"Courage and terror aren't mutually exclusive."
I stare at him. "That's surprisingly profound for—" I stop myself.
The corner of his mouth twitches. "For what? For a tattooed biker who beats people up for fun?"
"I wasn't going to say that."
"Sure you weren't."
There it is again, that almost-smile, and God help me it does something catastrophic to my insides. He's sitting there in that ridiculous floral chair, bandaged hands loose between his knees, looking at me like what I just said wasn't pathetic or depressing but instead like he's taking every word and treating it with utmost care.
"No one's ever..." I start, then shake my head.
"Say it," he says.
"No one's ever told me they wanted to know my story. That's all." I feel heat rise in my cheeks. "It sounds stupid when I say it out loud. Obviously people ask about people, that's just being normal—"
"It doesn't sound stupid." His voice is firm, no room for argument. "And it's not nothing. You've been moving through life like you're invisible. Like what you've been through doesn't deserve space." He pauses. "It does."
I cannot cry again. I refuse. I am not going to sit here and fall apart in front of this man for the second time in twenty minutes. I have more dignity than that.
I look up at the water-stained ceiling, blinking hard.
"You're going to make me cry again," I tell the ceiling.
"Sorry."
"No you're not."
"No," he agrees, and this time I hear it. The smile in his voice, quiet and rare, like something that doesn't come out often. "I'm not."
I look back at him, this stranger who isn't quite a stranger anymore. The scar on his face. The tattoos mapping stories I don't know. The gray eyes that have seen things I probably can't imagine.
"Your turn," I say.
"My turn what?"
"I told you mine. Your story."
He goes still in a way that's different from before. The listening stillness is gone, replaced by something more guarded, like a door swinging shut behind his eyes.
"That's not usually how this works," he says.
"How does it usually work?"
"I ask. Other people answer. I don't—" He stops. Looks at his bandaged hands. "I don't usually talk about myself."
"You said you wanted to know my story." I keep my voice gentle, like I'm coaxing something wild that might bolt. "It goes both ways."
The motel room is so quiet. Marcus's soft breathing fills the space between us, steady and even, and outside I can hear the muffled sounds of the city—distant traffic, someone's television through the thin walls, the occasional wail of a siren. Vegas never fully sleeps, but right now this room feels like a bubble outside of time. Like the rules that apply everywhere else don't quite reach us here.
Havoc looks at me for a long moment, and I can see him weighing it. Measuring the risk.
"Foster care," he finally says. "From as far back as I can remember. My mother left when I was three. Never knew my father." His voice is flat, factual, the way people talk about things they've had to make peace with through sheer repetition. "Some homes were okay. Most were just... places. People collecting a check. You learn not to unpack your bag too thoroughly. You learn not to get attached to the bed or the family or the dog or any of it because it's all temporary."
My chest aches. "How many homes?"
"Eleven by the time I aged out at eighteen." He says it without self-pity, which somehow makes it worse. "Went straight into the military. Army. Seemed like the logical next step. Someone tells you where to sleep, when to eat, gives you a sense of structure. I was good at following orders back then."
