The elevator groaned as it reached the bottom, metal grinding against metal in protest. A single overhead light flickered as the doors creaked open, revealing a dim corridor with concrete walls that bled dampness. The air was cold and stale, like secrets sealed in a tomb.
Vincent stepped out first, his back a rigid line of tension. Adriel followed, his usual charm dulled by the gravity of the moment. I stood still for a beat, reluctant to follow. But curiosity—it's always curiosity with me—tugged at my feet.
The corridor opened into a larger room, bare except for a chair bolted to the floor, and in that chair sat a man. Bruised. Bloody. Breathing, but barely. I recognized him.
The snitch.
The one who had betrayed Vincent—maybe all of us.
Vincent didn't say a word. He walked straight to the man and stood there, hands folded behind his back like a lecturer about to deliver a lesson no one wanted to hear.
"Do you know what this is?" he asked, not looking at me. His voice was calm, but I could feel it—anger, disappointment, ice and fire laced into every syllable.
I didn't answer. My eyes were fixed on the traitor's swollen face, his head sagging like he could barely hold onto consciousness.
Vincent turned slowly, and his gaze landed on me like a weight. "This is what happens to men who pretend loyalty and peddle betrayal."
"Vincent..." My voice was hoarse even to my own ears. "You don't have to—"
"I do." He cut me off. "And you need to see it."
Oh.
So that's what this was.
I glanced at Adriel, silently begging him to say something, to be the mediator he usually was. But his face was unreadable. I hated that he was just standing there. I hated that I didn't know what to feel.
Vincent pulled out a pair of black gloves from his coat and snapped them on with the quiet finality of a judge reaching for the gavel.
I flinched as the first blow landed. Not because it was unexpected, but because I expected worse.
Blood. Cracking bone. The sound of something inside me twisting.
I turned away, bile rising in my throat. I wasn't this person—I wasn't built for this. I wasn't like them.
But... then why couldn't I look away for long?
Was it empathy? Was it disgust? Or—God help me—was there a twisted satisfaction in seeing the man who'd endangered us suffer?
Vincent kept going. Calculated. Controlled. A monster painted in restraint. And I saw something else too—a flicker of pain behind his stoicism. Like he hated himself for having to do this.
Or maybe that was just my delusion talking again.
"Enough." The voice was low and gravelly, calm but commanding.
A man I hadn't seen before stepped out from the shadows. Older. Unassuming in a way that made him feel more dangerous. He wore a grey coat, his beard peppered with white, his eyes cool and assessing. But what struck me hardest was the familiarity in his face.
Vincent gave a curt nod. "Knox."
I blinked. "Have we met?"
"No," he replied, voice rich with gravel. "But I knew your father. Years ago. When men still fought with purpose."
I didn't know how to respond. My chest tightened.
Vincent shifted beside me, silent, unreadable.
"She's soft," Knox said after a moment, eyes narrowing. "Hasn't seen enough blood."
"She's seen enough," Vincent said cooly.
Knox let out a low chuckle. "Then we'll see."
With a snap of his fingers, a young man stepped forward—tall, lean, his face half-shadowed, scars lining his arms like tally marks. He didn't speak. He just rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and reached behind his back, drawing a short blade.
Then—with eerie calm—he tossed another one to the floor at my feet.
The metal clanged against the concrete. Cold. Final.
I looked from the knife to Knox. "What is this?"
"A test," he said flatly. "You want to stay breathing in this world? You'll need more than a sharp tongue and Vincent's shadow."
My mouth opened in protest. "You can't be serious—"
"You want choice?" Knox asked, his voice like flint. "You had it. When you came here. This is reality now. Pick it up."
I stood frozen. My palms were slick with sweat, knees locked.
Then the trainee moved.
He didn't warn me—he lunged.
On instinct alone, I dove for the blade, scraping my fingers on the floor as I rolled back, just in time to miss the glint of his strike.
The fight had begun.
Vincent didn't move.
He watched.
The blade was cold in my hand—too cold. My grip felt wrong, too tight, too untrained. He lunged again, and I barely sidestepped, the knife in his hand grazing my arm just enough to slice a warning into my skin.
Pain bloomed sharp and immediate, and something inside me snapped.
I heard Knox call out calmly, "Eyes on him, not the pain."
Easy for him to say.
The trainee came at me again, faster this time, forcing me into defensive moves I didn't know I had. My feet remembered the drills Lily used to help me with—pivot, duck, slash. I wasn't perfect, but I wasn't defenseless either.
The clang of metal echoed as our blades met. My arm trembled from the force, but I held my ground.
Somewhere near the back of the room, I caught a glimpse of Adriel's expression—tense, wide-eyed. He looked like he wanted to run in and stop it but knew better than to interfere.
Vincent, though…
Vincent stood perfectly still, arms folded, watching with unnerving silence. His expression wasn't blank—it was restrained. The way his eyes followed every one of my movements, sharp and unreadable, made it hard to breathe.
Was he angry I was struggling? Proud I was surviving?
I didn't know. And maybe that was worse.
The trainee kicked out, and I stumbled, crashing onto one knee. My fingers tightened around the blade as I rolled away from a blow that could've split my shoulder open.
"You're hesitating!" Knox barked, voice slicing through the air. "He won't!"
He was right.
The guy didn't hesitate—he went for my throat.
I ducked under him and slashed up. My blade scraped across his forearm. Blood. His hiss of pain was the first sound he made, and I felt my heart stutter.
I'd landed a hit.
I was still alive.
And I was still fighting.
But my body was wearing down. My arms ached. My lungs burned. I wasn't built for this—was I?
"You think your father trained you enough to survive one fight?" Knox asked coolly from the sidelines. "This isn't about survival. It's about dominance."
I didn't answer—I couldn't.
Because the trainee struck again.
And this time—I didn't dodge. I met him head-on. I wasn't fast enough to beat his strength, but I used my size. I ducked low, slammed into him with my shoulder, and we both went tumbling to the floor. My blade clattered away. His landed just out of reach.
I scrambled, crawled—
His fingers brushed the hilt.
And then a foot slammed down on the knife.
Not mine. His.
Vincent stood over us.
His boot crushed the blade beneath it.
"Enough," he said, voice low, dangerous.
The trainee froze.
"She's not your prey," Vincent added, voice tighter now. "Back off."
Knox raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
I stayed where I was, heart hammering. My hands trembled, blood running down my forearm.
Vincent reached down, and before I could protest, he lifted me to my feet, his eyes dark and unreadable. "You did well," he murmured.
But there was a flicker of something else in his gaze.
Fear?
Pride?
Possessiveness?
Or something far more dangerous.
Adriel finally stepped forward, holding out a towel and a water bottle like he'd been waiting for permission. "You okay?" he asked quietly, brushing a lock of hair from my face.
I nodded weakly.
Vincent didn't let go of me.
And Knox?
He just gave a slow, knowing smirk. "You're not your father," he said. "But you've got a bit of his fire."
Then he turned and walked away, like it had all been a casual game.
But I knew better.
This wasn't the end.
It was only the beginning.