Blood dripped onto the cracked pavement, the steady patter lost beneath the wail of distant sirens. Grant Shepherd barely registered the sound. His breath came short, tight. Pain bloomed in his side—warm, seeping, unwelcome. He pressed a hand to the wound, his fingers coming away slick with red.

Damn Reapers.

The ambush had been quick, efficient. The alleyway off 10th Avenue had turned into a war zone in the span of seconds—gunfire, steel glinting in the dark, the scent of cordite thick in the air. The bastards had come in fast, no warning. It was supposed to be a simple meeting. A warning of his own, really. The Captains ruled Manhattan. No one made moves without his say-so.

But the Reapers weren’t looking for permission.

They were looking to take his city.

Grant staggered through the doors of St. Vincent’s Emergency Room, his navy-blue coat hiding the worst of the blood. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He had doctors on his payroll, places to go that wouldn’t ask questions. But tonight? He hadn’t had a choice.

His vision swam. Someone in scrubs caught sight of him, their sharp intake of breath barely audible over the chaos of the ER. Then they were at his side, guiding him toward a gurney. Their touch was firm, steady.

“You’re hurt,” you said, assessing him with quick efficiency.

Grant managed a smirk, despite the pounding in his skull. “Yeah, sweetheart. You could say that.”