Raven stood outside the one-way glass, arms loose at her sides, the holding room’s chill rising through the concrete and into her bare feet like slow fingers.

Cold kept people awake. She liked that. Two hours since Gabriel went into surgery. No word yet. The mansion felt hollow without the Iron Wall’s steady presence in the war room, the quiet weight of him that made every plan feel anchored. Every footstep echoed a little louder tonight. Every shadow stretched longer.

The mercenary commander sat inside, wrists zip-tied to the chair arms. Head slumped. Breathing shallow but steady. He had been trained. Pain wouldn’t break him. Pain made men say anything to make it stop. She needed the truth, not noise.

Adrian leaned against the wall beside her, shoulder brushing the glass. His voice came low. "Medical says Gabriel is stable. Lost a lot of blood. He’ll live."

Raven didn’t react. The relief sat within her anyway, cold and heavy like everything else tonight, a cold weight that had no name and no release. She kept her eyes on the commander. "Let me know when he wakes."

She turned and walked toward the war room first. There was something she needed to do before the interrogation. The corridor air moved against her skin, cooler than the holding room, carrying the faint scent of gun oil and old blood that never quite left these halls.

Vincent stood at the map table, back to her. The depot loss was marked in red. Gabriel’s position on the south vector marked in black. His shoulders were still. Too still. The kind of stillness that said he was holding the entire weight of the night and refusing to let it show.

Raven stopped at the threshold. The air felt thicker here, weighted by the red ink and the empty chair where Gabriel usually stood. Her bare feet registered the slight chill difference between marble and the war-room carpet.

"Gabriel?"

Vincent didn’t turn right away. "Out of surgery. He’ll live."

His voice was flat. Controlled. The kind of control that meant he was holding something back behind the calm, the same way he held everything else.

She stepped closer. The marble under her feet stayed cold. "The depot—"

"Is gone."

He turned. Dark eyes met hers. Not angry. Not at her. At the situation. At the three days of fuel and ammunition they couldn’t afford to lose. At the way Caruso had timed the strike perfectly while her team bled on the vectors she had chosen.

"You called the vectors right," he said. "You set the ambush."

Raven’s jaw tightened. The words scraped on the way out, raw against the back of her throat.

"It wasn’t enough."

The admission hung between them. Honest. Ugly. No softening. No excuse. Just the truth sitting there like an open wound neither of them could close.

Vincent crossed the room in three strides. His hand cupped her jaw. Not gentle. Not rough. His thumb brushed the edge of her cheekbone once, slow, the callus catching on dry skin. The touch carried the faint scent of leather and whiskey that always clung to him after long nights.

"It wasn’t," he said. "But you’re still standing. So am I. We’ll make them pay for Gabriel."

He held her gaze another beat. The scar on his temple caught the light—the one she had given him long ago. Healed clean now. Like everything he touched. Then he let her go.

"Go. Find out what they’re planning."

Raven nodded once and left.

The cold from his hand stayed on her skin long after she walked away, a small anchor against the weight that had settled in her chest and wasn’t moving. The corridor felt longer tonight. Each step echoed. The knife on her hip pressed against her thigh with every movement, a familiar weight she still hadn’t reached for.

The holding room door clicked shut behind her.

The commander looked up. His eyes tracked her—not wide, not fearful. He had been briefed. He had been broken before and rebuilt. Pain wouldn’t work. Pain made people say anything.

She needed the truth.

Raven didn’t speak. She crossed to the bare bulb overhead and adjusted it until the light aimed directly at his face. Too bright to sleep. Too harsh to look away from. His eyes watered. He blinked hard. She left it there.

Then she checked his chair. One leg was slightly shorter than the others. He couldn’t relax. Every time he shifted, the chair rocked. Every time it rocked, his wrists pulled against the zip ties. Small. Constant. Unbearable.

She sat across from him. Still. Unmoving. Bare feet flat on the cold concrete. The knife on her hip stayed sheathed. She didn’t touch it.

The silence stretched.

Ten minutes. Twenty. An hour.

