The base is deep in the Blackridge sector—an abandoned military compound repurposed with reinforced steel doors, UV-stabilized security glass, and shifter-grade restraints built into every goddamn hallway. It's quiet now, except for the faint hiss of recycled air and the occasional clatter of weapons being cleaned in the next room over. The sound of discipline.
I grab a towel off the wall rack, scrub it over my face, and spit blood into the drain just to feel something normal. The mirror across the room shows me what I already know—dark circles, sweat-slick hair tied back tight, amber eyes rimmed in something that looks too much like exhaustion to be anger. I ignore it.
I have a meeting with Roman.
Harrow catches me before I make it to the inner corridor. He’s wiping blood off his boots with an expression so flat it might as well be carved in granite.
“You broke the kid’s ribs.”
“He shouldn’t have left his flank open.”
Harrow grunts. “Roman’s waiting.”
“Figured.”
I don’t wait for him to escort me. I know the way. Through the reinforced gate, past the silent guards in their composite armor, and down the long hallway lined with high-efficiency glass panels that look like windows but are anything but. On the other side of them—subjects. Test cases. The Syndicate’s version of progress. I keep my eyes forward. I don’t look at the cages.
Roman’s office is built into the old command tower. It’s too high up, too well-lit, glass on three sides, like he wants to be seen from every angle and doesn’t give a damn who’s watching. He stands with his back to me when I enter, his tailored coat draped over a high-backed chair, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, forearms bare and marked with the same runes that branded all of us once.
“You’re late,” he says without turning.
“I was busy keeping your soldiers from dying stupidly.”
He turns then, slowly, like this whole exchange bores him and he’s humoring me for practice. He has that look again—half-priest, half-king, the smile of a man who knows he's the smartest one in the room and enjoys letting everyone else catch up.
“You’re testy today.”
“You keep feeding me pups who think growling counts as training.”
He chuckles, low and smooth. “They’ll learn. Or they’ll die. Evolution in action.”
“Efficient.”
Roman steps closer and studies me for a moment, the way a scientist might study something between glass slides. I hold still. He likes that. Control. Stillness. Performance.
“You’re restless.”
“You pulled me out of a six-month infiltration op to babysit this place. I’ve got a right to be.”
He waves a hand. “That op's done. I have something more important.”
I already don’t like where this is going. Roman only says “more important” when he means “worse.”
“I need someone retrieved.”
There it is. His voice changes when he gives orders. It gets quieter. He thinks it makes him sound more reasonable. It doesn’t. It makes him sound like someone who’s learned exactly how far he can push before things break—and how to enjoy it.
“Who?”
“Mary Crane.”
The name lands like stone in water. Cold. Heavy. Unmoving.
“She’s not exactly low profile,” I say, careful to keep my tone flat.
“No,” he agrees. “But she’s vulnerable right now. Too many moving pieces in that little reunion of theirs. Darius has blind spots, always has. I want her brought here. Alive. Unharmed.”
That last word is a loaded pistol.
