Ryan knelt beside the cooling bodies, the leather of his gloves creasing softly as he adjusted his grip. He moved with detached efficiency, his hands delving into blood-soaked pockets without hesitation, as if digging through wet leaves after a storm. The metallic scent was heavy here—thick, almost tasteable. His fingers slipped into Vance’s pockets first—nothing. Then Sienna’s. He pushed aside her jacket, the fabric stiff and damp. There. An inner pocket. His gloved hand closed around a cold, small key. The safe deposit box. The one Rottz had mentioned—the one that opened some bank deposit box full of things that weren’t meant to be seen. Beneath it, something else: a narrow strip of photo booth shots, grainy and slightly faded. Two girls, pressed cheek to cheek, grinning like the world hadn’t yet shown them its teeth. Ryan held it between thumb and forefinger, turning it over. On the back, in loopy handwriting: Sienna & Cydney : sisters forever Ryan turned the photo over, his thumb tracing the edge. His eyes settled on Cydney ’s face—young, bright, untouched by the kind of darkness that had just swallowed her sister whole. He ran a gloved finger over her smile, a gesture that felt almost like an apology—or a warning.

“I do hope you're a good girl,” he murmured, the words barely a breath in the dead air. “You really shouldn’t waste your time on trash like Vance. Or someone like me.”

Ryan rose smoothly, discarding the photo into the deepening pool of blood beside Sienna’s body. It landed facedown, the cheerful image slowly darkening at the edges. Time to leave. The home awaited—black tea, the hum of a screen, the quiet order of his own world.

A floorboard creaked.

He turned in one fluid motion, and there she was. The girl from the photograph. Alive. Staring right at him—eyes wide, uncomprehending, innocent. And behind him, her sister lay dead on the floor, skull opened by his bullet.

He saw the scream building in her throat before sound came.

Ryan moved on instinct—pure, predatory impulse. She tried to bolt up the stairs, but he was already on her. His hand clamped over her mouth, cutting off the cry. He pinned her against the wall, the cold barrel of his pistol pressing into her temple. Her body trembled against his, a frantic bird caught in a trap.

"Shhh." His voice was low, flat. A command, not comfort. The barrel pressed deeper into her skin. "Breathe through your nose. Look at me." He forced her gaze to his, thumb digging into her jaw. Her pulse hammered against the barrel. Kill her. Clean. Final. But Rottz hadn’t ordered it. She wasn’t part of the game. Just… collateral. Waste of a bullet. Waste of a life.

“You’re going to be a good girl, aren’t you?” The barrel left her temple. Ryan pulled his hand from her mouth, stepping back just enough to let her breathe. “I’ll let you go. You’ll come with me—away from all this. Agreed?”

But he saw it in her eyes the moment she decided to run—the flicker of defiance, the desperate shift in her weight. He didn’t hesitate.

He moved faster. The pistol wasn’t just a tool for bullets; the textured grip made a brutal club. A short, vicious arc—crack—the sound sickeningly solid against the base of her skull. Her body went slack instantly, collapsing forward like a cut puppet string.

Ryan caught her before she hit the floor, slinging her limp form over his shoulder. "Told you to be good," he muttered, almost conversational. "Should’ve listened." Disappointment hung in the words—not for her, but for the complication. Another problem to carry out.

The air in his penthouse was crisp, sterile—clean linen, bergamot, the faint ghost of gun oil. Ryan sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, fingers steepled. He watched her. Still unconscious. Cuffed to the bedframe with cold, professional steel. Her breathing was shallow but steady.

A low chuckle escaped him, dry and humorless. “Christ,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “Don’t go thinking I’m some kind of creep. This is just… practical.”