Kathy leaned closer, voice soft but edged. “Come on, WS. You made it once. You can make it again. What’s the trick?”
WS blinked. “Baka.”
Leia frowned. “Excuse me?”
He tilted his head, same vacant expression. “Baka.”
Kathy crossed her arms. “Don’t play dumb. You had a method.”
“Baaaaka,” WS repeated — slow, drawn out, almost musical this time.
Leia’s lips thinned. “He’s mocking us.”
“No,” Kathy murmured. “He’s watching.”
Another “Baka,” this one lilting, like a question. The sisters exchanged glances — a beat off now, trying to figure out if he was stalling, confused, or just insane.
Romero sighed from the side, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t hit ladies,” he muttered, reaching for his phone.
He dialed. “Walt. Some unwanted guests have overstayed their welcome. Might need some backup — I don’t hit ladies, you know that.”
From the other end came Walt’s booming voice, laughter already in it:
“You need help with
ladies, Romero?”
Another voice — Dalton’s — cut in, laughing harder: “He’s a pussy!”
Romero rolled his eyes, hanging up. “Idiots,” he muttered.
He had no clue that his restraint had just saved him from pulling a gun on the wrong family. Leia and Kathy Zane weren’t just any women — they were
Zanes. In the Northeast, that name could quiet entire rooms.
WS, still slouched, caught the irony.
Romero doesn’t even know who they are… and somehow, he made the smartest move in the room.
He let his head tilt back, eyes nearly closed, lips twitching.
Nice having people who can use their heads. Rare breed among bikers.
Both women finally rose to leave, though not before Leia tried one last test. She leaned close, moving with that deliberate grace of someone used to controlling a room — waiting for the faintest twitch in WS’s mask. None came. The same vacant, stupid face stared back at her.
Kathy was subtler. As she passed him, she leaned in and murmured, “I’ll be back,” her voice low enough that only he could hear. Her hand brushed his shoulder — for a fraction longer than polite. Still, WS didn’t move, didn’t blink.
When the sisters reached the door, Leia turned. “By the way… what does ‘baka’ mean?”
Romero, half-amused, half-tired, answered without looking up: “Stupid.”
The two Zanes exchanged a look. Leia smirked. “Nick’s kid’s dumber than our cousin’s kid,” she said, shaking her head. Kathy didn’t answer, just smiled faintly as they stepped out.
The door closed behind them.
WS exhaled slowly. “What was that last part supposed to mean?”
Romero shrugged. “The Zanes showed up in Texas before it was even American. Built big ranches, didn’t like mixing with anyone who wasn’t them.”
WS frowned, processing it. “You mean…?”
Romero gave him a look. “Yeah. Incest.”
WS blinked once, deadpan. “Baka,” he muttered — this time under his breath, for himself.
When the Angels finally arrived in force at the clinic, Nick was at the door talking with Nojiko. Inside,
Zara and
Vanessa went straight to see WS — but froze when they found their
aunt Kathy and
mother Leia stepping out of his room.
Leia stopped for a heartbeat, then smiled with a kind of polished venom. “Well, isn’t this cozy,” she said.
Kathy ignored her, stepping forward to pull her nieces close, kissing their cheeks with genuine affection.
Leia’s smile sharpened. “If you love children that much, maybe you should’ve had your own. They’re cute, sure — until you realize they’re more trouble than they’re worth.”
The words cut clean.
Zara flinched, her eyes falling to the floor. Kathy’s arms tightened protectively before she let go, her expression going cold.
As the two Zane sisters turned to leave,
the Angels poured through the hallway — heavy boots, loud voices, and a presence that filled the building.
That’s when
Nick saw her —
Leia Zane, walking toward the exit with that slow, calculated grace of someone who knew everyone around her was already beneath her. His stomach dropped. He shoved past two of the Angels and went straight to
Zara, who was still pale and shaken.
He pulled her into his arms, muttering something she didn’t quite hear — just the old nervous habit he always had when the Angels were near. But this time it wasn’t the Angels making him sweat.
Vanessa, meanwhile, turned toward Kathy. “Is he okay? My new brother?”
Kathy hesitated for a fraction of a second, then forced a soft smile. “He’s fine, sweetheart. Just resting.”
Vanessa nodded, but her eyes stayed fixed on her aunt’s face — the look of worry wouldn’t leave her.
Kathy’s expression darkened again as Leia’s heels clicked against the floor, each step echoing down the corridor. Every Angel in the hallway had gone quiet, watching her pass. None of them needed an introduction.
Even the loudest of them — the ones who usually laughed at danger — just moved aside.
Because in the northeast,
everyone knew Leia Zane.
And everyone smart enough knew to be afraid of her.
Romero was mid-sentence — “That was the right call, pun intended—” — when Vanessa burst through the door and threw herself straight at WS. He barely had time to brace; she hit him hard enough to rock the bed, her arms wrapping around him like she was afraid he might vanish if she let go.
Zara followed close behind, Nick holding her by the arm, and Nojiko right after — calm on the surface, but her eyes sharp as scalpels, scanning every twitch and breath.
Vanessa pulled back, staring at WS’s dumb, empty face — the same dull eyes, that slack half-smile. The shock hit her like a punch. “God… hello,” she said, voice trembling. “I— I don’t even know what to say.”
WS blinked slowly, then reached out and took her hands gently, as if mimicking warmth. “Baka,” he said softly.
It sounded kind, somehow.
Vanessa looked at Nick with tears starting to form. “I don’t know who’s the real monster,” she said quietly. “My mother for what she does… or Uncle William for putting him like this.”
Nojiko stepped in, switching to Japanese as naturally as breathing. Her tone was calm but probing — full of logical traps, contradictions, and soft commands woven into her sentences. WS let her talk, keeping his face empty, his eyes dull.
“Baka,” he replied again.
Nick frowned. “What are you saying to him?”
“I’m just talking nonsense,” Nojiko said, still studying WS. “Trying to see if he reacts to logic traps. He didn’t.”
WS caught every word. The final one she whispered in Japanese — quiet, motherly, dangerous:
“Mō itazura shiteiru nara… kono akuma, shiri wo tataku kara ne.”
He translated it in his head, amused.
If you’re tricking us, little devil, I’ll blast your ass with the slipper.
He almost smiled but stopped himself just in time.
Nick looked between them, confused. “What did he say?”
“Gibberish,” Nojiko lied smoothly.
Then she sighed. “When he was a kid, he used to pull tricks like this — fake sleep, fake memory loss, whole performances just to see who’d catch on. He’d keep it up for days. Wicked kid.”
Nick frowned, still trying to wrap his head around it.
“I should’ve used the slipper more,” Nojiko added under her breath.
Inside, WS laughed — quietly, detached — but on his face, only that dull “baka” escaped again, half-whispered, half-performed.
Nick frowned. “Why the logic traps?”
Nojiko kept her gaze on WS. “Because he has this… instinct. It’s like perfect pitch, but for lies. If there’s a logical inconsistency, his eyes twitch, his forehead frowns — and then he locks in. He can’t help it. It’s instinctual.”
She smiled faintly, though her tone carried a mix of pride and guilt. “It’s how me and Nami got so good at debating. He always caught when something
felt wrong. At first, we thought he was psychic or something, but later he told Nami — who told me — that he was just reading our faces, our tone. When we weren’t sure of what we were saying, he’d pick it up instantly.”
Nick tilted his head. “So, what was it really?”
“No,” Nojiko said quietly. “I tested him once — said total nonsense with absolute conviction. If it was about reading certainty, he’d have missed it. But it’s like… his mind’s tuned between frequencies, and when something goes off-key, he jumps.”
Nick thought for a moment. “An automatic reaction. He can’t control it.”
“Exactly.”
“I saw something like that once,” Nick murmured. “Friend of the family had a kid with autism. Sweet boy, but all Looney Tunes when overwhelmed. Still, the moment someone said something wrong — even slightly — about what he knew, he’d snap out of it, correct them on instinct.”
Nojiko’s throat tightened. She hadn’t told Nick
that.
She leaned in closer, her voice a whisper. “You guessed his condition?”
Nick hesitated, then nodded slightly. “I suspected. But… he’s normal most of the time.”
“No,” Nojiko said softly, her eyes never leaving WS. “He’s just an amazing actor…
ninety-nine percent of the time.”
Zara, standing just behind them, caught the tone in her voice — low, mournful, protective.
Her own voice was barely a whisper. “So that’s why Nami’s so secretive about him…”
Nick nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “Yeah… I’m pretty sure of my assessment.”
Nojiko exhaled through her nose — part laugh, part resignation. “Thing is… so am I.” Her voice dropped. “He
does try to act normal. But sometimes he goes like this — like he is now —
on purpose. To test people. Or when he feels threatened.”
Nick’s brow furrowed.
“So yes,” she went on, “ninety-five percent of the time he’s fine. But that last four percent? That’s him pretending to be worse than he is. To catch people off guard. It’s why I can never completely trust my own son when it comes to his condition. He has it, no doubt, no matter how much it hurts to admit it… but he also
uses it. I just don’t know why.”
Nick scratched his jaw, thinking aloud. “Maybe to keep people guessing. If eighty percent of the time he acts out it’s
not real, then when it really happens… no one will exploit it. They’ll be loyal. Ready. He knows it’ll happen again, and he can’t stop it — but at least if the people around him are used to it, they won’t panic.”
Nojiko blinked, surprised. “What do you mean?”
Nick shrugged, half-smiling. “He’s running test drills. Like fire drills. Making sure when it finally hits, he’s got a soft mattress to land on. Or at least… that’s how I’d do it if I had something I couldn’t control.”
