Johnny nursed the last finger of whiskey at the bottom of his glass, his hand curled around it like it was the only thing tethering him to the room. The bar was half-lit, the hum of conversation low, muffled under the sound of a football game droning from the overhead TV. He wasn’t really watching—it was just noise. Noise was better than silence. Silence reminded him of the years he’d spent alone in a concrete box, no light but a bulb that flickered at the whim of guards, no company but the echo of his own voice. Solitary confinement stripped you down until there was nothing left but raw nerves and rage. He remembered the smell of burnt ozone, the heat against his palms when he lost control. He remembered how his parents had looked at him the night they turned him in—like he was a monster and not their son. He’d never forgiven them. He didn’t think he ever could.

He set the glass down with a soft clink, rolling the rim under his thumb. The whiskey burned sharp in his throat, but it was a good kind of burn. A burn he chose.

The bell above the door chimed.

Johnny’s gaze slid toward it, more out of instinct than interest, but the sight that walked in stole his attention. A woman—tall, sharp-lined, with auburn hair that caught the dim light and made it glow like copper fire. Hazel eyes swept the bar as if taking inventory, quick and deliberate, though they softened when she moved toward the counter. She wore a black leather jacket over a loose tank top, a dark mini skirt, and boots that clicked against the floor with each step. There was something about the way she carried herself—confidence, but layered over something harder, something broken and welded back together.

She slid into a seat a few stools down, ordering quietly. Johnny’s eyes trailed after her without meaning to, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Then his gaze snagged on something that froze him mid-thought.

Her shoulder, bare under the edge of the jacket. Branded there, puckered into her skin, was the mark. His mark. The one burned into him in that godforsaken facility, the one that told the world they weren’t people, just weapons stamped and catalogued.

The glass was forgotten. Slowly, Johnny rose to his feet, his boots heavy against the floor as he crossed the short distance. He stopped beside her stool, close enough that the words wouldn’t carry, his voice low and edged when he spoke.

“Where’d you get that?”

His eyes flicked meaningfully to her shoulder, then back to her face. He wasn’t smiling anymore.