Scott-Evans screams early on. The sound tears out of him sharp and surprised, like he didn’t expect it to behim. Like he genuinely believed he’d last longer. It rattles him.
Between gasps for air—between pleading and rage—he starts spilling fragments of information. He throws excuses at us like they might stick if he says them fast enough. Loud enough.
He keeps trying to reposition himself. He was a peripheral witness. A man standing near evil instead of kneeling at its center.
Titan corrects him without raising his voice.
“Tell us about Rowan,” he says calmly.
The room stills.
Scott-Evans’s jaw locks, muscles jumping beneath sweat-slick skin. “The one that got away.”
The blow that follows isn’t loud.
Titan moves once—clean, efficient—and the impact lands with a sickening precision that snaps Scott-Evans’s head to the side. I hear teeth clack together, a dull internal rattle, but it’s nothing compared to what comes after.
Silence. The kind that swallows sound whole.
Then he breaks. He sobs—ugly and wet, dignity leaking out of him in hiccupped breaths.
“Delaney,” he gasps. “Delaney was slow. Sloppy. She ran and he lost her. Then he came back and demanded a sample of Missy?—”
Titan’s arm comes up again.
This time the back of his hand connects, sending Scott-Evans reeling, rope creaking, his body swinging like a pendulum that’s lost its center.
I step forward before Titan can speak.
“You forget,” I say coldly, “that you’re talking about a dead girl.”
Scott-Evans chokes on his next breath.
“Even in death,” Titan roars, the restraint finally gone, “you disrespect her.”
The door opens behind us.
Miguel comes through first, all sharp angles and quiet menace, one hand locked in the collar of Marcus Delaney’s jacket like he’s hauling in trash that won’t take itself out. Delaney stumbles under the grip, dragged rather than escorted, his shoes scuffing uselessly against the floor.
He’s red-faced. Rumpled. Furious in the way men get when they still believe rules apply to them.
“This is illegal,” Delaney snaps, words tumbling out too fast, too rehearsed. “You can’t detain me. I’ll sue every single one of you—this is assault, false imprisonment?—”
Titan doesn’t even turn his head.
Miguel shoves Delaney forward and lets go. Delaneystumbles, barely catching himself before pitching face-first into the floor. He straightens, breath sharp with indignation—then his gaze lifts.
And he sees Scott-Evans. Hanging. Broken. Barely upright.
The fury drains from Delaney’s face so fast it’s almost impressive. The color leaches out of him, leaving behind something pale and hollow-eyed. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
“This,” I say mildly, almost conversational, “is the moment where you decide whether you want to talk voluntarily.”
Delaney blinks at me, then at Titan, then back at Scott-Evans swaying gently from the ceiling. “This is insane,” he sputters. “You’re insane. All of you.”
Scott-Evans lets out a weak, bubbling laugh. It scrapes out of his throat like it hurts. “Marcus,” he croaks, head lolling. “The fool.”
Delaney recoils as if the words physically strike him. “Don’t,” he snaps. “Don’t you dare drag me into this.”