For a moment, Nojiko just stared at him. Then she laughed softly and hugged him. “You’re such a sensitive dude.”
Nick blushed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh… actually read it in one of Vanessa’s vampire books. About this vampire who knows one day he won’t be able to control himself.”
From behind them came a faint, almost guilty sound — Zara’s quiet little laugh.
They both turned. She looked down, cheeks red, trying not to meet their eyes. She’d clearly been listening the whole time.
“I was just…” she mumbled, twisting a strand of hair between her fingers. “Thinking of Vanessa’s books. She’s eighteen but acts like she’s twelve sometimes.”
Her voice was small, embarrassed — not teasing, not mocking. Just… human.
Nick gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze, wordlessly telling her it was fine. Nojiko smiled softly, letting the moment settle — the tension bleeding out of the room little by little.
Nojiko lowered her voice, eyes on Zara. “This stays in the family. He’s got too much to lose if people start treating him differently.”
Zara’s jaw tightened. “They already do. People treat him different because he
is different.”
“No,” Nojiko said, firm but quiet. “Not the fool he pretends to be — that’s his armor. His way of handling people. But if anyone starts looking at him with pity or disgust… it’d destroy him. You don’t know how hard he’s worked to seem this… normal.”
Vanessa kissed WS on the cheek. “I’ll try to visit more,” she said softly. “But Daddy doesn’t like me coming unless he’s here. He says the Angels are violent assholes with zero respect for women.”
Dalton and Walt exchanged a grin. “Yep. Pretty much, cutie.”
Vanessa’s face lit. “Don’t worry — if you’re the boss’s little sister, we’d never hurt you. We’ll keep you safe.”
“How?” she asked.
“By beating up whoever makes you sad,” Dalton said, casual, proud.
Vanessa’s smile went wickedly simple. “Good. Then go outside and beat my mother. She made my sister cry.”
The room registered the words a split second before the meaning hit. Dalton and Walt’s grins vanished; color drained from both their faces as comprehension landed like a punch. Walt’s hand froze mid-gesture.
“Who’s your mommy?” Dalton managed, voice tight.
“Leia Zane,” Vanessa said, completely blunt.
The name hit like a bomb. The two men went white.
Nick cut in fast. “Ignore her, guys — she’s young, I spoil her, sorry.”
Walt nodded too quickly, swallowing. “Right. Sure, Nick.”
As Nojiko shepherded the girls toward the door, Walt lingered, nervous energy poorly masked. He cracked a beer and, half-joking, tipped it toward WS’s head.
WS didn’t move. He kept the stupid face perfectly. Then, voice flat and calm without changing expression: “If one drop of that beer hits my head, I’ll cut off your balls.”
Walt froze. Romero’s laughed. The room bursted for a long, sharp beat before Walt set the can down slowly and laughed, too loud.
WS murmured “baka” — soft, performed, unreadable — and the hallway was filled with boots and low voices.
The clinic smelled like smoke and disinfectant.
Romero leaned against the counter, watching WS spark a cigarette with a shaky hand.
“You okay, man? Those two crazy hags can drive a man insane.”
WS took a long drag, eyes half-lidded.
“Yeah… family’s hard to deal with.”
Romero smirked. “You a Zane now or what?”
WS exhaled through his nose. “No. But my mother married the father of two of the Zane offspring. Even if they don’t carry the name.”
Dalton popped a beer open and passed it across.
WS caught it with his right hand, the left still stiff. “Fuck, this shit’s exhausting.”
Walt chuckled. “I get it. Handling someone like Leia is hard enough, but her
and Kathy? Shit…”
“That was the easy part.” WS leaned back, eyes flicking toward the hallway. “It’s my mother that’s the hard nut to crack.”
He took a sip of beer. “So what’s the ruckus outside?”
Dalton shrugged. “The guys rolled in as soon as Romero called. If we’d known it was Leia and Kathy, we would’ve brought the assault rifles.”
WS smirked. “Get the trusted ones inside.”
“The rest?” Walt asked.
“They wait outside. Only those I—” WS caught himself, corrected smoothly, “—we trust get the truth. The rest can say I’m permanently retarded.”
Romero frowned. “That’s unfair. They’re all here for you.”
“Yeah, sure,” WS said quietly, tapping ash into an empty cup. “But some of them might talk to the wrong people. Word gets out that I’m fine, and it reaches the wrong ears.”
Walt looked miffed. “Something you wanna say, Walt?”
Dalton cut in before Walt could answer. “They told Robertson and Greg. Greg let it slip to Williamson, and, well… Williamson’s General Williams’ son. So, the jarhead brass already knows you’re good to go.”
WS stood slowly, testing his legs, rolling his shoulders, then flexing his left arm.
“Like this? Hardly ready. Can’t even point a rifle with this arm.”
The door opened, and a handful of trusted men stepped inside — the ones WS had named and vouched for. They brought beers, grins, and the kind of tired laughter that comes after too many long nights.
Conversation started rolling, easy and low. The Nomads filled WS in on what had been happening while he was down. The mood was good — almost normal — until the low, heavy rumble of engines broke through the chatter.
Five bikes. The sound of discipline. Power.
Everyone stopped talking. Heads turned toward the window.
Dalton squinted. “That ain’t our lot.”
Walt frowned. “Not Nomads.”
Outside, the bikes idled to a stop. Boots hit gravel.
Every man inside felt it — that weight of authority you didn’t need to announce.
WS could hear voices outside — a few whistles, then laughter, then men calling out compliments loud enough to carry through the clinic walls.
He didn’t recognize it at first — that specific hush of respect that came when real authority stepped in — not until he caught the name.
Ray.
Before he could process it, Ray was already inside, cutting through the narrow hallway like he owned the place. Helmets off, Jeremiah and Obadiah right behind him. No one stopped them; no one
would.
Ray’s voice filled the cramped room.
“What the hell happened here? Why’s the entire crew packed inside a clinic?”
Romero straightened. “The Zane girls came by, Ray. I felt something off — danger. Called for backup just in case. My bad.”
Ray shook his head. “You did good. One of those Zanes is responsible for what happened here. And trust me, they wouldn’t mind skipping the payments they agreed to — not if WS suddenly vanished, or if he’s doing better than he looks.”
WS reached behind him, grabbed a folder, and tossed it across the table.
“That’s the Wallace contract,” he said flatly. “I still have eight more to go through.”
Ray caught it, flipped it open, smirked. “Thank you, Mister Certified CPA.”
A few of the Nomads blinked. “Wait… you’re an accountant?”
WS gave a lazy shrug. “Yeah. My previous one was too expensive, so I’m saving up.”
That got a few laughs. One of the guys said, “Shit, you could help me with my taxes then,” and another chimed in, “You serious, man?”
“Later, later,” WS muttered, waving them off. “I need to review the national contracts first.”
The room went quiet for a beat. A few exchanged looks — surprise, respect, disbelief — but said nothing.
Ray caught it, his grin fading into something quieter. “Keep that to yourselves,” he said, before pulling WS in for a hug. Jeremiah followed, then Obadiah, nearly knocking over a chair.
“Fuck, this room’s cramped,” Jeremiah muttered, laughing.
Obadiah gave WS a disapproving look. “You should lay off the smokes, kid. You’re too young for that shit.”
WS smirked, lighting another anyway. “Already died twice, old man. Death doesn’t scare me anymore. Besides, if I go, at least I won’t have to see your ugly face again. Small blessings all around.”
Jeremiah burst out laughing. “He’s still got the mouth, that’s for sure.”
The tension broke then — beer cans cracked open, shoulders loosened. For the first time that day, the clinic felt almost like a clubhouse again.
The Nomads’ laughter hit her first — loud, chaotic, wild. Beer cans clanged, voices shouted over one another, backs slapped. Smoke curled thick in the cramped clinic.
And then she saw him.
WS, back to her, slouched with a beer in one hand and cigarette dangling between his fingers. He didn’t move. He didn’t react. Silent.
“WS!” she called, voice sharp, urgent.
He froze. Slowly, he turned — or maybe Ray guided him, steadying him toward her presence. And she saw him.
Her stomach twisted.
The boy she had risked everything to wake… the one she had poured herself into, sacrificed for, fought to bring back… this wasn’t him. Not the WS she remembered.
No wicked smile. No mischievous glint in his eyes. No self-confidence or bravado that made her pulse spike. Just blankness. Empty eyes. A slack expression. Silent.
Her chest tightened. Her fists clenched at her sides.
This can’t be him.
The Nomads laughed, louder this time, oblivious to her gaze. Every cheer, every shout, felt like cruelty. They were forcing him to drink, forcing him to smoke, forcing him to exist like some helpless child — and she couldn’t do anything.
Her pulse raced. Her vision narrowed on him. Every instinct screamed at her — rage, protectiveness, disbelief. This is what she had worked for? This is what he had become?
A single “baka” escaped him, almost too faint to notice. But it was enough. Enough to make her chest tighten even further, caught between hope and heartbreak.
She took a step forward, wanting to scream at the Nomads, to snatch him out of their hands, to demand they stop… but he didn’t move. He didn’t look at her. He was gone.
And all she could do was stare.
Her voice shattered the noise. “Stop it! Stop hurting him!”
The laughter faltered for a fraction of a second, then resumed — louder, more careless. The Nomads smirked, shoved each other, tested whether she was bluffing or ready for war.
Enessa moved to her side, solid and calm. Robin stayed just behind, silent, alert. Sasha’s hands shook. She could barely form the words, but fury lent them weight.
