The lights in the private recovery wing were low, humming softly above as if they too were holding their breath. The machines beside Reagan's bed beeped in a slow, deliberate rhythm, counting out moments that felt suspended in air. The antiseptic sting of the hospital blended with the sterile scent of untouched time. Skylar sat by the window, knees drawn to her chest, her hoodie zipped up tight like armor. Her laptop, for once, sat closed on the table. Her eyes were rimmed with exhaustion, but she hadn't left the room.
Rocco stood at Reagan's bedside, fingers loosely curled around her hand. He hadn't said much in hours. Not since the last flatline. His gaze never left her face, tracking every shallow rise of her chest like it was a lifeline tethering him to sanity. The door opened with a soft click.
Taz entered first, his coat still damp from the rain, eyes sharp and unreadable.
"There's someone I want you to meet," he said. Rocco turned, slow and cold. His voice was hoarse from silence.
"Now's not a good time, Taz." Taz gave a small nod and stepped aside.
Marco entered. No swagger. No grin. Just quiet boots on tile and a steady, grounded presence. His eyes flicked over the room, to the bed, to the girl breathing through machines, and then back to Rocco.
"I won't take long," Marco said. He paused. Not for effect, but out of respect.
"I heard what happened. I'm not here to joke. I'm not here to pry." He looked at Reagan, his voice dipping lower, gentler.
"She's strong. I can see that." Skylar eyed him carefully, her arms wrapped around herself like shields. But his tone gave her pause. No mania. No sarcasm. Just raw recognition of pain.
Marco turned to Rocco again, standing taller this time.
"I'm not here to fix what's broken. I'm here to help end the ones who broke it." His gaze didn't falter, not even in the shadow of The Reaper.
"I know what she means to you. I know what this family is. I came because Taz asked. But I'll stay because I want to." Rocco glanced toward Taz, who didn't blink.
"You vouch for him?" Rocco asked.
"With everything I've got," Taz replied. Marco nodded once. Then, unexpectedly, he looked to Skylar. His expression softened like a crack in reinforced steel.
"I promise, I'll be precise. Not just with what I build... but with what I destroy."
Skylar leaned back, a half-smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
"I like him." Rocco turned slowly, eyes narrowing like—seriously? Now?
Skylar didn't flinch. Arms crossed. Hoodie still damp from the rain.
"Roc, listen… You and I both want Travis and Owen to die slow. Thorough. And messy, right?"
Rocco gave one short nod. Grim. Dead serious. Skylar kept going:
"And if this psycho really is as psycho as he seems—but loyal to Taz like he clearly is—then let him do his thing. I'm not saying trust Marco. I'm saying trust Taz."
She glanced over at Marco, who was casually twirling a bone scalpel between his fingers like a fidget toy.
"Besides… Marco looks like the kind of guy who could dissect you and kinda enjoy it."
Marco beamed, like it was the nicest compliment he'd ever received.
"Thank you," he said proudly.
Rocco exhaled through his nose, shook his head, then turned to Marco. "What do you need?"
Marco blinked—like Santa Claus had just told him to make a wish.
"Write it down. Give me the list," said Rocco.
Marco already had a pen out.
But then—everything changed. The monitor behind them screamed. A flatline—sharp, brutal—ripped through the room like a scalpel.
"Shit—Reagan!" Skylar gasped. Taz moved before anyone could blink.
"She's coding. Marco—move!"
Marco didn't ask questions. He was there in an instant, clearing the tray, snapping tools into place with surgical precision. Rocco froze for half a second—then stepped back like Taz had trained it into his nervous system.
"200 joules—clear!" Taz barked. Reagan's body jerked. Nothing.
"Again—clear!" Marco was already reaching for the next step without being told. Intubation. Cables. Vitals. Everything checked. Double-checked.
It was chaos. But it was controlled. And in the middle of it all—two men who once broke every rule back in university—were now fighting side by side to drag one woman back from the edge.
Rocco stood in the doorway, jaw clenched. He didn't pray to God. He prayed to them.
Rocco narrowed his eyes at him.
"What exactly are you?"
Marco raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained.
"PhD in biomechanics. Master's in human anatomy. Extensive knowledge of mechanical engineering, neurology… and an arguably unhealthy obsession with what the human body can endure." He handed Taz a tube, his grin sharp and far too pleased.
"I'm not here for her. I'm here because I wanna see how far I can push these two beautifully broken bastards before something snaps."
Skylar, still leaning against the counter with her arms crossed, tilted her head toward Marco. There was a spark in her eyes—the kind of sharp, hungry curiosity only a fellow obsessive would recognize.
She'd always had a thing for mechanical engineering. The elegance of systems. The brutality of physics. The way metal obeyed when people didn't.
"Okay, I've got a question," she said, voice casual, but her gaze already dissecting him.
"When you're optimizing torque output in low-yield servos—do you tweak the gear ratio with a harmonic drive, or compensate through a torque sensor feedback loop?"
Marco froze mid-motion. His head turned slowly toward her, one brow arching like she'd just recited poetry in his native tongue. That grin followed—slow, crooked, and laced with something just shy of dangerous.
