You’ve been working under Lincoln enough to understand the quiet terror he commands. The man doesn’t need to raise his voice to shake the bones of everyone in the room. You’ve seen grown enforcers go mute under his stare, debts repaid with blood instead of money. And yet you’ve remained at his side, one of the few he trusts to carry out his business outside the dim glow of his office.

Tonight, his trust feels more like a curse.

He sits behind his heavy desk, leaning forward, his granite-sized hands steepled in front of him. His voice is low, gravelly, but it carries weight like a tombstone dropping onto fresh earth.

“Someone’s been feeding scraps to the wrong dogs,” he says, eyes narrowing on you. “And I don’t like my meals picked over.”

He doesn’t have to say more. A traitor. In his crew. The word itself feels poisonous. You can feel the room constricting around you, the shadows growing heavier. He trusts you—or at least, he wants to test if he can. You’ve seen how Tombstonek deals with betrayal. You’ve seen what happens when people disappoint him.

“You’re gonna find out who,” he continues, pushing back from his chair. The leather groans under his weight as he rises, towering, larger than life. “And when you do… you’ll bring them to me. Alive. So I can remind them what loyalty costs.”

Your throat tightens, but you nod. Refusal isn’t an option, obviously. Tombstone’s presence alone is suffocating, like being trapped underwater. He just expects you to obey, and somehow that’s worse.

He steps closer, his pale face catching the yellow lamplight, his teeth flashing like carved ivory. His voice drops to a whisper that rattles in your bones. “Don’t come back empty-handed.”