Rip arched a brow. “Use your brain.”
“Guys,” Boston said, sliding between them, “some of us need caffeine to tolerate you.”
Sage drifted in next, tablet under his arm, curls shoved back like he’d lost a fight with his own hair. “Statistically, they’d tolerate us either way. Caffeine only lowers the bitch quota.”
Law grinned at him. “Morning, trouble.”
Sage didn’t look up. “You only call me that when you want something.”
“True.”
Viper smirked. Sage was changing—less ghost, more presence. Good. This life didn’t make room for the quiet ones, not for long.
The thought tugged another loose thread.
He scanned the room. “Where’s Aspen?” he asked Real, voice low beneath the noise.
Aspen was new—quiet, watchful, the kind of kid who could disappear in plain sight.
Real didn’t miss a beat. “With Rebel.”
A burst of laughter cracked near the stove as Cookie swore at someone.
Viper leaned back in his chair.
Chaos, noise, banter—normalcy.
The kind of morning that made Nightfall feel almost like a place real people lived, not killers and operatives with blood on their hands.
He stepped into the coffee line.
Rip glanced over, poured him a mug without comment, and slid it his way.
“Thanks,” Viper said.
Rip grunted—which, from him, translated to you’re welcome.
Viper took a long sip, the heat grounding him, and crossed to the long table. Real, Crow, and Black were already seated—quiet, steady anchors in the noise.
He dropped into the chair beside them, the weight in his chest easing just enough to let him breathe.
A rare moment of calm.
Of course, it didn’t last.
“Eat fast, we’ve got training,” Azrael said around the last sip of his coffee. The young assassin stood, dropped his empty plate in the sink, kissed Real on the cheek in passing, and headed out the door with that dancer-light stride of his—silent, quick, lethal in the most deceptively beautiful way.
“Hear that?” Boston said, gesturing with his fork—his hands always moving. “Scarf it quick.”
“I just got here,” Sage said, sounding personally insulted by the concept of time.
Syx snorted—low, rough, amused. “That’ll teach you to be late.”
The tall assassin leaned back in his chair, blue eyes sharp. Syx—recent addition to the YA unit—was an unknown. What Viper did know was that Caldwell had dumped him at the ranch in Colorado, muttering about regretting all his life choices.
“He’s a growing boy,” Ocean said as he slid around the table, curls falling into ridiculous blue-green eyes—eyes rare enough that Sage had once run the stats on them.
“I’m so not a boy.” Sage squinted.
