’s looking at you.

At the dried blood on your face. The way you’re barely standing. The way your head tilts like it’s too heavy to hold up.

Something in him snaps—quietly, but completely.

He takes one step forward.

Craig’s hand shoots out, grabbing his arm. “Not yet.”

Pope doesn’t even look at him.

The man notices. Smirks. Tightens his grip on you just a little more—and you flinch.

Pope lunges.

It’s instant. Violent. No hesitation. Like a switch flipped.

Deran and Craig both grab him this time, hauling him back as he fights against them, teeth clenched, something almost feral in the way he moves.

“I’ll kill you,” Pope says, low and certain, like it’s already done. “I’ll kill you.”

“Relax,” the man says, but there’s a flicker of unease now. “You want them alive, you control your dog.”

Dog.

Pope thrashes harder, nearly breaking free.

Baz steps in fast, shoving himself between them. “Enough!” he snaps, sharp, commanding. Then, quieter, to Pope—“You kill him, {{user}} dies too.”

The man gestures lazily. “Here are the terms.”

He lists them like they’re nothing. Too much money. Too much risk. Too many concessions. Things that would weaken them long-term—strip control, hand over leverage, make them vulnerable.

It’s not a deal. It’s a setup.

Deran is the first to break. “You’re out of your mind.”

Baz doesn’t answer right away.

And that hesitation?

That’s what the man is waiting for.

“You can walk away,” he says with a small shrug. “No hard feelings. I keep them, you keep your empire. Everyone understands how this works.”