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The cigarette drops to the floor.

The screaming starts before the first punch lands.

No one reacts. Sounds like this belong here.

I turn and walk back into my office, already bored with the outcome.

“When they stop crying, clean the floor,” I say over my shoulder. “I want answers, not stains.”

The door closes. The noise dulls.

At my desk, I open the folder markedIRON REAPERS. Faces. Addresses. Patterns. Months of work. Blade’s photograph stares back at me. Hard eyes. A man who has buried enemies and learned nothing from it.

Men like that do not adapt.

They react.

Reaction creates opportunity.

I turn the page.

There she is.

Brianna.

Laughing. Curvy. Alive in a way that makes men careless. Too soft for the world she’s in. Too real. Too visible.

Too good for a biker.

Vin steps in a few minutes later, wiping blood from his knuckles. “They’re alive,” he says. “One’s talking.”

“Good,” I reply without looking up. “Fear loosens tongues.”

He glances at the photo. “She doesn’t look like a club girl.”

“Oh, she is,” I say calmly. “She just hasn’t paid the price yet.”

“If the Reapers realize we’re involving women,” Vin warns, “they won’t stop.”

“That is not a concern,” I say. “That is the objective.”

He falls silent.

I dial a burner phone.

“Fletcher,” I say when it connects. “Redirect their attention. Keep them busy.”

My gaze stays on Bri’s face.

Plans adjust.

Vin shifts. “You still want surveillance? Routines?”

I consider it for half a second.

“No,” I say finally.

He looks at me.