Ray stepped forward. He didn’t order — he asked, carefully, knowing how Angels worked. “Boys, let’s clear the room.”
A few muttered. One barked a joke. Some resisted, because being told what to do by anyone — even Ray — was an insult you had to answer to yourself.
Sasha’s hands tightened, voice rising. “One million each! I’ll put a million on any of your heads who don’t clear this room
right now!”
The laughter died. Lips that had been ready with retorts tightened. Eyes darted. Money, in the voice of the Petrovs, in the presence of Robin Revera, carried weight.
Robin’s fingers brushed Sasha’s jacket. Her threat hung in the air like a detonator. Any lingering doubt evaporated — the room cleared. Boots shuffled, last looks exchanged, grumbles half-muffled. One by one, they left.
The door clicked shut. Silence. Smoke drifted lazily from cigarettes, the tang of beer lingered. Only Sasha, Enessa, Robin, Ray — and him — remained.
She rushed forward, desperate, her chest pounding. The man she had risked everything for… was here.
And then she saw him clearly.
Small. Distant. Catatonic. Beer in one hand, cigarette in the other. The smile — stupid, empty. Blank eyes that hid everything she had once known.
---------
Sasha spun on Ray, trembling. “He’s—he’s broken and you’re letting them—”
Ray didn’t answer. He bent down, slipping a gentle hand behind WS’s back. WS tugged lightly at his cut, unnoticed by Sasha, and Ray guided him toward the bed.
“Alright,” Ray said softly, lifting WS onto the mattress. “He’s back in his place, safe and sound. I’ll be leaving now — since you can’t be reasoned with.”
Sasha’s fury didn’t abate. She followed him to the edge of the bed, desperate, heart pounding.
WS looked at her — blank, slack-jawed, the faint ghost of a smile curling his lips. Empty eyes. The smell of smoke on him.
She leaned down and kissed him.
Nothing.
No spark. No fire. No pull of lips or hands. No wicked grin, no defiance. Only that stupid smile, empty eyes, and the occasional meaningless “baka.”
Sasha pulled back, trembling, tears stinging. Her chest ached as she thought back to the smallness of what mattered to him — three dollars.
Three dollars.
She had half a million in the bank, her credit cards practically unlimited. To her, fifty thousand had once seemed like too much to give. He had spent
three dollars—and that had been huge for him. Every cent he had counted, every single one precious. And she… she had failed to see.
Her mind raced back to the first time she had met him, the first interactions. How she had judged, miscalculated, misunderstood the value of things in his world.
And now, after everything she had done to wake him, all the sacrifices, all the nights spent bending herself and others to bring him back… this was what he had become.
She staggered backward, chest heaving, and finally let the tears fall, cursing the world, cursing herself.
Enessa reached for her, steadying her in the car. Sasha buried her face in her hands, unable to see anything clearly.
Three dollars. She whispered it over and over. Three dollars.
And it had all led to this — to the empty eyes, the stupid smile, the absence she could not bridge.
Enessa’s voice cut through the quiet. “Maybe we should go back and pick up Robin.”
Robin blinked, realizing Sasha had left with her uncle. She should be okay, Enessa had said. That thought offered little comfort.
The room was emptied of everyone else. Boots had scuffed the floor, beer cans and half-smoked cigarettes were scattered across the desks. Smoke and the tang of spilled alcohol lingered in the air.
Robin moved to the door, clicked it shut, and pulled out a chair. She sat down, resting her forearms on the back as if it were a shield between her and WS. Her eyes stayed fixed on him.
She held a dying cigarette and placed it carefully between his fingers. Mechanically, he lifted it to his lips, inhaled, exhaled. Nothing changed. Blank eyes. The same stupid, empty smile.
Robin’s chest tightened. Every motion was precise yet hollow. He was alive, but not… him. The spark, the presence, the aura that others had described to her — the magnetism, the danger, the wicked cleverness — it was gone, buried beneath the mask.
The room was heavy with quiet, smoke curling lazily in the light. Robin gripped the chair, the shield, and simply watched. Alive, yes. Present, yes. But unreachable.
Scene 1 — Robin Confronts WS
The clinic smelled of smoke and stale beer. Empty cans rolled slightly when someone bumped the table. Robin closed the door behind her and locked it. She pulled a chair, turning it so the back faced WS — like a shield between them — and lowered herself onto it, keeping her hands ready.
“Raspberry…” she whispered, leaning close so only he could hear. “So your baka act doesn’t work on me. I guess I should thank you for returning my skivvies… you pervert.”
She watched him. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. Only the faint lift of his fingers, mechanically lifting a cigarette to his lips, betrayed that he was aware.
“Nadjia returned the panties,” Robin said, voice firmer this time. “She said you told her I tasted of raspberry.”
WS’s hand lifted the cigarette again, took a slow drag. Not a word.
“You psycho,” Robin spat, shaking her head. “Do you even know what that means?”
Still nothing. Just the mechanical movements of his hand, the ash falling from the cigarette, the quiet hum of a man fully present but completely unreadable.
Robin scowled, leaning forward. “And why… why raspberry? What kind of idiot says that?”
He didn’t answer. He said nothing.
“You’re the only one who can reach Sasha,” she muttered, almost to herself but loud enough for him to hear. “No one else… just you. I… I want to keep you alive, you hear me? For her. Because if you die… she’ll never forgive herself, and neither will I.”
She shook her head, half-laughing through the tension. “Maybe I should spike one of your cigarettes and be done with you.”
His hand lifted again, dragging the smoke into his lungs. Mechanical. Empty. No hint of his usual spark, nothing to indicate amusement, nothing to indicate fear.
Robin’s chest tightened. The realization hit her fully: he was alive. He was breathing. But all the man she had known — the one she thought she could read, challenge, even control a little — was gone behind that mask. She was left with the shell, the motions, the baka act.
And yet, even in this careful performance, she felt the pull of him — the magnetic danger that made her brain short-circuit the first time she’d touched him. She forced herself to remember: observe, don’t touch, don’t let him scramble your mind.
Scene 2 — Robin’s Monologue Continued
Robin leaned back slightly, the chair still between her and him, giving herself a thin barrier. The room was quieter now; the leftover smoke curled in lazy spirals from extinguished cigarettes on the desk.
“You know,” she began, more to herself than him at first, “my family… we started the whole Cuban cigar trend. Bigger cigars, easier to poison enemies than tiny cigarettes. Not that I’d ever do that to you… but you get the idea.”
WS’s hand lifted mechanically, caught the dying cigarette she placed between his fingers, and drew on it with the same detached, precise motion as before. Nothing else. No acknowledgment. No spark.
“You’re… too dangerous,” she continued, voice harder. “Nami’s brother, Ayuah’s cousin, Bella wants you, and Nadjia… she’s completely lost. You just… you have no idea what you’re doing to everyone.”
She shook her head, trying to marshal control over her thoughts. “And I hate what you did to Nadjia. You… you made her assertive, independent, and now… she’s not so easy to push around. I worked hard to get her on my side, to keep her aligned with the Revera interests… and you just… changed her. Unforgivable.”
Robin’s fingers tapped nervously on the back of the chair. “You get to me too, you know. The first time I touched you… my brain short-circuited. I could barely think, like I’d lost control. You make me forget my own rules.”
She exhaled sharply, attempting to regain composure. “And the undergarments… how did they end up in your hand? Nadjia returned them, yes, but… why did it have to be soaked with… whatever?” She swallowed. “I’m not even sure why I did it when Sasha yanked me away. Reflex, I guess. Electric energy short-circuited my brain again. I could hardly think.”
WS’s hand slowly dropped the cigarette butt to the side. His face remained blank, eyes unreadable, movements precise but empty.
“Baka,” he muttered after a long pause, lifting his hand slightly, almost as if acknowledging her words without giving her anything more.
Robin couldn’t help it — she laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “You’re impossible… a psycho mess.” She picked up a fresh cigarette herself, awkwardly lighting it. The smoke burned her throat, and she coughed, more from inexperience than anything else.
Handing it back to him, she added with exasperation, “You’re leading me down paths I shouldn’t even be on. I shouldn’t even be sitting here with you pretending like…” She shook her head, cutting herself off. The cigarette rested between his fingers again, his face unchanged, the act flawless.
Scene 3 — Robin’s Monologue Final
Robin watched him carefully, trying to puzzle out the man behind the blank mask. She laughed quietly to herself, a little bitter, shaking her head.
“I wish I had your skills,” she murmured, almost to herself. “To manipulate people like you do… Expert complaining to amateur, huh?”
WS’s hand remained still, cigarette perched, face unchanged.
Frustrated, Robin swatted the cigarette from his fingers. “Fine. Then tell me,” she said sharply, “what does Nadjia taste like?”
“Grapes,” he replied in the same monotone voice, not shifting expression in the slightest.
Robin blinked. “You… you’re awake, aren’t you?” she asked cautiously. Silence. She frowned, pondering. “Then what does ‘baka’ mean?”
“Idiot,” he replied, deadpan.
She laughed uncontrollably, shaking her head in disbelief. “You really are… retarded. But… you just tell me what you think of the situation, right? You just say what comes to mind?”
WS’s expression didn’t change, but she felt the shift — the faintest acknowledgment of engagement beneath the mask.
“Okay,” she said, taking a careful breath. “Nami?”
“Sister,” he said.
Her heart skipped. She had it — a thread, a way in.
“Sasha?” she tried, testing the waters.
