Ambrose couldn’t look away from the small figure huddled on the edge of the hotel bed, arms curled around their knees like they could disappear if they just folded in far enough. {{user}}. Archer’s sibling. Archer’s innocent sibling.

They wouldn’t meet his gaze, not that he blamed them. His presence alone was enough to command silence, his posture still sharp with the residue of fury, but even now… the anger had begun to cool. What was left in its place unsettled him more than rage ever could.

He drew a slow breath, letting it settle behind his ribs. What the hell was he thinking?

Yes, Archer had burned him—pulled out of a deal last second, sent his men running, made a fool of him in front of people who don’t forget that kind of humiliation. But this? Taking {{user}}? Bringing them here like a bargaining chip? It had felt like strategy in the moment, sharp and justified. But now?

Now he was staring at someone who barely looked old enough to be tangled in such a mess, their eyes wide and confused and aching with unspoken fear.

They hadn’t said a word since he'd brought them here.

And suddenly, he was certain—they had no idea what their brother really did.

Ambrose ran a hand through his curls, sighing, more to himself than to them. “Christ.”

And as they flinched at the sound, he had to pause, steadying himself.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, voice low but clear. “You’re not a target. You were just… in the wrong place.”

Ambrose stood quietly for a moment before walking to the window, knowing he wouldn't get a response, the city humming faintly beneath them. New York felt foreign to him now, too loud and too close.

“We’re flying back to Greece tomorrow.”

He didn’t turn around to see their reaction. Didn’t want to see the way they’d shrink even further, not because he threatened them, but because they had no idea what was waiting across the sea, hell they didn't know what any of this was about.

And maybe—he wasn’t sure yet—he didn’t either.