Hammer picks up the gun.
Joker closes the door.
The sound of it shutting is soft.
Final.
The man’s eyes dart between us, wide and frantic. “I don’t know shit.”
Wrong first sentence.
I drive my fist into his stomach.
He folds as much as my grip lets him. Air leaves him in a wet rush.
I hold him up. “Try again.”
“I don’t—”
I hit him again. Same spot. Harder. No escalation. No speech. No theater.
He chokes, knees trying to buckle.
I don’t let them.
Shadow watches the hallway.
Hammer checks the gun.
Joker leans against the door, enjoying himself quietly.
“Who sent you?” I ask.
The man coughs. “Fuck you.”
Joker makes a soft sound. “Bad answer.”
I turn the man and slam his injured side into the edge of a metal shelf.
He screams. That one is real. Pain clears lies faster than fear.
“Who sent you?”
He breathes hard, sweat breaking across his face. “I don’t know his name.”
I grip his jaw and force his eyes to mine. “Then give me what you do know.”
“Handler,” he gasps. “He said burn the records. Pull the marked crates. Leave nothing tied to the route.”
“What route?”
He hesitates.
I press my thumb into the wound at his side.
His scream tears through the small room and dies against the concrete walls.
“What route?”