“Warmth,” he said, and she felt it, finally. That small, precise crack in the mask, just enough for her to interact. She smiled, careful, cautious. Finally, she knew how to reach him — not completely, not yet, but enough to start.
Robin’s curiosity flared. “Mother!” she asked cautiously.
“Love!” he replied, flat, deliberate.
“And… love?” she pressed again.
“Nojiko,” he said, voice steady.
“Safety?” she ventured.
“Strength.”
Her gaze sharpened. “Vidal?”
“Baka!”
She paused, trying to keep up. “Sex?”
“Fruit.”
Robin blinked, a laugh slipping out despite herself. It was absurd, maddening, and strangely informative all at once. Each answer, precise and selective, told her as much about him as anything he could reveal openly. She was learning how to navigate this — how to interact with the mask without breaking it, without him noticing she was testing him.
Robin nudged the cigarette from WS’s fingers. He made the same mechanical motion, lifting it to his lips as if he hadn’t noticed her touch at all. The smoke wasn’t there, but the gesture was unnervingly precise.
“So…” she whispered, leaning forward just slightly, “when you say ‘raspberry,’ do you mean… Robin? Robin Revera?”
WS didn’t look at her. His eyes stayed distant, unflinching. “Shadows,” he said, monotone, the single word hanging heavier than any explanation.
Robin’s chest tightened. Shadows? Was that a warning, a description, or… some part of him she couldn’t yet see? She swallowed, trying to steady herself, and repeated more softly, “Are… you awake? Or is this just your act?”
His gaze flicked toward her, blank and unreadable. “Baka,” he muttered, flat, like a judgment rather than a reply.
She couldn’t help it — a nervous laugh escaped her. “You… you really are impossible. You just react the way you think, huh? That’s… that’s all?”
He tilted his hand, mimicking the action of taking a drag, yet never breaking the blank mask. Robin watched, a mix of fascination and fear knotting her stomach.
Her thoughts ran over everything: Nadjia, Sasha, the others he’d affected, the power he held without seeming to try. And yet… here, now, he was quiet, controlled, inscrutable.
Robin’s eyes flicked to him, measuring, analyzing, as she tried again. “Nami?” No reply. “Sasha?” Silence.
She swallowed hard, the weight of the quiet pressing down.
He’s still in there, she thought.
He just… doesn’t enjoy repeating himself.
Her gaze stayed locked on him, trembling slightly.
Will you get better? she wondered.
Could I… if I gave myself to you… would you turn me into… whatever you made Nadjia?
Her face burned as heat flooded her cheeks. She forced herself to look down at her own feet, ashamed of even thinking it. Slowly, nervously, she lifted her head.
The eyes that met hers were no longer absent — but it wasn’t him. It wasn’t the WS she had known. They were cold, calculating, predatory. Eyes like a crocodile watching its prey.
A scream tore from her throat, and she stumbled back, heart hammering.
Then his voice broke the frozen air, dragging each word slowly, unevenly, not deliberate, not playful — terrifyingly calm. “Would you want to be like Nadjia?”
Her breath caught. She shook her head, tears pricking her eyes.
No… too much.
He lay back on the bed, the cigarette long since discarded. His gaze, unwavering, fixed somewhere beyond her. “People presume me a monster,” he said, slow, deliberate in its weight. “But the reality… I am an artist. A sculptor, if you wish. I cannot sculpt something that is not already in the granite, the wood, or the marble. I cannot make you Nadjia, like I could not shape Nadjia into… Sasha. I can only work with what is already inside.”
He paused, letting the words settle, dragging them out, shaping the silence itself. “Perhaps… we can change the properties of the material we work with… but an artist cannot turn wood into marble, or gold. One works with what one has.”
Robin’s hands curled into fists, nails biting her palms. Her chest heaved. She felt both relief and horror — the man she had hoped to reach, the one who had affected so many around him… was still here, but not in the way she had imagined.
Robin’s voice trembled. “What… was that?”
WS didn’t move, didn’t shift more than a fraction of a muscle. One word, slow and deliberate: “Tired.”
“What do you mean?” she pressed, leaning closer.
“Sleep.”
Her brow furrowed.
Sleep? she thought, puzzling it over. Could he have… multiple states of awareness even while resting?
So he was answering me, but not fully awake… Her mind spun.
The monster before he’s socialized, the one Sasha couldn’t reach… he needs to rest to walk among people again.
She recalled the look he had given her — those crocodile eyes, cold, patient, inhuman. In the biker world, it would have unnerved some, but others would see it as a tactical advantage.
They weren’t mocking him… they were stimulating him. Sasha misunderstood. Relief and fascination fought in her chest. He will recover.
She remembered a name. “Bella?”
One word again, calm, measured. “Desire… too dangerous.”
Her heart skipped. Only the person he referred to with more than one word in these semi-conscious replies. No fruit, no frivolity.
A tremor in his breath caught her attention — the slightest hitch, subtle, like a pulse of temptation. Apple.
Temptation.
Robin sat back, silent for a long moment, trying to process what she had just witnessed. WS was awake, aware, yet resting in a place between predator and man. And if anyone could navigate that… she thought grimly, it wouldn’t be her.
Robin’s gaze lingered on him, her chest tight. “And… Nadjia?” she whispered, almost afraid to break the fragile quiet. “Next time she comes… will she be safe?”
WS’s eyes didn’t flicker. His voice, low and calm, carried only a single word: “Satisfied.”
Robin blinked, puzzled.
Satisfied? Did that mean he was aware, that he had assessed the situation and found it acceptable? Or was it just another fragment of this strange, half-asleep state? Her mind raced, weighing possibilities, the tiniest shiver of relief brushing against her fear. Nadjia… she would survive. For now.
Robin’s hands clenched in her lap. “Nadjia… she told me you’re preparing her… for when you choose a man for her. The one she will marry. Is that… true?”
No reply.
“She also said… if you told her to serve the entire chapter—or your crew—she would. Without question. How… how do you have so much power over her?”
Silence.
“She would walk the streets… turn a profit… for you, wouldn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“Then why don’t you sell her? Enough money for anyone, right?”
“No need.”
“And your crew… I’m sure they’d love a girl like Nadjia?”
“I don’t share what’s fully mine.”
Robin drew a shaky breath, anger and disbelief coiling together. “Nadjia is a person. She’s free.”
“She gifted herself,” he said, voice calm, almost soft. “Oathed herself to me.”
Robin sat back in her chair, the wooden back pressed like a shield between her and him. She thought of Nadjia — the pride in her voice when she’d spoken about increasing her back enhancer under WS’s instruction. She’d winced at first, shocked by the extent of her compliance, but Nadjia had spoken it like a badge of honor. Robin’s chest tightened. How much could one person be willing to give for that man? And yet… Nadjia had chosen it. It had been her will.
The Finger Test
Robin’s finger trembled as she reached toward his lips, barely brushing them. WS did not flinch or acknowledge her movement beyond lifting his hand, as if following a script she did not yet understand.
“Raspberry?” she whispered.
“Raspberry,” he replied, monotone, mechanical.
Robin drew her finger back and tasted it. Nothing like raspberry. Just a faint, undefinable twang. Her stomach fluttered.
She looked up at him. The corner of his mouth hinted at a small, deliberate smile. Her heart caught.
He’s playing with me, she realized. Even now. Even in this strange, frozen state.
Panic and fascination twisted together. She muttered under her breath, anger bubbling over: “Asshole.”
His head tilted slowly. “Did you… touch yourself thinking of me?”
Heat rose to her face. Her pulse raced. She bolted for the door, flustered, thoughts spinning:
How did he know? Could he really… smell it on me?
She collided lightly with her uncle Ray, who had been quietly observing. Relief — and frustration. Ray would not, could not, deal with WS the way she might wish.
As she fled, her mind spun:
Not many could handle him… I could… but too dangerous. Too reckless. Too cheap. Better leave it alone… for now.
And yet, the image of that subtle smile, the twang on her finger, lingered in her mind. The realization hit hard: the “vegetable” had been fully aware, and she had been played.
Robin stumbled out of the room, cheeks burning crimson, pulse thrumming in her ears. She didn’t even look back as she pulled the door shut — maybe a little harder than she meant to — and took a deep breath in the corridor, trying to steady herself.
Her mind was still spinning.
Did he actually say that?
The echo of WS’s last question still clung to her skin, hot and shameful. She hated that her body had reacted at all — hated even more that he knew.
She was halfway through that spiral when she collided with someone solid. The scent of leather, smoke, and rain hit her all at once.
“Whoa there, kid,” Ray said, steadying her by the shoulders. His voice carried its usual gravel, but there was concern beneath it. “You alright? You look like you ran a mile.”
Robin blinked, trying to compose herself. “I’m fine, Uncle Ray.”
He gave her a long, unreadable look. “You been talkin’ to him?”
“Yes,” she said quickly — too quickly. “He’s… coherent enough.”
Ray’s brow furrowed. “Did he say somethin’?”
Robin opened her mouth — then shut it. There was no way she could explain any of
that without sounding insane, or worse, compromised. “Nothing important,” she lied, forcing a faint laugh. “Just… weird dreams stuff. You know how coma cases are.”
Ray studied her, his gaze narrowing slightly. He’d known this girl since she could walk; she wasn’t good at hiding things. “Weird dreams, huh.”
He let it sit, then stepped past her toward the door. “Well, I better check on the boy anyway. You head home — Jeremiah’ll see you out.”
She nodded, trying to regain her composure. “Right. Thanks.”
As she walked off down the hall, she heard Jeremiah’s low voice behind her — “You okay, Miss Robin?” — but she didn’t answer. She just kept walking, her mind caught between shame and confusion.
