Marin sat with her back against the cold stone wall of the safehouse, her breathing slow, measured, deliberate. Each inhale dragged through her ribs like the edge of a dull knife, her body worn from too many battles, too many wounds.
The air inside was thick—too thick. Not just with the scent of blood and sweat, but with the weight of grief, of things left unsaid. The others moved in the dimly lit space, whispering amongst themselves, exhausted bodies sinking into whatever rest they could manage, but Marin remained still.
Across from her, Tess lay curled on the thin mattress, her face turned toward the wall. Her breaths were shallow, uneven, the way they always were when she was trying to pretend she was asleep but failing. Marin didn't call her out on it.
She didn't blame her.
Because if she closed her own eyes for too long, all she could see was him.
Callen.
Being dragged away, butchered, broken.
A lump formed in her throat, bitter and hot. She swallowed it down, forced herself to think before that moment—to a time when Callen was not a prisoner bleeding out in enemy hands, but a scrawny, reckless kid who had barely known how to survive.
A memory surfaced, sharp as glass.
Seven Years Ago.
The night had been black as pitch, shadows stretching across the alleyways like greedy fingers. Marin moved like a ghost through the backstreets of Oryn-Vel, slipping between flickering lantern light and darkened corridors with a practiced ease. She had just finished a job—an easy one, in and out, no bodies left behind—and was making her way back to her usual haunts when she heard it.
A scuffle.
Panicked footsteps.
Then a sharp, terrified yelp.
Marin stilled. Listened.
A boy's voice, young, barely past fifteen. "I—wait! I didn't—please, I—"
A cruel laugh followed. Heavy boots on cobblestone. "Didn't what? Steal? Lie? You think we're stupid, boy?"
Marin rounded the corner just in time to see him—Callen, though she hadn't known his name then—on his knees.
A group of men surrounded him, their silhouettes sharp against the lantern glow. One of them, a brute with a scar slashed down his cheek, held a short blade against the boy's throat. Callen's face was bloodied, his breath coming fast and ragged, a raw desperation in his eyes as he tried to speak, to plead.
A rare gem rested at his feet.
So that's what this was.
A botched job. A group of low-tier thieves turning on one of their own.
Marin exhaled slowly.
She should have walked away.
It wasn't her problem.
But something about the scene itched at her, a familiarity she couldn't shake.
She stepped forward.
"Let the boy go."
The men spun toward her, weapons half-drawn. Callen's gaze snapped to her, wide and startled, as if he hadn't expected anyone to interfere.
Scarface sneered. "Who the hell are you?"
Marin cocked her head, keeping her expression bored. "Does it matter?"
A second man, thinner but wiry, eyed her carefully. "We saw him first," he muttered. "He screwed up the job—cost us the payout."
Marin shrugged. "And you think gutting him in an alley will bring that payout back?"
Scarface's sneer deepened. "What's it to you?"
Nothing.
It was nothing to her.
But still.
She moved fast.
Before Scarface could react, Marin was in front of him, her blade flashing as she slammed the hilt into his gut. He staggered back with a strangled noise, and in the same breath, she grabbed Callen by the wrist and ran.
The boy barely managed to keep up, his steps stumbling, his fingers gripping hers like a lifeline. Shouts erupted behind them, curses cutting through the night air, but Marin didn't stop. She knew these streets better than they did.
She twisted through the alleys, over fences, across rooftops.
Until finally—silence.
They collapsed into the shadows of an abandoned courtyard, chests heaving.
For the first time, Marin really looked at him.
Thin. Ragged. A mess of bruises on his arms and face. But there was fire in his eyes, even through the exhaustion.
"What the hell were you thinking?" she said finally, voice sharp.
Callen blinked at her, then, to her complete disbelief, he grinned.
"Didn't think anyone would care enough to ask."
Marin scowled, but something about him—this stupid kid with too much confidence and too little self-preservation—made her sigh instead.
She tossed him a small cloth. "Clean yourself up."
He did.
And that was the start of it.
They should have parted ways.
She had meant to drop him somewhere safe and leave him behind.
But he followed her.
Again and again.
Until she gave up and let him stay.
She was six years older, but somehow, she had become responsible for him.
A strict, no-nonsense presence in his life, snapping at him when he got too reckless, making sure he had food, knocking some damn sense into him when he needed it.
She had never thought she would be that type of person.
And then, they almost died together.
It had been another job gone wrong.
Not Callen's this time.
Hers.
A retrieval mission—high risk, high reward. The payout had been enough for months of safety. Callen had insisted on coming.
And she had been stupid enough to let him.
They had been cornered in the complex, a dozen guards cutting off every exit. Callen had been bleeding, Marin's dagger had been knocked from her grip, and she had thought—this is it.
Then, a shadow moved.
Two figures.
A man with cold, calculating eyes. A girl barely older than Callen and barely younger than her, fire burning in her expression.
The man moved first, quick as a viper.
Darkness flickered around his blade, and the guards fell in an instant.
The girl, fast as lightning, grabbed Callen and hauled him upright.
And just like that, they had escaped.
Marin exhaled, the memory settling.
That had been the night she met Ishmael and Tess.
The night they had become a team.
The night they had fought their way out together, back to the city, bloodied and exhausted—but alive.
A shift in the dim light brought Marin back to the present.
Tess had turned, her eyes open now, watching her.
