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Z crosses to the punching bag, giving it a testing push before turning to me. “No gloves. No wraps.”

“That's not safe,” Oscar objects from the doorway.

“It's not meant to be,” Z counters. “Sometimes pain clarifies.”

I step forward without hesitation, the rational part of my brain acknowledging that this is reckless, but the storm inside me doesn't care. My knuckles are already tingling in anticipation. Z positions himself behind the bag, bracing it with his body. “Hit it like you mean it. Like it's The Collector.”

The name ignites something in me. I pull back my arm and drive my fist into the leather surface with a force that is laced with rage. Pain blossoms across my knuckles, sharp and immediate, but Z is right, it’s cleansing.

"Again," Z commands.

I strike the bag again and again, each hit harder than the last. The pain in my knuckles becomes a dull throb, then a sharp sting, morphing into something beyond pain—a fever beneath my skin that refuses to break.

“That's it,” Z encourages, his voice rough with approval. “Let it out.”

My fists connect in a rhythm that grows more frantic with each impact. Left, right, left, left, right. I pour everything into each punch—my fear for Luca, my rage at The Collector, my frustration at another dead end, my guilt for not finding him sooner. Blood smears across the leather, but I barely notice.

“He took everything from me," I snarl between blows. “My brother—” Punch. “My son—” Punch. “My choice—” Punch.

Oscar says something from behind me, concern lacing his voice, but Z silences him with a look. He understands that what I need right now isn't gentleness.

The world narrows to the sound of my fists hitting leather, the burn in my muscles, the copper taste of tears and sweat on my lips. I lose track of time, of how many blows I've landed. My vision blurs, not from tears now but from pure exhaustion.

With one final devastating punch, I throw everything I have left into the bag. My legs give out beneath me, and I collapse forward, suddenly boneless. Strong arms wrap around me, lowering me gently to the mat. I'm vaguely aware of Z's voice as he cradles me against his chest. A dull, persistent throb pulses through my fists, the skin across my knuckles split and bleeding.

"That's enough," Oscar says, kneeling beside us. His fingers gently take my wrists, turning my hands palm-up to examine the damage. His expression is tight with concern, but not reproachful. "You need ice."

I should feel something, pain, exhaustion, maybe even regret. There's only a strange, hollow calm. The storm that was raging inside me has burned itself out, leaving behind an eerie stillness that feels almost like peace.

ALEX

I'm still staringat the blank screen like somehow, it'll change if I glare hard enough. Sixteen million dollars and all I have to show for it is a black void. Fucking amateur hour.

The others left my room hours ago, but the sting of failure hasn't dulled. I slam my fist against the desk, sending an empty energy drink clattering to the floor. The sound echoes in the silence of my room.

How did I miss this? A self-destruct protocol should have been the first thing I anticipated. It's Security 101 for criminalenterprises operating at this level. I've spent years hacking into systems more complex than Fort Knox, yet I walked right into this like some script kiddie on his first hack.

“Fucking idiot,” I mutter.

The worst part isn't the money. It's the look on Vesper's face when those screens went black. The hope draining from her face, replaced by that hollow resignation I've come to recognize too well. She trusted me to find a digital path to her brother, and I failed her.

I pull up the transaction record again, the only evidence we have that the auction even happened. Sixteen million dollars transferred to a ghost account that's probably already been emptied and erased from existence. The pickup instructions are our only remaining lead, and even that feels tenuous now.

What if they don't send them? What if this was all an elaborate trap?

My door creaks open, and I don't have to look up to know who it is. Only one person in this apartment moves that silently.

“If you're here to tell me I fucked up, save it,” I growl, still staring at my screens. “I'm well aware.”

“Not why I'm here,” Talon replies, shutting the door behind him. He crosses to my desk and sets down a steaming mug of coffee. Black, no sugar.

I grunt in acknowledgment, curling my fingers around the mug. “She okay?”

“Define okay.” Talon leans against the wall, arms crossed. “Z took her to the gym. Let her beat the shit out of a punching bag until her knuckles bled. Oscar's patching her up now.”

“Fuck.” I take a scalding sip, welcoming the burn. “She shouldn't have to deal with this.”

“None of us should.” He studies me. “If we had been born into normal families, it would be different. But we weren’t, sohere we are.” He pushes off from the wall and drags my spare chair over, straddling it backward. “So what's our next move?”