Behind her, Ray watched her go. The faint tremor in her step didn’t escape him, nor the flush that hadn’t quite faded. He exhaled slowly through his nose.
The hell did you say to my niece, boy?
He pushed the door open.
The door creaked open slowly. The familiar sound of heavy boots echoed against the tile. Ray stepped in first, followed by Ezekiel and Amos. The faint smell of engine oil and cigar smoke filled the air, grounding the room again in their world.
Jeremiah wasn’t with them — his absence explained by the faint sound of a bike revving somewhere outside. He was escorting Robin home, and that alone said more than words.
Ray’s eyes lingered on WS for a second longer than usual — something in his niece’s flushed exit had put him on edge. But the boy’s face was calm, almost too calm, the same stillness that unsettled most men who thought they understood control.
Without a word, Ray tossed a small laminated card onto the side table. “Got your driver’s license back,” he said. “But you’re gonna have to go down to the border office to make it official. It’s where most of the Angels got theirs done. Easier that way.”
WS looked at it — his own face staring back — and said nothing.
Ray continued, lighting a cigarette as he talked. “Technically, you don’t need it. You’re registered as Army corporal. That usually gets you through checkpoints without a fuss.”
A pause.
Ray’s tone hardened slightly. “’Cept you don’t have your military ID anymore, do you?”
WS blinked once, the faintest twitch in his jaw. “No.”
Ray grunted, reached into his vest, and flipped a small green plastic card across the table. It slid perfectly to a stop beside the license. “You do now,” he said simply.
General William, who’d entered quietly behind them, stepped closer. His voice was low but commanding. “You’ll want to keep that close, son. Things are shifting fast, and we might have to act on short notice.”
WS’s gaze lifted to him — unfocused, tired, but steady. “I’m not ready.”
William studied him for a long moment, then nodded once, slow and measured. “Then you’d better get ready.”
The words hung in the air — not an order, not even pressure, just inevitability.
Ray flicked ash into the tray and crossed his arms. “You heard the man. Get some rest, get your head clear. We’ll talk routes and border passes tomorrow.”
The room fell quiet again as they turned to leave, the faint hum of the ceiling light buzzing over the silence.
When the door clicked shut, WS’s eyes drifted toward the ID on the table — two symbols of authority returned to him by men who treated him as one of their own.
He reached for the cigarette Ray had left burning in the tray, raised it halfway to his lips — then stopped, fingers trembling ever so slightly.
“I said I’m not ready,” he murmured again.
Ray finally broke the silence. “What did you and my niece talk about?”
WS blinked, eyes dull as stagnant water. The man’s whole face seemed to empty out, replaced with a hollow vacancy. Then, in the most bored monotone he could summon, he said, “Baka.”
Obadiah burst out laughing, wheezing. “Oh man, he hit her with the baka!”
Ray didn’t smile. WS sighed, leaned back, and started to explain in that slow, dragging voice that made it hard to tell if he was mocking them or just exhausted.
“You might wanna give her the birds-and-bees talk,” he said. “She wouldn’t shut up about Sasha—her best friend—like I owed that Petrov bitch something.”
Ezekiel raised a brow, but WS kept going. “Every time I said ‘baka,’ she’d get all irritated. Started talking my ears off.”
Obadiah snorted. “Oh, that sounds like her alright.”
WS deadpanned, “She even tried to stick her fingers in my mouth.”
Ezekiel blinked. “She what?”
Obadiah howled. “Jesus, WS, only you could make a Revera girl lose her damn mind.”
WS shrugged, unbothered. “We also debated raspberries.”
“Raspberries?” Ezekiel frowned. “What the hell does that even mean?”
WS just lifted one shoulder in a lazy half-shrug. “How am I supposed to know?”
That earned another round of laughter, but Ray didn’t join in. He stepped closer, his shadow falling across the bed. His voice was low but clear.
“She’s precious to me,” he said. “Don’t mess with her.”
The laughter cut off. Silence fell like a gavel.
WS met his eyes. “That’s what I’m trying to do—
not mess with her. It’s not like I’ve been visiting her for the past three months. Talk to her. Tell her to calm her horses.”
Ray folded his arms. WS went on, tone still steady but edged now.
“Me and the Petrov Ice Princess? Never had anything. But Robin acts like Sasha owns me—like she gets to decide what happens to me. And since she’s Sasha’s best friend, she thinks she gets to enjoy the ride.”
He paused, voice flattening further. “I just told her no. She screamed and left.”
Ray’s jaw flexed, but before he could say anything, WS added almost casually, “I even joked we might look good together.”
That did it. Amos cracked first, laughter booming through the room. “Oh, sweet innocent Robin imagining herself with a biker! No wonder she went red!”
Obadiah doubled over, slapping his knee. Ezekiel was shaking his head, half-smiling despite himself.
Ray didn’t laugh. He rubbed a hand over his beard and muttered, “You’re gonna be the death of me, kid.”
WS tilted his head, the faintest smirk ghosting across his lips. “That’s what they all say.”
For a long moment, Ray studied him — weighing, measuring. Then he sighed and turned toward the door. “Don’t push your luck, WS.”
The others followed him out still chuckling, their laughter echoing down the hall.
WS lay back, eyes half-lidded, the smirk fading as he exhaled. Alone again, the silence folded in — and somewhere, faintly, the ghost of Robin’s perfume lingered.
The laptop hummed. WS skimmed another invoice, eyes tired but precise.
“They should be,” he said without looking up, “if they weren’t handled by amateurs. We’re good at violence and brotherhood, not business or bookkeeping.”
Romero leaned in, impressed despite himself. “You seem good enough,” he offered, though his tone carried a sliver of doubt — there were rumors the wins some lads chalked up to WS were actually cooked up by a quieter hand: a sister who knew law better than most lawyers. Some thought WS took credit for what Nami actually did.
WS let out a slow breath. “Try having a mother like mine,” he said. “Everything’s disappointment. No love unless you pretend to be asleep so she lets her guard down — or you better be the best at whatever you do.” He tapped the margin of a spreadsheet. “That’s why Vidal went into medicine — it’s my mom’s field, so he wanted her approval. Nami always loved to teach; Nojiko told her the best way to develop was to debate, and she found she was good at arguing the law.”
“If it were up to me — if we weren’t what we are — I’d have her by my side in court,” he added, almost wistful.
Romero blinked. “Why can’t we?”
WS’s face hardened for a moment. “I love my sister too much to drag her into this world of abusive assholes,” he said. “I’d murder for her — I nearly offed an angel who made a move on my sister. For her sake and mine, better she stays clean.”
Romero rubbed his chin. “That’s a pity. I’ve got four friends down in SoCal nailed to something nasty. Regular lawyers say it’s impossible.”
“They didn’t do it?” WS asked.
“No,” Romero said. “Probable cause should be enough — but it’s my four friends against an entire police department.”
WS whistled low. He pushed the papers aside and met Romero’s eyes. “Get me the courtroom documents. I’ll look them over.”
Romero let out a breath that was half relief, half disbelief. “If anyone can find the seam, it’s you.”
WS nodded once, already returning to the numbers. “I’ll look. Don’t expect miracles.”
Mind if I put on some music, boss?
WS (absent, eyes on a document)
Sure.
(grumbling)
Columns versus lines… ffs, who made this shit?
Why not just put it on Excel like a normal person?
(Romero chuckles as he scrolls through his phone and hits play. A soft country ballad fills the room — Chris Young’s “The Man I Want to Be.” WS looks up, puzzled.)
WS
Shouldn’t you be playing some Mexican music or something?
ROMERO (half-smiling)
I’m American first.
Besides… my wife’s a girl from Minnesota.
She loves this kind of stuff — this guy, especially.
(There’s a faint crack in his voice when he says “wife.” WS catches it, looks up quietly.)
WS
You got hurt in your tone there.
You wanna talk — unburden — I’m here.
ROMERO (takes a deep breath, then lets it out)
I miss her, yeah.
But it’s not the missing that’s the problem.
Riders are cunts, man.
WS (without looking up yet)
What do riders have to do with your wife, Romero?
(Romero steps closer, rests against the wall — his voice softens, loses its usual edge.)
ROMERO
Met her in L.A.
She was hooked on stuff… real bad.
When you and your crew tore down the South Cali Rider chapter —
you dropped most of their assets.
Girls, cars, clubs — all of it.
(He rubs his face, remembering.)
One day, I’m riding through the city and this woman comes at me —
full-on attack.
Screaming, crying, calling me an asshole.
She thought I was one of
them.
The Riders.
WS (softly)
Happens.
Most folks can’t tell one patch from another.
To them, we’re all the same kind of monster.
ROMERO (nodding)
Yeah.
But something about her… I dunno.
She was wrecked, shaking, smelled like despair and perfume.
So I took her to a detox clinic.
Stayed in touch.
Weeks later, she got better.
And when she finally told me her story…
(he pauses — the kind of silence that carries old pain)
She’d been property, man.
Passed around between Riders like a part to be traded.
When the club fell, she didn’t even know who she was anymore.
(WS finally looks up, eyes on Romero — unreadable, but there’s an edge of respect.)
WS
And you married her anyway.
ROMERO (smiles faintly)
Damn right I did.
Because she’s not what they made her —
she’s what she rebuilt herself into.
(The song’s chorus hits softly: “Lord, I’m asking you to come change me…”
Both men fall silent for a moment, each staring at something unseen.)
ROMERO
She detoxed completely, you know.
When I found her, she told me she’d been taken at fifteen — from some small town in Minnesota.
