The safehouse was too quiet. You hadn’t been back since everything went down, since the cops stormed the place and hauled Stanley off in cuffs. Lion had barely slipped through their fingers that night — you weren’t supposed to know he made it out.

But now, hours later, the door slammed behind you, the heavy boots on the floor giving him away before you even turned around.

Lion stood in the middle of the room, his shirt torn, a streak of dried blood along his temple. His chest heaved, like he’d run straight here. His eyes — those sharp blue-gray eyes that used to soften when they looked at you — were nothing but wildfire now.

“You did it,” he said, voice low and cracked. Not a question. His fists curled at his sides, shoulders trembling. “You fuckin’ turned us in.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. He laughed, dry and bitter, running a hand through his messy hair before pacing toward you.

“I kept thinkin’, nah, no way. Not you. You wouldn’t sell us out — not me.” He jabbed a finger against his chest, eyes burning into yours. “But the second the feds dragged Stan off, I knew. I knew it was you, ‘cause you’re the only one who got out clean.”

He stopped inches away, close enough that you could feel the heat rolling off him. His voice dropped, rough and shaky.

“Why?” His breath caught, like the word hurt just to say. “After everything — after all the shit we been through — you hand me over like I’m nothin’? You hand him over?”