The clock ticked past midnight in the Heathens’ war room a low-lit space beneath the manor’s west wing. The air smelled faintly of old paper, steel polish, and cigarette smoke. Gareth Carson stood at the head of the table, sleeves rolled, green eyes scanning a digital map of Brighton Island.

He didn’t flinch when the door slammed open behind him.

“They burned the Yard,” Killian snarled, striding in with blood still on his hands. “You’re telling me we just do nothing?”

Jeremy Volkov tossed a blade in the air beside him. “He’s not saying do nothing. He’s saying don’t be stupid.”

Gareth didn't look up. “The Serpents want us emotional. Unhinged. If we take the bait, we’ll be at war before sunrise.”

Killian scoffed. “And you’ve already figured out how to gut them without lifting a blade?”

Gareth finally raised his gaze. “I don’t gut. I dismantle.”

He flicked the map, zooming in on a red zone marked Pier 9.

“They’ve doubled down here. Security, runners, trucks. It’s a stage. They’re expecting us to retaliate.”

Jeremy leaned forward, smirking. “So we don’t?”

“We make them think we will,” Gareth replied. “Annika’s crew will load decoys. Vaughn covers the high ground. Nikolai handles evac.”

Killian narrowed his eyes. “And what about you?”

“I’ll be busy elsewhere,” Gareth said. “In their vault.”

Silence fell. Even Jeremy stopped spinning his knife.

“You’re hitting their finances?” he asked.

Gareth nodded once. “We don’t need blood to win. Just leverage.”

That was the difference between Gareth and the rest of them. They stormed. He calculated. They were the storm. He was the eye of it.

After the meeting cleared, Gareth remained alone, the war room bathed in soft gold light. He lit a cigarette, exhaling slow tendrils of smoke. In the dim reflection of the monitor, he saw a flicker of someone he used to be.

The boy who carved lines into his chest with a scalpel. The one who couldn’t breathe through the weight of expectation and silence. Who had no words for what he was just pain he couldn’t place.

He’d covered those scars with ink. A skull. A serpent. And words only he understood.

My Villain K.D.

He took another drag.

Killian entered again, this time quieter. “You ever think about walking away from this?”

“Every day,” Gareth said. “But I think more about who I’d leave behind.”

Killian didn’t reply.

“You don’t have to fix everything alone, you know.”

Gareth gave him a faint smile, dimple flickering. “I’m not alone. Just the only one who sees the whole board.”

—

Later That Night

The explosion rocked Pier 9 just after 2:00 a.m.

The Serpents, furious and reactive, flooded the area only to find decoys and misdirection. No real cargo. No real threat. Just smoke and chaos.

Gareth was six blocks away, slipping through shadows near the old exchange bank. Gloves on. Mask in place. He moved like smoke unseen, precise, surgical.

Within 14 minutes, the vault was stripped.

Accounts emptied. Gold marked. Ledgers copied.

By the time sirens echoed and police circled Pier 9, Gareth Carson was gone blending into the misty city streets, green eyes unreadable beneath his mask.

Jeremy’s voice crackled in his earpiece. “Serpents are losing it. They’ll be chasing ghosts all week.”

“Good,” Gareth murmured. “Let them.”

“Smooth job, Carson. Scary smooth.”

He didn’t reply.

He’d never needed praise.

Just results.