Put to work.
Pregnant before sixteen.
(His voice tightens, but he keeps it steady.)
They took her kid, man.
Didn’t even let her hold him.
Gave him up for adoption — the kind of place you wouldn’t let a dog sleep in.
When she got clean, she had nowhere to go.
Her family shunned her.
Seems someone from her old town told them what she’d been turned into,
and, well… they did what “good people” from good towns do.
Pretended she never existed.
(WS listens silently, eyes still scanning the papers, but his hand has stopped moving.)
ROMERO
But she fought it.
Her detox — I swear, it was a miracle.
Most Angels’ve lost friends to that shit, man.
Most vets too.
Half the brothers self-medicate just to quiet the noise.
But she—
she went cold turkey, burned through hell,
and came out swinging.
(He exhales, a small laugh breaking through the heaviness.)
Now she’s fighting to get her kid back.
He’s about to turn six.
She’s all chubby now, carrying mine —
and she’s the most beautiful woman in the world.
The fire in her when she talks about that boy…
You’d think she could burn down a courthouse with her eyes alone.
(WS finally looks up — a slow, almost approving glance.)
ROMERO
I’ve spent most of my money on lawyers.
Every damn cent.
There’s three families trying to keep that kid —
fighting us tooth and nail to adopt him.
He’s not perfect, you know?
When she was pregnant, she was high most of the time.
Riders don’t let women stay clean long enough to even dream straight.
So the boy’s got his challenges.
But he’s hers.
(A beat.)
That’s why I’m here, boss.
We need about fifty thousand a month to keep fighting the case.
And I’m out.
(Silence. The monitor hums. The song fades to its final verse.)
WS (quietly, almost offhand)
If you need more, you just ask.
ROMERO (blinks, caught off guard)
What would you want in return, boss?
(WS gives that slow, lopsided grin that never quite reaches his eyes.)
WS
For you and your girl to be happy.
Of course.
(Romero studies him — unsure if it’s a joke, a threat, or just truth.
WS goes back to the contracts, pen scratching over numbers again,
as the soft country tune dies out and the room falls into the hum of hospital machinery.)
Location: Clinic room — lamp light, contracts like a small paper war on the table. Ant stands in the doorway, military posture, watching the room with polite curiosity. Romero’s phone vibrates against his hip.
ANT (softly, sizing up WS)
You look worse than you talk.
ROMERO (answering, distracted)
Hold that — I’ve got a lead on the South Cali case.
(He steps into the hallway, voice low. WS squints at the small screen Romero slides to him — subject line: Velazquez case — court documents attached. He’s been staring at columns all day; he lets the phone do the work.)
WS (muttering as he opens the attachments)
I’ve been to this place… and these names — Velazquez, Louisa… wait. Did your cousin run with Sergio’s crew?
ROMERO (off-phone, quiet)
Yeah.
(WS’s expression folds into something sharper — not surprise, more like puzzle pieces sliding home. He pulls his own phone and dials Sergio.)
WS (into phone, blunt)
Yo, dumbass — what happened with Velazquez?
(He listens. His jaw ticks. After a beat he snaps.)
I told you to get that dumb bitch on antibiotics, ffs.
(He hangs up, eyes locked on Romero.)
It was payback. Louisa brought the heat — got some cops burning things down over there. I tasted that bitch’s pain and I woulda done far worse.
Bunch of irresponsible cunts letting a girl that attractive run like that, spreading shit to everyone.
(Romero can’t help a bitter laugh. He thumbs through his phone, and slides it over to Ant — a string of Facebook photos of Louisa: sunburned smile, lipstick smudged, a razor laugh. Ant takes them, whistles low.)
ANT (grinning, surprised)
Fucking hell. Sign me up for that piece of ass.
WS (smirk, cold)
Then take some fucking antibiotics or make sure you double-rubber the darn thing. She is dirty.
(Romero’s laugh is half-relief, half-anger. Ant tucks the phone away, still looking at the pictures.)
WS (back to business, voice hard and efficient)
Look — the paperwork’s here. Print everything. I want full timelines, arrest reports, chain-of-custody on evidence, every badge number involved. If Velazquez’s name touches those reports like Sergio says, we build it into a smear campaign on the precinct. Make it clean and surgical.
ROMERO (to Ant)
You can handle transport. You’ll be my eyes on the ground. I’m not letting another kid get shuffled off because some riders thought they were invincible.
ANT (nods)
Got it.
(WS taps a finger on the contract stack, steady.)
WS
And Romero — next time you get a lead, don’t garden-variety it. Put it on paper where I can read the blood.
(Romero grins, slaps a hand against his chest like he owns it. Ant settles into a chair, alert, the room suddenly wired with purpose.)
WS (squinting at the PDF)
You said an entire precinct, right?
ROMERO
Yeah. Why?
WS (scrolling)
Because these names don’t line up.
There’s no Scot, no Wendy — and these entries… they don’t read like city cops.
(He frowns deeper.)
If this went down with Sergio’s crew, it would’ve been San José. Right?
ROMERO
Yeah, but—who the hell are Scot and Wendy?
(WS doesn’t answer. He already knows. He scrolls through his phone and dials.)
WS (into phone)
Hey, Scot. I’ve got a file on my desk from your place — something about a guy named Velazquez.
There’s this “DPT” mark on the arrest sheets. What the hell does that mean? Department?
(A pause. Scot’s voice crackles through the line — dry, brief.)
SCOTT (phone)
Nah. DPT means deputy. County thing.
(WS nods once, lets the silence hang.)
WS
Right. Got it. Thanks, man. Stay safe.
(He hangs up. Looks down at the documents for a long beat. Then a slow smile forms — the kind that only appears when he’s found someone else’s mistake.)
WS
Missed procedure. Fucking morons.
(Romero looks up, confused.)
ROMERO
What?
WS (leans back, rubbing his temples)
DPT stands for deputy. That means this arrest wasn’t done by city cops — it was the sheriff’s department from the next county over.
They used the San José precinct as a shortcut. Some inter-county protocol to “speed up” bookings.
(He taps the report with a pen.)
Problem is, they have
no jurisdiction inside city limits.
(He points to another line.)
And look at this chain of custody: no timestamps, no initials, evidence bags unsigned, and the warrant’s not countersigned by a judge within their district.
(He tosses the papers onto the bed — disgusted, but energized.)
That’s all I need. Your cousin’s walking free on a technicality.
ROMERO (half in disbelief)
They had tons of evidence though—
WS (cuts him off)
—None of it counts if the chain of custody’s blown.
Every bag, every photo, every sample tied to that department is void.
They overstepped jurisdiction
and botched their paperwork.
It’s not even corruption — just garden-variety stupidity.
(Romero exhales, trying to process it. Ant shifts his weight at the door but stays silent — his job’s to guard, not question.)
WS (final, tired but sharp)
Tell your lawyers: jurisdictional breach by the county sheriff’s office.
No authority inside the city. Chain of evidence broken.
That’s their wedge — tell them to hammer it.
(He looks up at Romero, deadpan.)
Now you know why I don’t trust amateurs to do paperwork.
(Romero chuckles weakly. WS leans back, rubbing his eyes — fatigue showing through the brilliance. Ant watches, unreadable.)
WS (soft, to himself)
Numbers, procedures, and idiots with badges…
That’s what brings empires down.
ROMERO
How the hell do you even
know all this? I figured my cousin was cooked, man. The DA’s already polishing his trophy.
WS (without looking up, tone dry)
Because I wrote the
Angels’ Legal Playbook.
(He flips a page, scanning a column of figures like it’s a chessboard.)
Most guys think it’s some ghost document written by a lawyer who owed the club a favor. It wasn’t. Just me, a pile of case files, and a few years of arguing with Nami until one of us ran out of breath.
ROMERO
So it’s real? The Playbook? Thought that was a campfire myth.
WS
Real enough. Everything I know came from reading and sparring with her. She’s sharper, sure — sees things three moves ahead — but I’ve beaten her more than a few times. Enough to keep her interested, enough to keep me dangerous.
(He leans back, eyeing the file with a kind of tired amusement.)
Law’s just strategy with better grammar. You spot the weak point, press, and wait for the other guy to panic. These cops? They already panicked — they just don’t know it yet.
ROMERO (grinning)
So you’re the ghost lawyer everyone keeps whispering about.
WS (shrugging)
Nah. Just a guy who hates losing to idiots.
(WS finishes a note and sets his pen down.)
WS
That’s it for the case. Your cousin’s lawyers should focus on the locker mix-up and the missing tox reports. If they file clean, he walks.
ROMERO (grinning)
You make it sound like breathing, boss. Appreciate it.
(He gathers the papers but stays — no rush to leave. Ant shifts slightly, breaking his stillness.)
ANT
Evening rotation. I’ll be on watch through morning. Romero, you can stand down whenever.
WS (nods, eyes still on the paperwork)
Good. Then listen, Ant — later tonight, the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen is coming by. You’ll stand
outside the door. No interruptions, no questions, no noise. Whatever you hear — you didn’t. Got it?
ANT (half-grin)
Sure thing. Bella stopping by?
WS (flatly)
No. Nadjia.
ANT (low whistle, a touch too casual)
Nadjia, huh? Damn… woman’s a walking temptation. Bomb of sensuality. Still, I gotta admit, I’m more into Bella — something about how she talks to your brother, all confident like that… gets the blood going, you know?
(Romero grimaces — that tone is never a good sign. WS looks up slowly, the air tightening around him.)
