In an old, abandoned school, a tall man in a black suit stood in the shadows, smoking quietly. His cold eyes locked onto a young man tied to a chair. Face swollen, bleeding, barely able to lift his head.
"Are you gonna talk or not?" the man asked.
It was Blake. He tapped the ash off his cigarette onto the ground like he didn’t care, then took another long drag.
The young man’s voice shook. "Please... I already told you. I did it because I wanted to. I hate the world... so I lashed out. That’s all."
Blake stepped closer. Slowly, he pulled on a pair of black gloves. Then he grabbed the man’s chin and forced him to look up.
"I’ve read your file," Blake said, voice low. "You’re not soone who hates the world. You party. You do drugs. You don’t look like a guy who wants to die. You look like a liar."
"I’m not lying!" the man cried. "It was ! I wanted to shoot them! I wanted to kill people!"
Blake didn’t blink. Instead, he turned his head. "Marcus."
A mont later, another man entered, dragging behind him a large, sharp grass cutter.
Blake turned back, expression unreadable.
"So," he said, crouching in front of the trembling man. "Which one do you want to start with? Your thumb... or your middle finger?"
The mont the young man saw the grass cutter, he broke down, screaming in panic.
"Please... please, don’t do this! Please!"
Blake didn’t even blink.
He turned to Marcus. "Start with his fingers."
Marcus stepped forward, grabbing the young man’s trembling hand.
But just as he was about to touch him, Blake spoke again, cold and calm.
"Change of plan. Cut his ear instead," he said. "Seems like he doesn’t need it. He clearly doesn’t listen."
The young man thrashed in the chair, eyes wide with terror.
"Wait! Wait! I’ll talk! I’ll talk!"
Blake moved in slowly. He took one last long drag from his cigarette before flicking it onto the floor.
"See? You could’ve saved yourself all this," he said coldly. "Your face didn’t have to get ssed up if you’d just talked earlier."
He stared the young man down.
"Talk." Blake’s voice shifted deeper, darker. His expression turned unreadable.
The young man swallowed hard, his voice cracking. "Soone... soone hired . He wanted to kill a little girl. He said he’d pay two hundred grand."
Blake’s jaw tightened.
"I didn’t want to do it at first," the young man continued, desperate now. "But I owe a lot of money to so dealers. Big ones. They’re after , they said they’d kill if I didn’t pay back what I owe. I was desperate. I needed the money."
Blake narrowed his eyes. "Do you know who this man is?"
The young man shook his head quickly. "No. I swear. Every ti we t, he wore a mask. I never saw his face."
Blake turned to Marcus. "Bring the folder."
Marcus returned a mont later with a file. Blake flipped it open, pulled out a photo, and held it in front of the young man.
"Was this the girl?" he asked, voice like ice.
It was Claire’s photo.
The young man’s eyes widened. He nodded frantically. "Yes. That’s her! That’s the kid he wanted dead. But there was sothing weird about it. He told not to just shoot her, he told to shoot random people too. Make it look ssy."
Blake let out a dry, bitter chuckle.
"He told you to do that," Blake said slowly, "so it wouldn’t look like you were only after the girl."
Blake turned to Marcus. "Clean it up."
Marcus gave a silent nod.
Monts later, several broad-shouldered n in suits, dressed just like Blake and Marcus, entered the room. Without a word, they threw a black cloth over the young man’s head and dragged him out, his muffled cries echoing against the crumbling walls.
They shoved him into a black van parked just outside and disappeared onto the main road.
Blake stepped into his own car, shut the door, and dialed a number.
It rang once.
Zeke picked up.
"He talked," Blake said. "Soone hired him to kill Claire."
There was silence on the other end for a few long seconds.
Then Zeke spoke, voice low and sharp. "Take him to the warehouse."
Blake exhaled once and replied, "Okay." He started the engine and drove toward the warehouse.
***
anwhile, at the hospital, Claire had drifted back into sleep, her tiny body still fragile, bandaged and pale beneath the thin hospital blanket.
Zeke stood by the window, staring out at the parking lot below, though his mind was nowhere near it. The call with Blake had ended, but its weight lingered like a stone in his chest.
Soone hired him to kill Claire.
He tightened his grip on the phone until his knuckles turned white.
Across the room, Cassidy sat at Claire’s bedside, gently brushing the girl’s hair with her fingers. Her face was pale with exhaustion, but she never stopped watching Claire, never let go of her hand.
She glanced at Zeke. "Is everything okay?"
Zeke turned. Their eyes t. For a mont, his expression changed, fear, rage, guilt flashing in his eyes. But he pushed it all down and nodded.
"Yeah," he said, voice calm. "Just work."
Cassidy didn’t press. She looked back at Claire and continued humming softly, whispering soothing words only a mother could offer.
Zeke took a few steps toward Cass, his gaze briefly drifting to Claire’s bed before settling on her. His expression softened slightly, but there was a distant look in his eyes, as if his mind was still miles away.
Finally, he spoke, voice low but steady.
"I won’t be able to stay. I have to go sowhere. But I’ll be back."
Cassidy looked up, surprised at first, but nodded gently.
Zeke hesitated. The sight of Xavier still seated in the corner made his chest tighten. Even with Clara there, he hated leaving Cassidy alone with another man. Especially one who cared.
But Claire ca first. Always.
He clenched his jaw, forcing the feeling down.
Cassidy gave a small smile. "It’s okay. Claire’s stable now, and she’s sleeping. You can step out for a bit. Who knows, maybe she’ll be awake by the ti you’re back."
Zeke looked at her for a beat longer, like he wanted to say more. But in the end, he only gave a short nod.
"I’ll be back soon."
With that, he turned and quietly stepped out of Claire’s room, leaving Cassidy behind.
***
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