Kael stood, tugging Drew’s hand.“You heard her.”
“Coming,” Drew said, laughter in his voice.
Kael’s chest eased for the first time that night.They’d survived.They’d bleed, rebuild, and laugh their way through the aftermath.That was what family did.
As they headed toward the kitchen, Kael squeezed Drew’s hand and murmured, “Next time someone brings war to our home, I want you behind me.”
Drew’s answering grin was wicked.“Not likely.”
Kael sighed.“Didn’t think so.”He smiled anyway.
The night outside still smoldered, but inside, surrounded by laughter and the smell of Aunty’s cooking, Kael finally let himself breathe.
****
Inside a small carefullybuilt room, in the corner of a large fully equipped commercial garage, under a single flickering light, the shadows stretched long across the concrete floor.
It was quiet here—too quiet for comfort.The hum of the bulb, the creak of pipes, the steady rhythm of Victor’s breathing—each sound pressed in on the stillness.The space was utilitarian, stripped of warmth.Tools lined one wall in disciplined order, every wrench and hammer a reflection of Tane’s precision.A cot sat folded in the corner beside a metal table littered with schematics and half-drained coffee cups.Against the far wall, a heavy chair bolted to a steel plate waited beneath the light.
Victor occupied it now, the steel cold against his spine.His wrists were bound to the armrests, his ankles lashed to the chair’s front legs, and a chain crossed his chest like a cruel seatbelt.He could feel the pressure of the restraints with every breath, the faint sting where the leather dug into his skin.
Tane stood a few paces away, half in shadow, arms folded over his chest.His presence filled the room more than the light.There was something steady about him—controlled, dangerous, and, at this moment, focused entirely on Victor.
“You comfortable?”he asked.
Victor gave a small grin, the kind that came easy when you’d run out of fear.“You really want me to answer that?”
“Sure.Or I can keep talking, I like hearing myself talk,” Tane replied.His tone was calm, unbothered, the faintest edge of humor threading through it.“But it might get a little monotonous for you.”
Victor smirked.“Then you and Marcus would’ve gotten along nicely.”
Tane’s jaw tightened, the humor gone.“We’re going to talk about the Directorate.Names.Accounts.Movements.You’ll tell me everything you know.”
Victor tilted his head slightly.“And what do I get in return for story time?”
Tane threw his arms wide theatrically.“You get to keep breathing.”
The faint buzz of the light filled the silence that followed.Victor’s eyes drifted across the room—sharp lines, clean surfaces, a soldier’s space turned into an interrogation den.It felt like being inside a heartbeat that refused to stop.
“You built this yourself,” Victor said finally.“You do all your interrogations here?”
Tane’s eyes narrowed.“Most of them.”
“You any good at it?”Victor asked with a shrug.“Most interrogation parties I’ve been invited to usually come with a beat down.And yet you haven’t touched me.You never touch the people you question?”
Tane leaned back against the wall.“That a question or an accusation?”
“More of an observation,” Victor said evenly.“You’ve got all that strength, all that control, but you keep your distance with me.Why?”
Tane pushed off the wall, walking toward him.The air seemed to tighten with each step.“Perhaps I wanted to try something new.But I’m starting to rethink my decision.”
Victor chuckled softly, the sound low and tired.“You wouldn’t be the first to try.”
“What do you want, Victor?”Tane asked warily.
Victor hesitated, the silence stretching.“To know what it’s like.”
Tane frowned.“What what’s like?”
