Jax opens his mouth. “We’re fine?—”
“No. You’re bloody not.” The man jerks his head toward the open door. “In. Before someone notices you breathing.”
We exchange a quick look. The alley is not safe. The men could come back, and somehow, this stranger knowing Jax’s name feels like both a warning and a lifeline.
I swallow. “Jax,” I whisper. “We should…”
He hesitates for a breath—but it’s real fear. He grabs my hand and pulls me inside.
The man slams the door behind us, bolts it twice, then yanks down a metal grate with a screech that echoes through the space.
I look around, noticing it’s an old pawn shop. The shelves sag under the weight of forgotten things: cracked music boxes, rusted knives, unlit lanterns, wallets with IDs still inside.
Jax exhales under his breath. “What the hell is this place?”
The man shoots him a look. “This?” He pats the cluttered counter. “This is where the city dumps its cursed crap. And where idiots like you come when they think The Pit is something to play with.”
He turns away, already muttering to himself as he moves behind the counter. He grabs a small wooden box, flips it open and I almost let out a scream.
Teeth. Dozens of them. Yellowed, uneven, some still dark at the root. The man doesn’t react. He picks one up, inspects it like it’s defective merchandise, then drops it back with a soft clatter. “Murtaugh needs to stop bringing me this shit…” He snaps the lid shut and shoves the box into a drawer.
He lifts his eyes to Jax and wipes his hands on his shirt. “What are you doing in these parts, St. Clair?”
Jax’s face goes cold. “I don’t know you.”
“Yeah,” the man grumbles, “You’re a St. Clair, no? You look a lot like him.”
I turn to Jax.
“I am,” he replies.
The man studies him a moment longer, then exhales. “You’re lucky I opened that door. Another minute out there, The Cut would’ve skinned you alive.”
“We’re looking for someone,” I say.
The man barks out a laugh. “Of course you are. Let me guess—a dare? School project?”
He steps closer, eyes flicking between us, measuring.
I swallow. “The lottery ticket man, the one whose wife… We just need to ask him a few questions.”
The man snorts so hard it sounds like he’s choking. “Stupid kids.”
My hands sweat, but I push through. “We want to know…” My voice drags. “…about the voices.”
The old man stops mid-turn and looks at us again. “What did you just say?”
Jax shifts. “We didn’t hear them. We know someone who did.”
I nod quickly. “A girl, about twenty years ago. We’re trying to figure out what happened to her.”
The man swears under his breath again, dragging a hand over his face. “You should leave it alone, nothing good comes from those questions.”
“Do you know?” I press, forcing myself to stay steady. “You must talk to a lot of people. You’re this close to the pit… have you heard anything? I know how this sounds, but—we need to know.”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he yanks open a drawer and pulls out a small knife with a bone handle, slamming it onto the counter. “Take it.”
Jax frowns. “What?”
