He steps into the circle, boots striking against the floor. “Trial Three,” he says, and the way he says it makes the air tighten. “It’s time. This one isn’t about fists or fire, it’s about choice.”
Leo’s pacing again, slow and deliberate. “Trial Three isn’t physical. It’s psychological. You’ll face a scenario. Some truths. Some lies. You’ll be forced to speak or choke on what you don’t.”
Marco wipes sweat from his neck. “What’s the pass?”
Leo stops, eyes sharp. “You tell the right truth at the right time… without exposing the ones you protect.”
“And fail?” a Russian asks.
“Talk too soon or too soft, and someone you care about bleeds for it. Lose their trust, and you’re already dead.”
The air feels colder. My pulse doesn’t.
“You won’t know who’s watching,” Leo adds. “But you will be watched. Always.”
“Sounds like a trap,” Milo mutters.
Leo almost smiles. “It is.”
I exhale, stare at the floor.
Weakness.
I know mine.
She carries it in her last name, and it’s carved across my ribs.
I need to be sharper. Colder. Ruthless.
“Is this like… a confession scenario?” Marco asks, wiping sweat from his neck.
Leo nods. “Something like that. You’ll be presented with intel, and your reaction will be studied. How fast you talk. What you choose to protect. Whether you hold the line or sell someone out.”
“Can we prep?” I ask. Leo eyes me like he’s surprised I’m even engaging.
“Prep your mind,” he says. “Your instincts. Who you are in the dark is what this trial will pull out. You’ll be alone but not without consequences.”
He walks off and the air he leaves behind is heavy, as if I know what the fuck that is meant to mean.
Marco moves in close, voice low. “We need a plan.”
“Facts only,” I say. “No guesses, no bluffs. They’ll smell a lie faster than blood.”
Milo’s jaw works. “Then we set boundaries. Names we don’t touch. If they ask about Rosa, about each other?—”
“We protect our own,” I cut in. “Always. No test changes that.”
Marco studies me. “Even if the intel’s fake?”
“Especially then.”
We nod once. Brothers. Soldiers. Sons of war.
But never traitors.
Across the room, she moves—Aoife, arguing with Conor again. Her hands slice the air, her jaw locked tight.
I shouldn’t look, but I do.
