For those who bled so others could rise.
Phones die in here. Wi-Fi cuts out. When the heavy doors seal, it’s only us, and whatever truth we’re brave enough to speak.
As if summoned by her own name, Allura walks in. She’s calm authority and quiet steel, the kind of woman who could negotiate peace or start a war, depending on her eyeliner. Sloane follows, arms folded, eyes sharp enough to make sinners confess.
Allura leans forward, her sea-green eyes sharp enough to slice through steel. “All right, ladies. Fight night’s coming, and I don’t want a repeat of the last time someone set the speakers on fire.”
Divine raises a hand. “That was a controlled burn.”
French grins. “Yeah, controlled by chaos.”
Sloane cuts through the laughter with that Navy-command calm. “Let’s stay focused. Rebel, financials?”
Here it comes.
I flash my most practiced grin, the one that’s saved me from more interrogations than I care to count. “Everything’s running smoothly. Donations are solid, the bar’s up, the tattoo shop’s booked through next week. The shelter’s stable.”
Sloane raises an eyebrow. “Stable’s a nice word. Usually means barely holding.”
“Relax, Commander,” I say sweetly. “We’re solvent. I even reconciled French’s bar receipts with her glitter ink again. That should qualify as a miracle.”
French throws a coaster at me. “You loved every decimal.” French winks. “Don’t knock the sparkle.”
The laughter rolls easily, the guilt doesn’t.
Allura’s gaze lingers on me a moment too long. She knows when I’m hiding something, but she also knows better than to call me out in front of the others.
Finally, she nods. “Keep it that way. We’re not running a charity, we’re building an empire. Don’t overextend our legit fronts trying to save the world.”
“Copy that, Prez.”
If she knew what name was buried in those transactions, that word, empire, would sound a lot more fragile.
We break into smaller tasks. Divine sets up the fight-night livestream code, Iris checks the sound systems, and Calypso sketches the night’s promo art. For a few hours, the clubhouse feels like controlled chaos.
French hums a pop song wildly off-key, Sloane shouts for someone to fix the gate sensor, and I let the noise distract me. But distraction never lasts. Not when ghosts live in your spreadsheets.
Night wraps the compound in silver fog. The ring out back glows under the floodlights, empty and waiting. The bar’s closed early for setup, and the tattoo shop’s lights are off for once. The hum of computers replaces the roar of motorcycles.
I’m back in the office with a whiskey bottle for company, eyes locked on the screen. The ledger glows on my screen, that cursed line item taunting me:
Slade LogisticsLLC.
A second entry sits just beneath it:Silver Talon Janitorial LLC. New vendor, same routing number. Too clean to be a coincidence.
I trace the numbers like they might confess. If I follow the money, I’ll find whoever thinks they can use my brother’s name without consequence. And I’ll make them wish they’d never learned to spell it.
I open the firewall controls and reroute access through a backdoor Divine built years ago, when she was still teaching hackers how to cry. The code flickers from green to amber.
“Not bad,” a voice says from behind me.
I jump so hard I nearly knock over the bottle of whiskey.
Divine leans in the doorway, barefoot, wearing an oversized tee that readsI void warranties. Her eyes are half amusement, half concern. “You know you could just ask for my help,” she says, strolling in.
