The Revenants didn’t like being lied to.

Veil stood before the shipping container, jaw tight as Specter worked the lock. The job was simple—steal an heirloom, make a clean getaway. Except the container wasn’t a safe or a vault. It was a goddamn holding cell.

The lock clicked. The door groaned open. Cold air rushed past them, carrying the scent of rust, sweat, and something fouler—fear.

A single, flickering overhead light buzzed to life. Chains rattled.

Veil’s stomach turned. Someone was inside.

Grim stepped forward first, boots echoing against steel. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” His voice was low, dangerous.

Specter swore under his breath. “We got played.”

Against the far wall, a figure sat slumped, shackled at the wrists and ankles. Their clothes were torn, skin bruised. Dried blood streaked the floor beneath them.

Veil exhaled sharply, pushing down his anger. This wasn’t an heirloom. This was trafficking.

The person stirred weakly, their breath ragged. Not dead. Not yet.

Grim cracked his knuckles. “So, what now?”

Veil’s gaze darkened. Now, they found out who set them up—and made them regret it.