Page 75 of Scarred in Silence

I lean in, voice colder than any winter. “A man who profits from cages is everybody’s enemy.”

* * *

Security waves us through. Floodlights carve silhouettes out of the night. We park in the gravel near the building—cinder block, soundproof, and forever hungry.

Dante drags Silas out. I follow, pocketing my pistol. No bullets inside. Pain first, death later.

We move through twin steel doors, down a corridor that smells of bleach and fresh paint. Dante unlocks Room 6—one with a drain in the floor.

Silas pales. “Lucien—think about Astra. She wouldn’t want you to—”

I backhand him. “Don’t speak her name.”

He falls to his knees, cuffed hands scraping concrete. Dante hauls him onto a steel chair, chained ankles, wrists, and throat. Silas sobs.

Fluorescent lights hum overhead. I circle him like a predator, slowly.

“I need you to be clear,” I say. “What you gave us tonight… It’s a map. But I hate puzzles.”

He licks blood off his lip. “I can help.”

“Yes, you can.” I gesture to Dante. My brother-in-arms unlocks a black case, producing a leather roll of scalpels, pliers, and needles.

Silas’s eyes are practically bulging from the sockets. “Please—Lucien—Lucien!” He rattles chains.

I crouch, cupping his face. “Give me Holloway’s drop house. Camera footage. Wire transfers. Every shred of incriminating evidence you have—on him, on Enrique, on every soul who touched that auction. And maybe, just maybe, I won’t make you a fucking example.”

His breath shudders. “The files are on a secure drive… in my office safe.”

“Combination,” I whisper.

“Four-eight-zero-six.”

Dante scribbles, keeping silent.

“What else?” I ask.

Silas’s shoulders shake. “A lock box— it holds buyers, bids, and cargo numbers. But it has a bio-metric lock—needs my thumb and iris.”

“Then we will bring it to you,” Dante says, his voice like gravel.

Silas sobs harder. “I’ll give you anything. Just—promise me I won’t die.”

I smile, gentle as a scalpel. “I promise you won’t die… unless it’s justified.”

It’s the truest thing I’ve said all year.

* * *

We leave him shackled, lights dimmed. Dante stands by the door, methodical as always.

“Everything good?” he asks.

“Not yet.”

“He’ll talk eventually.”

“I know.”