Slow.
“Smart girl.”
He reached into his coat. Pulled something folded. Laid it across my lap.
A photo. I stared at it. Her face. Camille. But not how I remembered her. Not laughing. Not smirking. Cold. Still. Dead.
There was blood smeared across her mouth. Her eyes were half-open. Like she died seeing who did it. I wondered if she smiled when she saw it coming. If she knew we would carry her name like armor.
My breath caught. He dropped another.Me.From the corner of the room. Tied. Slumped. Bruised. Now.
“You’re just a placeholder,” he said.
I met his eyes. And smiled. Because Wolfe taught me to breathe through death. Because Barron taught me to kneel without breaking. Because Camille died screaming in silence—and I was still breathing.
He stood.
“Your scream won’t matter,” he said.
He stepped closer.
I didn’t flinch.
“You think someone’s coming?”
He leaned down. So close his breath brushed my cheek.
“No one survives this.”
I turned my face slightly.
Let my mouth hover near his ear.
And I whispered: "He does." He froze. Just for a second.
And it was enough. I saw it. The crack. The fracture. The fear. Then he turned. Left the photos on my lap. And walked out.
The door shut. The lock clicked. And I stared down at Camille’s dead eyes. And made a vow.You won’t forget us. You won’t bury us. And I won’t be the one they mourn.
The sound of money has a rhythm. Soft, slick, like pages in a book being thumbed too fast. Not a shuffle. A hiss. Like breath caught in a chest.
That was the first thing I heard when the door opened again. Not boots. Not shouting. Not pain. Just cash. Counted slow. Fingers wet from sweat pressing each bill down with care. He was humming. Low. Off-key. The tune didn’t matter. The ease did.
I didn’t look up. I didn’t have to. I knew who it was by the way the air changed. The room went heavier. More personal. Like the walls leaned in.
He walked past the camera. Past the chair he’d once strapped me to. He didn’t glance at the screen still blinking quietly in the corner. The images of smoke and flame were old news now.
He sat on the crate to my right. Set the money down beside him. Stacks. Hundreds. Bound tight. Clean.Too clean.
My wrists ached from their bindings. My skin was slick with sweat, blood, adrenaline that never crested. My throat was raw. But I still had breath. And that meant I still had Wolfe.
He stared at the money for a while. Didn’t speak. Just admired it. Ran his finger along the edge of each bundle like he couldn’t decide whether to count it again or just fuck it.
He exhaled through his nose.
“It’s funny,” he said. “When you think about it. All this for one girl.”
I didn’t answer. My voice was gone. Not from screaming. From holding it back. Because they didn’t deserve to hear me. Not until Wolfe was there to silence them. He looked over at me finally. Eyes small. Pale. Cold.
