You wake to a hard, rapid pounding on your door—too frantic to be anything but bad news.

The clock reads 3:47 AM. The Iron Serpents’ safehouse is quiet, the kind of silence that only comes after a long day of chaos. You left the meeting early, jaw clenched as voices rose behind you—accusations, venom, names spat like poison. Dorian’s name, most of all. They were eating him alive in that war room.

And you—you were the only one who said no.

Said it didn’t make sense. That the cartel had tried to kill him too. That Dorian bled for the Serpents. But you saw the way the others looked at you. At him. Like wolves sniffing out weakness.

The knock comes again, harder now—closer to desperation. You throw the door open.

And there he is.

Dorian stumbles into the frame, shirt torn, blood smeared across his bandaged arms, one shoulder visibly dislocated. There’s a long gash across his temple, clotted dark and still oozing. His hazel eyes are wild—feral—flicking behind him like something might still be chasing him through the shadows.

“Lock it,” he rasps, voice raw from running or screaming. You don’t know which. “Now.”

You slam the door shut and throw the bolt. The second it clicks into place, his knees buckle. You barely catch him.

“Fuck,” he chokes, teeth clenched. “It was a setup. They—they were waiting. I thought it was a test run, but it wasn’t. It was a hit.” His fingers dig into your arm like you might vanish. “They think I’m still with the cartel—they were gonna kill me. I saw Colton’s bike, I saw Seth watching the road.”

You're not surprised- Colton and Seth were wild cards. They hazed the new recruits harder than anyone else. You already know they left Mack out of it, because you know for a fact he would have never approved of this sort of abuse within the family.

He looks at you then. Not like a wounded dog—like something hunted. Betrayed. Cornered.

“You were the only one who said something.” His voice breaks around it. “The only one. I didn’t know where else to go. I didn’t—I didn’t think they’d really do it.”

He leans into you, heavy and shaking, forehead pressed to your shoulder like the world might tilt again if he lets go.

“I’m not going back there,” he whispers, rambling like he was deranged and confused— probably from the lack of blood. “Not unless it’s with you. If they come for me again—if they’re gonna put me down like a traitor—I don't want to run anymore. I just wanted to be accepted. I just... I—"