I tear through the warehouse like a force unleashed, destroying anything foolish enough to exist within reach. Crates collapse. Shelvingbuckles. The space becomes a ruin in seconds, an echo of the devastation ripping through my chest.
Walls. Metal. Bone-deep fury.
Rage owns me.
Rage and something far worse.
Terror.
When I finally stop, my chest heaves violently, breath tearing in and out of my lungs. Blood slicks my knuckles, skin split open where I didn’t stop myself. Jaxon watches me from where he stands, silent and steady, knowing better than to interrupt what just clawed its way to the surface.
“She’s not collateral,” I growl, the words scraped raw from my throat. “She’s not a message.”
“I know,” Jaxon says quietly.
He hesitates, choosing his next words carefully. “But sheisimportant to you.”
The truth lands like a blade.
“He took her because she matters,” Jaxon continues, voice low and grim. “Because she’s the one thing that can reach you.”
A lesson.
That’s what my father wants to teach me.
And as the last of my rage settles into something cold and lethal, one truth burns brighter than the rest,
If my father thinks he can use her to break me…
He has no idea what kind of monster he’s just unleashed.
I force myself back into motion.
Stillness will kill me faster than bullets ever could.
I move to Jaxon, steadying him as I clean the blood from his face, my hands firm but careful. He’s hurt, worse than he’s letting on, but he stays upright, jaw clenched, refusing to break. When he’s steady enough, we move together, slipping through the concealed floor panel and down into the underground armoury.
Steel. Ammo. Violence waiting patiently in the dark.
A spare bike rests nearby, sleek and ready, fate dressed in chrome.
I look Jaxon over one last time, cataloguing injuries, measuring risk. “Are you going to be okay?” I ask. “Can you ride?”
He gives me a crooked smile, pain flashing briefly in his eyes. “This?” he scoffs weakly. “This is nothing. I’m with you.”
He wincesas he pulls the helmet on, breath hitching as he swings a leg over the bike while the industrial lift carries us back toward the surface. He hides it well, but I see it.
“This isn’t your fight,” I say quietly. “You don’t have to come.”
Jaxon turns his head, eyes sharp despite the bruises. “Get on your bike, Khai,” he says, voice steady, unyielding. “Let’s go get the bastard.”
A pause.
“I’m with you, brother.”
Minutes later, we’re unleashed back onto the streets.
Two machines tearing through the city like it’s trying to outrun us, or maybe we’re outrunning what waits if we stop. Traffic becomes a living obstacle course. I reach for gears that aren’t there. We split lanes with inches to spare, mount kerbs without slowing, cut across intersections as horns scream and brakes lock behind us.
