His voice carries strangely through the mask. Not distorted exactly, just stripped of humanity. The word comes out even and controlled, but the bone-white jaw covering his mouth makes it impossible to read intention from tone alone. I can’t tell if he’s calm because he is, or because he’s trained himself to sound that way. I can see his eyes, though, dark, steady, but nothing below. No smile. No sneer. Just that carved grin, permanent and mocking.
He hooks his thumb over his shoulder without looking at a couple guys several feet away. “Rogue. Sting.”
Neither of them reacts.
He’s taller than I thought during the Hunt, not huge, not theatrical about it, but solid in a way that takes up the space around him. Broad shoulders under a plain dark jacket, sleeves pushed up. His head is shaved clean, scalp catching the low light, nothing to distract from the half-skeleton mask covering his face from the nose down. Agrin carved where no expression should be, the teeth too perfect. Whatever’s human in him is locked behind it.
Whatever expression he’s wearing on the lower half of his face, I don’t get access to it. I only get posture. Stillness. Control. He’s been there since they brought me in, speaking to different men in short, controlled exchanges. I don’t catch every word, but I catch tone. Authority without announcement. Decisions that don’t get questioned.
The quiet one seems to be Rogue. I know it the same way you know when someone’s watching you even before you see them. He doesn’t hover. He positions. Leans against walls like he belongs there. Moves only when something changes. When his eyes land on me, it’s not hungry.
It’s measuring.
Sting is loud without raising his voice. Restless. Energy barely contained, like a sprinter forced to stand still. He grins too easily, but his eyes are sharp. He keeps glancing at Armen, not for permission or approval—more like alignment. Checking where the line is and how close he can skirt it.
They aren’t just in close proximity to each other. They’re together. Not friends. Not guards. Something tighter. A team. A brotherhood.
I’d bet money on it if money still meant anything here.
Armen finishes a quiet exchange with a man wearing one of those old-school Halloween masks, the cheap kind with elastic digging into skin. The mask’s cracked along the cheek, poorly repaired with wire. The guy gestures too much, talks too fast.
Armen doesn’t even bother to hide his disdain.
It’s subtle. A tilt of the head. A look that says you’re tolerated, not respected. When the masked man finally backs off, Armen’s jaw grinds like he’s just been forced to listen to static.
Not fear. Not concern.
Movement catches my attention from the corner of my eye. A woman passes along the far side of the corridor, hands bound, escorted, limping just enough that I recognize her immediately. The one who tried to sell me out. She turns her head as she goes by and spits in my direction. It lands short, dark against the concrete.
“Bitch,” she snaps. Loud enough.
The word echoes.
I open my mouth, already smiling, already lining up a nice, juicygo fuck yourself?—
Armen doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t even look at her. He just lifts his hand. Two fingers.
That’s all.
The effect is immediate. The guards stop. The woman stumbles, startled by the sudden halt. Armen finally turns his head, eyes landing on her like she’s something that needs correcting.
“Do it again,” he says calmly, “and you’ll lose your tongue.”
Silence crashes down.
She laughs—short, ugly, defiant. “You think?—”
He looks at her then. Really looks.
Whatever she sees on his face drains the color from hers.
“No,” he says, still even. “I don’t think. I decide.”
He gestures once. A guard jerks her forward. She yelps as pressure is applied somewhere I can’t see. Not dramatic. Not bloody. Just enough to hurt and humiliate.
She breaks. Not screaming. Whimpering.
“I’m sorry,” she gasps. “I’m sorry?—”