WS (quiet, cutting)
That’s my sister-in-law you’re talking about. And Nadjia’s not a punch line. Show some restraint.
ANT (backpedaling, nervous laugh)
Didn’t mean disrespect, boss. Just talking. If I had to pick, though, I’d probably go for Nami — she’s sweet, you know? Has that—
(He stops mid-sentence. WS’s stare hits him like a gunshot.)
WS (low, controlled)
Don’t. Ever. Say my sister’s name like that again.
(Ant straightens instantly. The room goes dead silent except for the hum of the light.)
ANT
Understood, sir. Won’t happen again.
(WS studies him a second longer, then goes back to the papers as though nothing happened. Romero exhales quietly, shaking his head with a crooked smile.)
ROMERO
Told you, man — he’s calm right up until he’s not.
(Ant doesn’t reply. The silence that follows is respectful, not fearful. Lesson learned. The work resumes.)
The knock came sharp against the clinic door. One of the Honduran boys leaned in, eyes darting.
“Boss,” he said, half-grinning, “
el hermano is at the door… with that aggressive girl with the big bloopers.”
WS froze mid-note. His jaw tensed, cigarette still burning between his fingers.
“Baka mode engaged,” he muttered, almost to himself.
The door swung open before he could even finish the sigh.
Vidal stepped in first, his presence cutting through the smoky air. Behind him came
Bella, tense, restless, scanning the walls, the floor, anything that wasn’t WS.
Vidal sniffed once, frowning.
“What, you guys had a party in here?”
Romero gave a small shrug from his corner, unbothered.
“Could help the boss remember why it’s worth living.”
Vidal shot him a look but didn’t push it. He moved toward the desk, files stacked haphazardly beside half-drunk bottles and an ashtray full of dead filters. Bella lingered by the doorway, arms crossed, eyes flicking anywhere but WS.
Then, from the hallway, came a familiar voice—bright, casual, and far too cheerful for the moment.
“Talking to Ant!”
Vidal turned, eyebrows already climbing.
“FFS, Nami, what are you doing?”
“Relax,” she called back, tone light. “I’m just saying hi!”
Bella snorted, finally looking up, the corner of her mouth curling.
“Your brother’s got a six-foot-one
Ant guarding the door.”
She laughed at her own joke, but no one else joined. Vidal just sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
He flipped open WS’s medical file, scanning the pages.
“This shit makes no sense,” he muttered. “There’s no physical reason he should be behaving like this.”
Bella’s voice cut in softly, steady but with a hint of irritation.
“Tell me about it. Robin refused to pick up the phone all day. When she finally did, I said we needed to get WS some exams—she just hung up on me.”
The silence that followed was heavy, filled with smoke, paper rustle, and the low hum of country music still whispering from the corner speaker.
The last chords of
The Man I Want to Be faded, replaced by the steadier rhythm of
Lakeview’s “Home Team.”
The country drawl rolled through the clinic — clean, simple, so out of place it made everyone pause for a moment.
Nami was the first to notice. She tilted her head toward the speaker, brows drawn slightly together.
“This isn’t your music,” she said softly, almost as if afraid to break him. “What happened to your punk rock and metal?”
WS didn’t respond. He sat there in the chair, half-shadowed, fingers motionless over the desk, gaze fixed somewhere that wasn’t quite the present.
Baka mode.
Bella shifted, trying to ease the tension. “I prefer pink rock,” she said with a small smirk.
Vidal laughed — too quickly, too loud, too eager. He always did that. He wanted her happy, even if it meant pretending her jokes were gold when they weren’t even bronze.
Still, his effort mattered. It made her braver, somehow.
Bella held onto that laugh like a lifeline, let it give her the confidence to keep speaking, to tease where most girls would go quiet in a room with WS sitting there half-awake, half-terrifying.
The song carried on — warm, ordinary, human — filling the cracks between their words.
WS didn’t say a thing. His eyes stayed distant, but behind them, the mind that everyone thought was fogged over was watching everything — every look, every twitch, every word.
Nami’s eyes flicked toward
Romero. She hesitated, giving him space. Ever since
Steven, strange men made her uneasy — something she could hide from most, but not from herself.
Except for
Ant. He was different, roughly her age, with that quiet steadiness that didn’t make her flinch.
She turned from the door and crossed the room toward WS. He still hadn’t moved much, still caught in that half-trance the others mistook for confusion. Nami leaned down, brushed a soft kiss against his forehead.
“Hey, little brother,” she whispered. “I came back. You make sure you recover properly, okay?”
The door opened again just as she straightened.
Nojiko stepped in — white coat, tired eyes, all business. The kind of entrance that made the room snap a little tighter.
“Still the same?” she asked quietly, looking between Vidal and Bella.
Vidal exhaled, closing the folder he’d been studying. “I can’t do anything until we get new tests — preferably brain MRIs. Robin promised she’d help, but she’s not picking up the phone.”
Romero, still by the counter, raised a hand. “She was here today,” he said. “With that girl with the scar.”
Bella’s smirk came fast, the kind that carried both history and venom. “Sasha was back here?” She let out a soft laugh. “She’s been full of herself lately — saying she ‘awakened him.’ Guess that’s the famous Petrov efficiency for you… charging full price for a job half done.”
The words hung sharp in the stale air, slicing through the faint hum of Lakeview still drifting from the speaker.
Nojiko gave Bella a flat look.
Vidal didn’t laugh this time.
Only WS’s fingers twitched — barely, just enough for the Honduran by the door to notice.
Nami reached for WS’s phone and switched the track. The first chords of
Breaking Benjamin – Give Me a Sign filled the room. Still WS’s kind of music — heavy, layered, and familiar — but softer, reflective. For her, it carried a weight, a sense of watching someone trapped inside their own head, still recovering.
She climbed onto the bed beside him.
On the screen,
Nightmare on Elm Street flickered to life, the pale blue light casting shadows across their faces. This was part of the collection she and WS used to watch together, years ago. She couldn’t help but notice how different he looked now. Once desensitized to stimuli, he no longer felt fear. He watched the movie like a nature documentary, analyzing the characters’ motivations rather than reacting emotionally.
“You were never scared,” she whispered, leaning close. “You only looked… entranced. Like you were trying to understand the motivations of the characters.”
WS’s lips curved into a faint, humor-filled half-smile.
“
Baka!” he murmured, the single word teasing but affectionate, grounding.
Nojiko watched from nearby and smiled quietly, seeing the sibling bond play out — the closeness, the trust, the small teasing.
Across the room,
Vidal continued sifting through WS’s old test results, muttering to himself. None of it made sense. WS had taken far longer than expected to wake up, and his current condition was inexplicable. There were no new tests, no data to evaluate him properly — it was as if every known medical rule had been quietly ignored.
Romero stretched and announced he was leaving. “Ant’s taking the night shift,” he said. “The Hondurans are rotating out as well.”
Among the replacements was a young recruit — part of the so-called “youth group.” It was a joke; the Hondurans volunteered at the clinic to help keep
Nojiko safe, and now WS too. They were paid a small amount for orderly work and volunteering. The kid froze in the doorway when he noticed Nami and immediately turned bright red.
Ant smacked him lightly on the back of the head. “Better not look at the boss’s sister. Nothing good can come from it,” he said, stern and matter-of-fact.
Nami smiled at first, thinking Ant was simply looking out for her. But the smile faded as concern crept in. Her little brother — the one she had raised, protected, guided — was smothering. Had she failed so much that he didn’t trust her as an adult? She was older, capable, and yet here he was, barely speaking, still taking over her life.
WS didn’t say anything more. He simply pulled her closer.
“
Baka!” he whispered again — a quiet, teasing sound, yet full of care.
She let herself lean against him, close, safe. They watched the movie together, shoulders touching. The soft glow of the screen mixed with the low, reflective hum of
Give Me a Sign — a fragile peace in the middle of a room full of questions, confusion, and unspoken tension.
The soft hum of
Breaking Benjamin – Give Me a Sign filled the small clinic room. Nami shifted the music and climbed onto the bed beside WS, letting herself settle comfortably against him. She picked a movie from the old collection —
Nightmare on Elm Street. Memories of watching these together flickered through her mind.
“You were never scared,” she whispered, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “You only looked like you were entranced, trying to understand the motivations of the characters.”
WS gave her a teasing glance and a dry, humorous,
Baka!
Nojiko watched quietly from the chair in the corner, a small smile playing on her lips. She saw the closeness between her children — the teasing, the trust — and something in her softened.
Vidal, meanwhile, was buried in WS’s old medical files, muttering under his breath. Nothing added up. WS had taken longer than expected to wake, and his current condition was inexplicable. No new tests had been done yet.
Romero cleared his throat. “I’m heading out. Ant’s taking the night shift, and the Honduran volunteers are rotating out.”
Nami’s attention flicked briefly to the door, where a young Honduran volunteer glanced her way and blushed. Ant caught it immediately, smacking the boy lightly on the head. “Better not look at the boss’s sister. Nothing good can come from it.”
Nami felt a small swell of relief and happiness. Someone was watching out for her — but then the thought hit her. It wasn’t really for her. It was for WS. Her shoulders tensed slightly as a flicker of disappointment passed through her. Was he smothering her? She was older. She’d helped raise him. And yet here he was, still overprotective.
Before she could dwell on it too long, Bella jumped onto the other side of the bed. “What are we watching?” she asked brightly, sliding close. She leaned provocatively, moving in a way that immediately tested WS’s reactions.
Nami’s arms went around WS without hesitation, forming a shield. Bella’s expression flickered, but she quickly understood the message: WS was off-limits.
