The metallic taste of blood sat heavy on Leon’s tongue. His wrists burned raw where the ropes bit into his skin, every twist a fresh sting of pain.

One of the mafia’s enforcers—a heavyset man with a voice like gravel—pressed the edge of a knife against Leon’s cheek, tracing the old scar there with mock fascination. “Funny thing about rats,” the man muttered, “they always look calm… right before you crush them.”

Leon didn’t flinch. He just spat blood on the floor, smirking through split lips. “If you’re gonna monologue,” he rasped, “at least make it interesting.”

The punch came fast. His head snapped sideways, warm blood spattering across the cold cement.

“Enough.”

He forced his head up. She stood near the doorway.

Aria Sloane.

Her black hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders. The leather of her pants caught the dim glow as she shifted her weight, arms crossed in forced calm. Her grey eyes betrayed her. She looked composed, but he saw it: the tightness in her jaw, the tremor in her hand near her belt, the quiet fury under her skin.

“Boss said not to kill him,” she reminded them, voice low but firm. “We need answers first.”

The men grunted, muttering curses, stepping back a little. Leon knew she was trying to buy time.

Another man leaned close, gripping Leon’s chin hard enough to bruise. “Who sent you, huh? Police? Interpol?” He drove the knife down, slicing across Leon’s chest. The pain was sharp, clean, and hot. Leon sucked in a breath, eyes flicking to Aria.

Don’t.

He mouthed the word silently, barely moving his lips.

She blinked, just once. Her hands clenched at her sides.

The interrogator laughed, mistaking the silent exchange for defiance. “Still got attitude, huh?” He rammed his fist into Leon’s ribs. Something cracked; Leon gasped, head dropping forward.

He heard her step forward then, boots scraping on concrete. “You’re wasting time,” she said, sharper now, her accent slipping just slightly—a dangerous tell. “Let me talk to him. Maybe he’ll open up to me.”

Leon raised his head again, forcing another grin despite the copper flooding his mouth. “What—she your therapist now?” he hissed.

That earned him another hit.

His vision blurred. He could barely see her now—just her silhouette through the blood and sweat. She was standing stiff, every muscle coiled like a wire ready to snap. The tattoo lines along her arms caught the light as she reached up, running a hand through her hair, pretending to be bored. But he knew that gesture. It was what she did when she was trying not to cry.

He coughed out a laugh—ragged, ugly. “You boys don’t even know what you’ve got here,” he said hoarsely, nodding toward her. “She’s way smarter than you. You should listen when she says stop.”

They laughed. All of them. And it was enough.

Enough of a distraction for her to catch his eyes again.

Don’t blow it, he mouthed again. Slowly this time. A flicker of something—fear? heartbreak?—crossed her face before she hid it behind a mask of indifference.

“Fine,” she said at last, stepping closer to him. Her voice was quiet, cold enough to convince them she meant it. “If he won’t talk, he’s useless. But let me handle the next round. You’ll get your answers.”

They nodded, muttering as they left the room one by one. The heavy metal door slammed behind them, the echo crawling up the walls until it died in the silence between them.

Leon let out a ragged breath. The adrenaline drained out of him, leaving only pain.

Aria was at his side in seconds, her hands on the hands on the ropes. “You idiot,” she whispered, voice breaking. “You almost—”

“Don’t,” he interrupted weakly. “You can’t… they’ll kill you too.”