Page 32 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

Weak. You're getting weak.

The burner phone buzzes against the nightstand, breaking my concentration. The knife clatters to the floor.

Jax's name lights up the screen. I pick up the phone, read the message.

Jax:Hey it's Jax. The guy whose brain you melted at dinner.

My pulse jumps. I set the knife aside, watch three dots appear on screen.

Jax:That sounded smoother in my head.

Another buzz.

Jax:Anyway something came up with work but I need to see you.

Jax:Not need need. Want. But also need.

Jax:Christ I'm bad at this.

The rambling makes me smile before I catch myself. I stand, pace to the window, watching LA's lights sprawl below while my fingers hover over the keyboard.

Me:You're right. You are bad at this.

Three dots appear immediately. Disappear. Appear again.

Jax:Yeah well you scrambled my brain with that wine glass thing so really this is your fault.

Jax:Where can I meet you? Please say somewhere without wine glasses.

The desperation bleeds through even in text. Something happened after he left. Something that shook him.

Me:Hollywood Forever Cemetery. Midnight. Near the Valentino memorial.

Jax:A cemetery? That's... actually perfect. Weird but perfect.

Me:Try not to be late this time.

Jax:I'm never late. I arrive precisely when I mean to. Usually. Sometimes. Fuck.

I set the phone down and move to the mirror. Black jeans that look painted on. Dark shirt that shows just enough skin to distract. Ankle holster with my favorite blade. Glock in the shoulder holster hidden under my jacket. Hair loose, the way it was when his fingers almost tangled in it.

You're dressing for him.

No. I'm dressing to destroy him. There's a difference.

My hands move through preparation rituals—checking weapons, testing flexibility, ensuring nothing restricts movement. But my mind keeps drifting to the way he said he needed to see me. Not the smooth operator persona. Just raw need.

Focus. He's vulnerable. Use it.

The cemetery fence is nothing—up and over in three seconds, landing silent on manicured grass. The Hollywood sign glows in the distance, and somewhere an owl calls through the darkness.

Fairbank's memorial sits pristine white against shadow. I position myself where I can see all approaches, back to stone, exits noted. I wonder if Jax knows the irony of meeting here.

I check my phone. 11:58.

A car door shuts in the distance. Footsteps on gravel. Uneven, like he's stumbling. He's distressed.

He appears through the trees, and my chest tightens at the sight. His hair's a mess from running his hands through it. His eyes are red-rimmed, puffy. His features are drawn with grief so raw it makes my breath catch.