“Well,” she says, voice amplified through mounted speakers, “here we are.”
She circles me slowly.
“You came in loud,” she continues, conversational. “Blew up my perimeter. Fried my comms. Killed a dozen of my best men.”
She stops in front of me.
“And what did it get you?”
I don’t answer.
She leans in, breath warm against my jaw. “A stage.”
The crowd laughs. Not all of them. But enough.
I scan faces over her shoulder.
And then I see her.
Roxy stands near the front, jacket hanging loose on her frame, hands empty at her sides. No armor. No rifle. No mask.
Just her.
She isn’t crying.
She isn’t shouting.
She’s standing like she’s already decided something the rest of us haven’t caught up to yet.
My pulse lurches.
Idiot.
You should have known she’d come.
Marj turns, following my line of sight. She smiles when she spots Roxy.
“Well now,” she says, spreading her arms. “Speak of devils.”
The crowd parts just enough for Roxy to step forward.
Marj gestures lazily. “You came unarmed. That’s brave. Or stupid.”
Roxy’s voice carries clean and steady, even without amplification. “You’ve had enough of stupid for one week.”
A murmur runs through the crowd again—sharper this time.
Marj’s eyes narrow a fraction. “You got somethin’ else to say before we get to the main event?”
Roxy doesn’t look at me.
She looks at Marj.
“You built this,” she says, gesturing toward the platform, the crowd, the chains biting into my wrists. “You turned him into a story so big you forgot it had consequences.”
Marj snorts. “Spare me the philosophy. I’m about to execute your man.”
Roxy’s chin lifts slightly. “No. You’re about to prove you need him more than he needs you.”
