Viper’s jaw flexed. A low sound rumbled out of his chest—pure warning, contained with effort.
“Memphis. Law,” he said quietly. “Call the cleaners.”
The cleaners were a specialty team—quiet, thorough, untraceable. When they finished, there would be no scene left to explain.
Viper turned slightly, voice cutting through the room without raising. “John—you’re going to go on like Miles never existed. He’s gone. That’s all you need to know.”
“Thank you,” John said, shaken and pale, gratitude breaking through the shock.
“Law,” Viper added, “make sure any children on-site are handled properly. Quietly.”
“Already moving,” Law said.
Melody hovered in the doorway, hands shaking, eyes bright with tears. “Thank you,” she said breathlessly, clinging to John. “Thank you—”
Viper gave her a short nod.
“You’re safe now,” Titus told her quietly—confirmation, not comfort.
Viper tightened his grip just enough to steady him.
“We’re done here.”
The light was too bright.
Not harsh—just relentlessly clean, the kind that left nowhere for shadows to hide. Fluorescent panels hummed overhead, steady and indifferent. The room smelled like antiseptic and plastic and something faintly metallic that reminded him, unhelpfully, of blood.
At some point, the brightness softened. The hum faded to a quieter rhythm.
When Titus surfaced again, he was propped against pillows in a private hospital recovery room, the world dimmed to soft light and slow beeps.
The bandage at his abdomen pulled when he breathed too deeply—tight, insistent. It didn’t hurt the way pain usually announced itself. The drugs kept it distant, dulled, but impossible to ignore.
A reminder.
That was too fucking close.
He rolled his shoulders once, testing. Upright. Alert. Breathing fine.
Alive.
That part still felt unreal.
The moment when Viper had charged over and covered him with his whole body—ready to take a bullet for him—rose unbidden, and Titus darted a quick glance his way.
The warrior stood against the far wall, arms crossed, boots planted wide like he’d staked claim to the space. He hadn’t moved since they’d brought him in. No pacing. No clipped orders. No scanning the exits.
Just stillness.
And that—that—set every instinct he had on edge.
He clocked Viper. The silence. The way Viper’s shoulders stayed locked. The way his eyes tracked everything except him, like if he looked too long, he might lose control of something he couldn’t afford to drop.
This wasn’t anger.
It wasn’t distance.
It was containment.
