From ages eight to twelve, he’d slept in gutters or parks to avoid the crack dens his mom hauled him to while she got high.
As a teenager, he’d bounced in and out of juvenile detention, where he’d learned to sleep with one eye open.
By eighteen, he was crashing on random sofas that smelled like piss and liquor, or in the back seats of stolen cars.
But for the last five years, he’d lived in a six-by-eight-foot cell with a toilet bolted to the wall.
If he had to, he’d leave the luxury the Ravens were offering and walk away, especially if it meant not being owned or experimented on again.
He took a thirty-minute shower and dressed in a pair of light-blue jeans and an oversized white hoodie.
He left his quarters-slash-penthouse a few minutes before five for his meeting with Jo.
A woman met him at the elevators with a polite smile.
“Good evening, Scar. My name is Rose. I’m the manager of your hospitality division. I’m here to escort you to Operations Command.”
Uh, okay.
“How are you finding your accommodations in your quarters?”
“Fine,” he muttered.
“You can make a list of anything else you’d like stocked in your rooms.”
Books, a lot of books, and chicken-flavored Cup O’ Noodles—if I’m still here.
“Yeah, okay.”
She led him through the first level of the facility, and he kept his head on a swivel, watching everything that moved.
Each department was sectioned off by glass walls, a design intended for transparency rather than secrecy. Yet he still mapped each exit sign and stairwell.
Rose pointed out the multiple divisions as they passed: Intelligence and Analysis, Medical and Rehabilitation, Field Operations Support, Logistics and Transport, Training and Simulation, but one in particular caught his eye.
Shadow Division: Black Ops Planning and Execution.
Some of the stern-faced workers were in mid–weapon breakdown, others studied multiple rotating maps and satellite feeds, tapping and clicking on screens.
No one stared or gawked as he walked by, but they paused briefly and gave him a nod reserved for someone of importance before going back to their jobs.
A man jogged up to him in a pristine white suit with a shiny, blue unapologetic tie and fell into step beside him.
He didn’t speak, just bit his bottom lip, looking him up and down as if he wanted to devour him. He leaning over so far that his dark-blond curls fell across his forehead.
Scar stopped short. “What the fuck are you doing?”
The guy jumped, throwing his hands up as an enormous grin spread across his face.
“Oh, sorry! I’m Elias Bloom. Head of Wardrobe and Tactical Attire for you and Gage.”
Scar resumed walking. “Are you the one who put all that blinding white shit in my closet?”
“Well, you are the Whites,” he said cheerfully. “But I can tailor to your taste. Honestly, don’t you think white is the best color? It’s so versatile.”
Scar snorted. “If you say so.”
“I’m already planning to outdo the Blacks coordinator. I got some shit that’s gonna’ blow everyone’s minds.”
