Page 165 of Tell Me Pucking Lies

Maybe even a future with Lexi.

Instead, I’m here again, drowning in his filth, watching the one good thing I had slip away.

Then—silence.

Not the kind that’s peaceful or restful. The kind that comes before a storm, before violence, before everything goes to hell. A whisper of motion from somewhere I can’t pinpoint. The sound of a latch clicking open, metal on metal.

I look up.

The side doors burst open like they’ve been hit with a battering ram.

Shadows pour in—tall figures dressed in black, faces covered with masks that make them look inhuman. Weapons drawn and ready. They move like a unit, trained and coordinated in a way Vincent’s men could never manage.

Vincent laughs, but there’s an edge to it now. “Reapers?Koa?Reapers, really?” His tone is pure amusement, but I catch the way his eyes flick toward the exit. Calculating. Already planning his escape route. “Oh, ho ho,” Vincent laughs. “You’re dead, Koa. Fucking dead.”

“I didn’t plan this,” I spit out.

Vincent ignores me as he raises both hands slowly, like he’s surrendering. “Alright, alright. Let’s not make a mess, yeah? We can work this out like we’re civilized.”

Fake surrender. It’s always a show with him, always performance. But I know the signs—the way his breathing changes, the tension in his shoulders, the slight shift of his weight onto the balls of his feet.

He’s ready for blood.

He inhales deeply, filling his lungs, and then screams at the top of them. “Son! Where are you?”

The word echoes, bouncing off concrete and steel.

I don’t move. Don’t flinch. Don’t give him anything.

“Son!” he shouts again, desperation creeping into his voice.

Through the main doors, another figure steps in. This one unmasked, controlled, moving with the kind of confidence that comes from knowing exactly how dangerous you are.

Revan.

Our eyes lock across the warehouse. His are cold, calculating, but there’s something else there too—something that might be understanding or might be disgust. Hard to tell with him.

Then both our gazes shift to Vincent.

Vincent’s grin cracks wider, more teeth showing than should be possible. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite little monster. I made you everything you are, you piece of—”

He doesn’t finish.

His hand moves faster than it should for someone his age, someone that high. The gun appears, arm extending, and he fires.

One of the Reapers goes down hard, clutching his shoulder.

Not Revan.

Revan moves like liquid, diving forward, tackling Vincent before he can get off another shot. They hit the ground together and the gun skitters across the floor, spinning away into the shadows.

Then all hell breaks loose.

Gunfire erupts from every direction—Vincent’s men firing wild, the Reapers returning fire with precision. The sound is deafening, overlapping cracks that make my ears ring. Muzzle flashes light up the warehouse like strobe lights.

Oxy slams into me from the side, dragging me down behind an overturned table. He shoves something cold and heavy into my hand—a pistol.

“Use it!” he yells over the chaos.