She said nothing.
But she didn't need to.
They both knew the truth.
Their team was broken now.
Callen was gone.
Ishmael was still out there in the burning city.
And they were the only ones left.
*
The safehouse felt smaller in the quiet.
The distant crackle of flames outside, the occasional distant shout—none of it reached them now. Not in the dim-lit room where Tess and Marin sat, their backs against the cold stone wall, bodies aching and worn.
Marin had always been good at silence. She knew how to sit in it, let it breathe, let it settle. But this—this was a silence that clawed at her, that twisted in the spaces between her ribs and sat like a weight in her throat.
Across from her, Tess shifted, arms wrapped around her knees. The younger girl hadn't said much since they had dragged themselves back here, since they had spoken—had relived—what had happened. The fight, the blood, Callen being taken. Marin could still hear the screams, still see the raw panic in his single remaining eye as Ivara wrenched him away, promising—threatening—that she would break him, piece by piece.
Marin clenched her jaw and forced herself to look at Tess properly.
She looked tired.
Not just physically—tired in a way that settled deep.
Her eyes were red, rimmed with exhaustion, and though she sat with her shoulders squared, her hands trembled slightly where they gripped at her sleeves. Tess had never been good at hiding her emotions the way Marin was.
And Marin had never been good at knowing how to comfort her.
Finally, Tess exhaled. "I—I don't know if I can do this."
Her voice was quiet. Hoarse.
Marin said nothing, waiting.
Tess took in a shaky breath, then another. "I keep thinking about him," she admitted. "Callen. The way he looked when she took him. I keep thinking—what if that's the last time I ever see him?"
Marin's fingers curled into the fabric of her torn sleeve. "Don't think like that," she said, though the words felt weak. Hollow. "We're going to get him back."
Tess let out a sharp, broken laugh. "How? Marin, how the hell are we supposed to do that? We're barely holding ourselves together, and Callen—" Her voice cracked. "Callen was barely holding himself together. You saw the way they left him."
I saw.
Marin had seen it all too well.
The blood soaking his clothes. The bruises, the wounds, the way his body had sagged like a marionette with its strings cut. But worse than all of that—the fear.
Marin had never seen fear like that in Callen's eyes before.
And she had done nothing.
Tess pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, drawing in another unsteady breath. "He's like a brother to me," she whispered. "I know we tease each other all the time, but—I meant it. I mean it. He's my little brother. And I couldn't do anything for him."
Something in Marin's chest twisted.
She knew that feeling.
Gods, did she know that feeling.
She had spent years watching over Callen, dragging him out of trouble, berating him when he was reckless, patching him up when he inevitably got himself hurt. But despite it all—despite her best efforts—she had failed him.
"I should've fought harder," Tess went on. "I should've—"
Marin cut her off, voice firm. "It wouldn't have made a difference."
Tess stared at her.
Marin exhaled. "You could've given everything you had, and Ivara still would have taken him. She's stronger than us. She knew exactly what she was doing. And if you had kept fighting—" She stopped herself, eyes dark. "I'd be mourning you too."
Tess swallowed. She looked away, her lip trembling.
Marin hesitated, then reached out, placing a hand over hers.
Tess sucked in a sharp breath, but didn't pull away. Instead, her fingers grasped at Marin's, gripping tightly, almost desperately, as if she were afraid that if she let go, she would fall apart completely.
And maybe she would.
Maybe Marin would too.
Minutes passed in silence, the weight of everything pressing down.
Then, Tess spoke again, voice barely above a whisper.
"Ishmael."
Marin's brows furrowed. "What about him?"
Tess's grip tightened. "I'm scared for him too."
Marin exhaled slowly. Ishmael. The cold, calculating fighter. The strategist. The one who always had a plan, who always knew what to do next.
But even he wasn't invincible.
Marin had seen the way he looked at Tess when he thought no one was watching.
And she had seen the way Tess looked at him now—eyes glistening, lip trembling, shoulders shaking as she finally, finally let herself break.
"I think I love him," Tess whispered, voice raw.
And then, just like that, she shattered.
A sob broke from her throat, her body collapsing forward, her face pressing against Marin's shoulder. The warmth of her tears seeped into the fabric of Marin's torn jacket, and for a moment, Marin was frozen.
She had seen Tess fight. She had seen her curse and rage, had seen her cold and furious, had seen her slice a man's throat without blinking.
But she had never seen her like this.
Never seen her so small.
Marin's own throat burned.
Without thinking, she wrapped her arms around Tess, holding her tightly, pressing her chin to the top of the younger girl's head. Tess's fingers twisted into the front of Marin's shirt, clinging, clinging.
Marin closed her eyes.
"I know," she murmured. "I know."
Tess trembled. "What if he's hurt?"
"He's strong."
"What if he's dead?"
Marin's stomach twisted. "He's not."
Tess sucked in a breath, her sobs coming in broken gasps. "I—I need him to be okay."
Marin tightened her hold. "I know," she said again, softer this time. "I need him to be okay too."
Because Ishmael was family.
Because Callen was family.
Because despite everything, they couldn't lose each other.
Not now.
Not ever.
And so Marin held Tess as she cried, as the weight of it all finally broke her, as the city burned outside and the world felt like it was collapsing in on itself.
She held her, because there was nothing else she could do.
Because if she let go—they might not make it.