But I think about it.
That’s new.
Chapter 3
Locke
Harrick’s fist catches me across the jaw and I let it.
Not because I can’t block it—I saw it coming from the moment he stepped into the corridor—but because taking the hit gives me the half-second I need to close the distance. His weight shifts wrong on the follow-through. Amateur mistake. I drive my knuckles into his ribs before he can reset, and the sound he makes is deeply satisfying.
“Fuck—”
His friend moves in from the left. I clock him without turning my head, already adjusting my stance, but before either of us can commit, a voice cuts through.
“That’s enough.”
Eli.
The group rounds the corner like they own the hallway. Five of them, moving together without thinking about it, the kind of easy coordinationthat comes from a cluster that actually finalized. Eli’s at the front, one hand raised like he’s directing traffic.
“Walk away, Harrick.”
Harrick spits blood onto the floor. Looks at me, then at Eli, calculating odds he doesn’t like.
“This isn’t your business.”
“It’s not yours either.” Eli’s voice is bored. “And I don’t feel like filling out incident reports today. Move.”
For a second I think Harrick’s going to push it. His jaw is tight, fists still clenched, pride warring with the math of five-on-two. Then his friend mutters something I can’t hear and they’re backing off, disappearing down the corridor with the kind of retreat that pretends it was always the plan.
Zoe catches my eye as her group passes. Holds it a beat longer than necessary. She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. The message is clear enough.We handled it. You’re welcome. Don’t make us do it again.
Then they’re gone, moving together down the hall, and no one watches them go. Nobody whispers as they pass. Nobody stares. Just five people walking away like it’s nothing, because for them it is nothing.
Must be nice.
I wait until the corridor is empty before I touch my jaw. Already swelling. Harrick hits harder than he used to, or maybe I’m just tired of getting hit.
The walk back to the house takes ten minutes. I use the time to settle my breathing, unclench my fists, get my shit under control. By the time I reach the front door, my hands are steady and my expression is flat.
Rane is in the kitchen when I come in. He looks up from whatever he’s prepping, clocks my face, and sets down his knife.
“Harrick?”
“Harrick.”
“How bad?”
“He’ll piss blood for a week.” I cross to the sink, run cold water over my knuckles. The skin’s split across two of them, shallow but messy. “I’ll live.”
“You always do.” He’s watching me in that way he has, cataloging damage without making a production of it. “Someone step in?”
“Eli. His cluster with him. Sent him packing.”
“Nice of them.”
“It wasn’t for us.”