Bella huffed softly, though her motives were clear. Bored of Vidal being boring, she often used attention-grabbing tactics — pretending to drop things, leaning provocatively, watching reactions.
Vidal barely noticed. He continued muttering to himself, flipping through the files. Bella’s antics didn’t register with him at all. She “filled her tank” with attention, knowing Vidal would later help her “empty it again.”
Nojiko’s gaze softened as she recalled a conversation with Amber. Amber had been relieved Bella ended up with Vidal — a good guy who didn’t exploit her weaknesses. She had feared Bella might have chosen someone like WS. That thought made Nojiko reflect: WS was probably the wrong type of guy for most women. Still, many seemed determined to pursue him. Pride and concern tangled in her chest.
Bella, undeterred, went further, trying to provoke arousal to see if WS responded. WS grabbed her hand hard and painfully. She yelped softly, covering it with a muttered, “Must have sprained something,” understanding the unspoken warning. He hadn’t broken character, but the message was clear: boundaries intact.
WS leaned slightly toward Nami, whispering the familiar
Baka! in a tone that was teasing but protective. She leaned into him, shoulders touching, and for a moment, she felt safe and shielded, caught between relief and the familiar irritation of being smothered.
The soft strains of the music and the flickering movie light filled the room, framing an intimate and tense tableau. WS, Nami, and Bella formed the center of it, while Vidal was completely absorbed in the medical files, muttering incoherently about WS’s unexplained condition. Nojiko observed quietly from the corner, a faint smile still lingering as she took in the careful choreography of control, protection, and subtle emotional shifts.
Nick’s truck pulled up outside the clinic, horn blaring twice.
“Alright, everyone — wrap it up,” he called from the hallway. “Zara’s cooking risotto; if we don’t move now, she’ll burn the kitchen again.”
The room stirred. Jackets were lifted from chair backs, bags zipped shut, conversations faded into movement.
Bella reached for Vidal’s sleeve. “Didn’t plan it,” she said with a grin, “but I’m crashing at your place tonight.”
Vidal blinked, then shrugged with that helpless look of a man already claimed.
Nojiko exhaled softly, shaking her head. “Ffs, she’ll be there — but I doubt there’ll be much sleeping,” she muttered, eyes cutting briefly toward WS. Bella, she noticed, always seemed to draw power from being near him, even if it was just proximity.
Nami paused near the doorway, her hand hovering at her side. She looked toward Ant — Anthony — still by the wall, quiet in his stance. She wanted to thank him, maybe say goodbye, but the words got stuck.
WS saw it — the hesitation — and stayed in his
Baka act, the mask still on. Blank face, lazy smile, that boyish charm that told everyone he wasn’t thinking much of anything. He didn’t move or speak, just watched, playing harmless.
Nojiko bent over him, brushed his hair aside, and kissed his forehead. “Get well soon, little brother.”
He didn’t answer. Just grinned up at her like an idiot, letting the act play out until the last of them filed out — Nojiko and Nick last, Bella clinging to Vidal, Nami trailing after.
Then the door closed.
The grin dropped. The air thinned. The weight of his own silence pressed back into the room.
WS leaned back on the cot, exhaling slow. For a long minute, he didn’t move. Just thought.
Nami.
He hated himself for it, for the thought even existing — but she wasn’t a kid anymore. She’d discovered desire. Maybe for the first time, maybe for the wrong person, but it was there now. And if he didn’t manage it, guide it somehow, she’d run headfirst into another situation she couldn’t control.
He’d seen what men did when they held that kind of power.
He
had been one of those men.
Maybe God was punishing him — letting him feel what other families must’ve felt after he’d gone through their daughters, their sisters, their wives.
He sat up, rubbed his face, and forced himself to focus. Better to think about it, hate himself quietly, and control the outcome — than watch her walk blind into danger again.
He looked at Anthony. The kid had been still this whole time, standing guard by the wall, alert but unsure if he should stay.
“Close the door,” WS said.
Anthony obeyed, stepping closer.
WS’s tone was flat, stripped of humor. “You already have her number?”
Anthony nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” WS’s eyes didn’t lift. “John’s gonna set you up with proper training. Not the street crap — real discipline. Escorting, control, awareness… and the other part too.”
Anthony blinked, confused.
WS continued, calm and deliberate. “You need to learn how to
be with someone like her. She’s been with one guy — Steven. He knew what he was doing, and he used it to keep her hooked. You screw this up, she might think that’s all she can get, and go back to him.”
He finally looked up — eyes cold, surgical.
“If that happens, I’ll have to make him disappear. And that’ll bring too much heat. I don’t have three layers of separation for that kind of move.”
Anthony swallowed hard. “I… I understand.”
“You don’t,” WS said quietly. “Not yet. Until John signs off, you don’t touch her. Just escort her, talk, calm her down when needed. When the time comes, you make her feel safe. Not trapped. Not possessed. Safe.”
Anthony nodded again, his jaw setting firm.
WS tilted his head slightly. “You need money to take her out?”
“No, sir.”
“Good.” WS’s voice sharpened just enough to cut through the space. “Take her places. Normal stuff. Don’t feed me details. Don’t try to impress me. Just make her forget what it felt like to belong to someone who used her.”
Anthony hesitated. “And if I mess it up?”
WS’s answer came without hesitation.
“I’ll literally murder you.”
The words weren’t shouted, not even angry — they were just real.
Anthony’s shoulders stiffened. “Understood.”
Silence.
WS leaned back again, staring at the ceiling, expression unreadable. Anthony stayed still until WS waved a hand dismissively.
“Go. You’ve got training to start.”
When he was finally alone, WS closed his eyes, the faintest flicker of exhaustion creeping through. He could still hear Nami’s laugh, still see the small ways she’d started to change. She’d never understand how much of his own rot he saw reflected in her, or how hard he worked to keep it from spreading.
He forced his mind back to business — schedules, logistics, names. The
Baka was gone. The real WS was back, cold and efficient, carrying the weight of all the things he could never explain
The low hum of the fluorescent light filled the silence after everyone left. WS leaned back on the bed, face unreadable. Anthony — still standing near the door — exhaled sharply and muttered under his breath,
“Fuck my life…”
He’d just been told he had to
date Nami. Not watch her. Not guard her. Date her.
He rubbed the back of his neck like a man being sent into a minefield barefoot.
WS didn’t even lift his gaze. One hand tapped idly against the bedrail. “You’ll do fine,” he said, his tone flat — somewhere between command and indifference.
Anthony nodded once, mumbled something that sounded like
“sure, boss,” and slipped out of the room.
The door closed quietly.
A few seconds later, it opened again.
Nadjia stepped inside — the soft click of her heels barely audible. For an instant, relief bloomed across her face when she saw WS awake.
But then she met his eyes. Cold. Focused. Not the man she was hoping for.
Her smile wilted. “You’re awake…” she said quietly.
He didn’t answer. He just watched her, letting the silence weigh until she started to fidget.
When Anthony passed her on his way out, he muttered, almost to himself,
“Good luck.”
The door shut again, leaving just the two of them.
Nadjia turned back to WS, uncertain, the air between them suddenly electric.
She opened her mouth to speak, but WS’s voice cut through the quiet like a blade.
“What did you tell Robin?”
Her lips parted — confusion flickering before fear took over. “M–master?”
WS’s eyes narrowed slightly. “She knew too much. I almost got caught off guard because of her. You should have told me she knew.”
Nadjia froze. Her throat moved, trying to swallow a lump that wouldn’t go down.
Then, slowly, as if her body knew what to do before her mind did, she sank to her knees. Her voice trembled.
“I’m sorry, master. I was afraid you wouldn’t wake up. I—”
She hesitated, guilt twisting her face.
“I recruited Robin to get Sasha to help… and she found out about us.”
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
WS’s stare didn’t shift. Only the faint rise and fall of his chest gave him away.
When he finally spoke, his tone was low. Measured. Almost too calm.
“Get dressed and leave.”
She blinked, stunned. “W–what?”
“I need to think,” he said.
“I have no time for you tonight.”
The words hit harder than a slap. Nadjia’s face drained of color. Panic crept into her eyes.
She tried to speak,
“Master, please—”
WS moved before she could finish.
His hand shot forward, tangling in her hair, jerking her head up until their eyes met.
His voice was quiet, dangerous.
“Are you disobeying me?”
Nadjia’s body went rigid. Her pulse visible in her throat.
She shook her head frantically.
“No… of course not, master.”
He released her.
She stayed still for a second — trembling, breathing hard — then hurried to gather her clothes.
Her fingers shook as she buttoned her blouse.
When she turned to leave, her eyes lingered on him — regret, fear, and something like longing mixing into one impossible expression.
The door clicked softly behind her.
WS exhaled, staring at the ceiling.
For a long moment, he said nothing. The anger still burned faintly under his skin, but so did exhaustion.
Maybe I unleashed it on her, he thought.
Not that she would’ve minded if I’d turned it into something else… Problem with Nadjia is, anything intimate with her is never punishment. No matter how hard I push.
He rubbed his temples, forcing his breath to slow.
So this way… it must be.
The thought steadied him.
His eyelids grew heavy. The clinic walls melted into shadow, the hum of the light fading into something softer — like wind through leaves.
Then came the dream.
A vast garden stretched under a crimson sky, a scar-shaped sun hanging overhead.
A golden retriever chased a cat through tall grass, their play silent but bright.
Somewhere in the dark hedges, a rat scurried — always watching, always close.
WS breathed in that strange peace, the kind that came only when he stopped trying to understand.
And for the first time all day, he slept.
