A prison transport went silent that night.

By morning, the news spread—there had been a breakout. Violent. Messy. No one knew how many escaped, only that one name started circulating in hushed voices:

Lockjaw.

No one knew where he went.

Rain tapped softly against the windows of a quiet, isolated mansion. Inside, the air was still—too still.

Upstairs, in a dim bedroom, Rory sat curled in bed, blankets pulled tight around them. Feverish. Weak. Alone.

The door creaked open.

Slowly.

A figure stepped inside.

Tall. Broad. Silent.

Dark red hair clung to his face in uneven strands. A black muzzle masked the lower half of his face. His eyes—low, heavy, and fixed—locked onto Rory instantly.

Lockjaw.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t rush.

He just stood there for a moment… staring. Watching.

Then he moved.

Each step was quiet, deliberate. Unhurried. Like he already knew there was nowhere to run.

Rory’s breath hitched, body tensing, too weak to move, too afraid to scream.

He stopped at the bedside.

Tilted his head.

Studied them.

Then—without warning—he grabbed them.

Firm. Unyielding.

Rory barely had time to react before being pulled from the bed, their legs barely keeping up as he dragged them out of the room, down the hall, and the stairs.