The commander’s left eye twitched first. Then his jaw. Then his hands curled into fists against the chair arms, knuckles whitening. Sweat beaded along his hairline despite the chill. His breathing grew shallower, each inhale catching like something stuck in his throat.

"You’re not going to kill me," he said at last. Voice rough from disuse.

Raven tilted her head. Said nothing.

"If you were, you would have done it already. You need something."

She let the silence stretch another thirty seconds. Then she leaned forward. The chair creaked under her weight. Close enough to smell the dried blood on his collar, the sour edge of fear sweat mixed with old gun oil.

"What did Caruso promise you?"

His throat worked. Twice. The sound loud in the quiet room.

"Money. Protection. A new identity after the war."

"And what did they ask for in return?"

He closed his eyes. When he opened them, something behind them had cracked. The pupils dilated under the harsh light.

"To stall. Not to kill. Just to keep you busy. Keep your eyes on the small moves while they made the big one."

"What big one?"

"I don’t know. They didn’t tell us. We were just... bait."

The word hung in the cold air.

Bait.

She had won the battle. Caruso had used her victory as cover.

Raven sat back. The chair legs scraped concrete. Something opened in her chest. Cold. Wide. Not satisfaction. Like trusting a stair that wasn’t there. Gabriel’s blood was still under her fingernails. She had scrubbed three times. It didn’t matter. The depot was still gone. And somewhere out there, Caruso was moving on a board she couldn’t see yet.

She didn’t enjoy this.

The old Raven might have. The Caruso blade who measured her worth in broken bodies and carved messages. The one who left trophies instead of questions.

The new Raven just wanted the information.

That was progress.

She thought.

Raven stepped out of the holding room. The door sealed behind her with a soft click.

Adrian was still there. He had watched through the glass the whole time.

"How did you know that would work?"

"Pain makes people lie. Discomfort makes people talk."

"Where did you learn that?"

She looked at him. The Reaper who had once tested her with live blades. Who had measured every move she made for weakness.

"Caruso. They trained me to break people. I just learned to do it without leaving marks."

Adrian studied her for a long moment. The rivalry that once filled the training hall had settled into something quieter. He didn’t look at her like a weapon anymore. He looked at her like a colleague.

"Gabriel would have approved."

Raven didn’t answer. Gabriel was still unconscious. The depot was still gone. And somewhere out there, Caruso was making a move she couldn’t see.

She walked the corridor toward the war room. The marble pressed cold through her soles with every step. The knife on her hip pressed against her thigh, a familiar weight she still hadn’t reached for. The corridor felt longer tonight. Each step echoed. The question followed her.

What big one?

She didn’t have an answer.

Caruso had trained her to break people.

Now she needed to break their plan before it broke everything she was trying to build.

Vincent was still in the war room. The maps were still spread across the table. Red pins marking the depot loss. Black lines showing their remaining supply routes.

His lamp burned behind him. He didn’t look at it. He looked at her.

"They’re stalling," she said. "The mercenaries were bait. Keep us busy while they make a bigger move."

"What bigger move?"

"He didn’t know. But he was telling the truth."

Vincent studied her face. The lamp light caught the scar on his temple—the one she had given him. Healed clean now. Like everything he touched.

"You believe him."

"Yes."

Silence stretched between them. Outside, the mansion was quiet. Too quiet. Gabriel’s absence felt like a wound that hadn’t stopped bleeding.

"Then we find out what’s coming before it arrives."

Raven nodded once. The knife on her hip pressed against her thigh. She still didn’t draw it.

"I need access to every Caruso asset we have in custody. Not just Elias. All of them. Someone knows something."

Vincent’s hand brushed the small of her back. Light. Brief. Not a claim. Something closer to acknowledgment. The touch lingered just long enough for her to feel the warmth through her shirt.

"You have it."

She turned toward the door. Paused.

"Gabriel?"

"Stable. Dante’s with him."

She left without another word.

The corridor stretched long and quiet. Bare feet silent on the cool marble. Somewhere three doors down, a lamp still burned.

She didn’t go to it.

She went to the holding cells instead.

The war had teeth.

And she was done letting Caruso bite first.