A crash from the bedroom. The shorter guard appears in the hallway—shirtless, barefoot, a baseball bat in his hands. He must have heard the door. Must have grabbed what was closest.
He sees Zero holding his partner against the wall. Sees me in the doorway. Raises the bat.
I catch it mid-swing.
The impact jolts through my palm, up my forearm, into my shoulder. I hold the bat still—his momentum stopped dead, his eyes bulging, his arms shaking from the effort of pushing against a grip that isn't moving. I tighten my fingers around the aluminum. Wrench it sideways. His hands slip and the bat is mine and he's stumbling backward into the bedroom doorframe, catching himself against the wall.
I set the bat on the kitchen counter. Won't be needing it.
"Sit down," I say.
He doesn't sit. Lunges. Throws a sloppy right hook that I see coming from a different zip code. I step inside it, catch hisarm, torque his elbow against the joint, and drive him face-first into the hallway floor. His cheekbone hits the linoleum with a sound like a dropped cantaloupe. I put my knee on his spine.
"I said sit down."
He stops fighting.
Across the room, Zero has the shaved-head guard on his knees. Forearm still across his throat, but lower now—pressing into his collarbone, bending him backward. The guard's hands scrabble at Zero's arm. His face is red. Veins bulging.
"My brother told me about you." Zero's voice is pleasant. Warm, almost. The voice he uses before he does terrible things—the one that makes your skin crawl precisely because it sounds like he's enjoying a conversation. "Said you came to his cell. Looped the corridor cameras first. Smart. Brought a friend." He tilts his head toward where I have the shorter guard pinned. "Brought a bag."
"I don't know what you're—"
"He told me everything." Zero leans closer. His mouth near the guard's ear, intimate, like he's sharing a secret. "The part where you grabbed the omega's jaw. The part where you saidfighting's half the fun. The part where you started ripping his shirt open." He pulls back. Studies the guard's face the way someone studies a menu. "My brother has a very good memory. Described your hands in particular. Said they were... busy."
Zero's free hand closes around the guard's right wrist. Lifts it. Turns it over in the light. Studies the thick fingers, the square palm, the blunt nails. Holds the hand up between them like he's appraising a piece of jewelry.
"These hands." Almost admiring. "These are the ones, right? The ones that touched what'smine?"
He takes the guard's index finger. Bends it backward. The snap is small and precise. The scream isn't.
"I've been thinking about you for days." Zero's voice hasn't changed. Hasn't risen, hasn't tightened, hasn't done any of the things a voice should do when the person it belongs to is breaking bones. He sounds like he's catching up with an old friend. "Wondering what you look like. What you sound like. My brother described you but descriptions only go so far. I'm a hands-on learner." He smiles. The smile doesn't reach his eyes. It doesn't try. "Tell me what was in the bag."
"Fuck you—FUCK—"
The middle finger. Same motion. Same snap. The guard's scream dissolves into a wet, heaving sob. His body tries to curl in on itself but Zero holds him upright by the collar, keeping him on his knees, keeping his hand exposed.
"The bag," Zero repeats. Patient. Like a teacher with a slow student. "Bane mentioned a bag. What was in it?"
"We were—we were just going to—rough him up a little—scare him—"
"See, that's not what Bane told me." Zero's voice drops. Conspiratorial. The ring finger snaps and the guard's voice goes somewhere beyond screaming—a high, breathless keen that makes the hair on my arms stand up. Zero waits for it to subside. Doesn't rush. "Bane told me you had tools. Specific tools for a specific purpose. So let's try this again. What. Was. In. The bag."
The guard is crying. Tears and snot running down his face, his broken hand cradled against his chest, his whole body shaking. The smirk from the facility is gone. The wink. The casual cruelty. What's left is a man learning what happens when the people he hurt have brothers.
"Cuffs," the guard whispers. "Gag. Blindfold. We were going to—" He chokes on it. "Please. Please stop."
"Going to what?" Zero cups the guard's chin. Lifts his face. Forces eye contact. "Look at me. Say it to my face."
"Take turns."
Zero holds the eye contact. Three seconds. Five. His thumb rests against the guard's cheek, almost tender, and the juxtaposition—the gentleness of the touch against what he's about to do—is the most frightening thing I've ever seen my brother do.
And I've seen him do a lot.
"Thank you," Zero says. Soft. Sincere. "That's all I needed to hear."
He takes the guard's left hand.
