The figure flinched.
Bones lifted a hand—halt—but I was already stepping forward. Soft. Slow. Not the “Lunchbox kicking doors” slow—this was the “don’t scare the wounded animal” slow.
The kid—because that’s what they were, no more than maybe twelve—lifted their head an inch. Eyes hollow. Skin gray. Fear baked so deep it looked like bone.
Voodoo whispered, “Jesus Christ.”
Grace moved next to me, voice soft enough to melt iron. “Hi. Hey. It’s okay. We’re here to help.”
The kid blinked, disoriented. Their voice cracked out in Spanish, brittle and tiny. “¿Son… de ellos?”Are you… with them?
“No,” Grace said softly, crouching and lowering herself without even needing to be urged. Her tiny stature already made her far less of a threat.“Nosotros somos los que paramos a gente así, ¿ves?”
We’re the one who stop people like them.
The kid’s chin trembled.
Before I knew what I was doing, I shrugged off my jacket and held it out. “You cold, buddy?”
They stared at it. At me. Then reached with fingers shaking so hard it hurt to watch.
Grace’s breath hitched behind me—a tiny, pained sound.
Bones looked at the rest of us. Something hard settled in his posture, carved in iron.
“This ends now,” he said.
Not a suggestion. Not a plan. A promise.
The kind we didn’t break.
The kid hauled the jacket around their shoulders like it weighed as much as they did. It swallowed them whole, sleeves dangling past their hands, but they clutched the fabric like armor. Like if they let go, someone would take it—and them—away.
Grace eased closer, slow and gentle, Goblin settling against her leg like he’d decided the kid was under his jurisdiction now.
“¿Cómo te llamas?”she asked.
The kid swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing too sharply for someone that small. “Nico,” he whispered.
Nico. Jesus.
Grace’s eyes softened in a way that made something in my chest twist. She crouched lower, letting him see her face properly. She’d taken off her sunglasses without even thinking about it—probably to look less like a threat, even though she was the least threatening thing in this steel tomb.
“Hola, Nico,”she said gently.“¿Estás herido? ¿Te duele algo?”Are you hurt? Does anything hurt?
He shook his head too fast to be true. Kids lied about pain like adults lied about guilt—instinctively, hopelessly, thinking it protected them.
I knelt beside Grace, keeping my hands visible. “Hey,” I said softly, “we’re gonna get you out of here, okay? You’re safe now.”
Nico’s eyes darted to the crates, then to the sealed door, then back at Grace. Terror flickered under his ribs like a trapped animal.
Bones stepped closer—slow, controlled—his voice low. “We need to know if he’s alone in here.”
Right. The million-dollar question.
Grace nodded once and shifted her weight so she could face Nico squarely. Her hand hovered, not touching him, just close enough he could take it if he wanted to.
“Nico,”she murmured,“¿hay más niños aquí? ¿Más personas?” Are there more children here? More people?