"Damn, princess. Most people just ask if it has an on-switch." He stepped a little closer, voice dropping into that smug, velvety register of his.
"Harmonic drive. Always. Less backlash, tighter control. Feedback loops are for broke amateurs who believe in miracles." Skylar's smirk deepened. She didn't just understand—she appreciated it. Every word. Every calculation behind it.
"I like the way your brain's wired, psycho."
Marco winked.
"Stick around. I haven't even shown you the really twisted shit yet."
For a moment, Skylar said nothing. Then the corner of her mouth twitched, just slightly.
And for the first time in weeks, she wasn't bored. Beside them, Rocco let out a noise that was somewhere between a scoff and a groan.
"Jesus Christ. I feel like I need subtitles for whatever the hell that was."
Marco pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Rocco without looking up.
"Here. I wrote it down so you wouldn't embarrass yourself trying to guess."
Marco's List – Don't fuck it up:
Surgical steel bone saw – precision tip
Portable negative pressure wound therapy unit
4 liters sterile saline (warmed. Not cold. I will know.)
Epinephrine, lidocaine, ketamine – human grade, not that vet-grade donkey shit
Reinforced restraints – minimum four-point. Bonus points if they leave marks.
Chest decompression needles – 14 gauge
Suture kit – synthetic, non-absorbable, color-coded (don't make me color-blind in surgery)
Bone drill with titanium bits (yes, titanium. No, not negotiable)
Vascular clamps – assorted sizes
Coffee. Black. No sugar. If it's instant, I riot.
Marco added flatly, still not looking up:
"If you forget the coffee, I'll assume you hate yourself and want to suffer. That's between you and God."
Rocco looked at him. Not angry. Not suspicious. Just… quiet.
It hit him how long it had been since someone talked to him like a person—and not like The Reaper. Marco hadn't flinched. Hadn't tiptoed. Didn't treat him like a myth or a threat.
Just handed him a list and expected him to get it done. Like it was any other Tuesday. Rocco gave a slow nod.
"Alright. Give me a few days and you got it"
Marco glanced over his shoulder.
"Good. I'll see what I can do with whatever junk i can find in his lab"
Marco's new space wasn't just a garage—it was a damn kingdom.
Tucked right next to Taz's lab, only separated by a single reinforced steel door, it gave "close proximity" a whole new meaning. No need for phone calls. No need for knocking. If Taz needed him, Marco was twenty steps away—and already wired in. The ground floor looked like your average garage… if your average garage had surgical-grade lighting, a reinforced autopsy table, weapon racks, and shelves stacked with both medical supplies and tools better suited for torture than maintenance. Stainless steel gleamed under cold lighting, the faint hum of generators and ventilation filling the silence like a mechanical heartbeat. But the real prize? The staircase.
A curved metal spiral led up the back wall—old factory style—to a second floor loft that hit like a punch of industrial luxury. High ceilings. Floor-to-ceiling windows that let in soft, natural light. Raw brick. Black steel beams. Shelves lined with books, gear, and blueprints of things that probably shouldn't exist. A matte-black leather sectional was sprawled across a cream rug, flanked by a round wooden coffee table littered with mechanical parts and exactly one mug that read "World's Okayest Surgeon."
The kitchen in the corner looked unused—sleek, modern, probably cursed. Above, the railing on the mezzanine overlooked the space like a throne. It was clean. Sharp. Efficient.
Just like him. And for the first time in a long time, Marco looked around… and felt something unsettling.
Like he might actually stay.
Rocco gave a small nod, then added, like it wasn't a big deal:
"Working for the mafia's got its perks."
He glanced at Marco, voice casual but firm.
"Nice place. Clean slate. Unlimited resources."
He held up a small black booklet between two fingers.
"Full citizenship. Passport. Paper trail's clean. No trace of Ukraine anywhere." Then he tossed a second one onto the table—a dark blue passport with gold letters.
"If you ever wanna vanish into the States and cause problems—your call."
Marco raised an eyebrow. "So I'm basically a ghost with travel privileges."
Rocco smirked. "Pretty much."
A beat.
"It also means you do whatever Taz tells you.
Not me. Not Angelo. Taz." He shrugged, like it was just one of those things.
"You're his apprentice now. That's the only catch." Marco blinked, then gave a slow, dry nod.
"So… full benefits, no dental, and I belong to the crypt keeper. Got it." Rocco smirked.
"You'll fit right in."
He turned to leave, then paused at the door.
"Oh—and it means you'll be dealing with Skylar too. She hangs around here… a lot." Marco didn't even look surprised.
"Great. Just what this setup needed. Explosives and attitude."
From somewhere down the hall, Skylar called out,
"I heard that."
Footsteps echoed on the steel stairs, followed by the metallic creak of the door swinging open. Skylar stepped in like she belonged there—hoodie half-zipped, fingers smudged with grease, and that ever-present glint of trouble in her eyes.
She gave Marco a once-over, then looked around.
"Nice place," she said. "Looks like a Bond villain moved in with a trauma surgeon and said, 'Let's compromise.'" Marco didn't miss a beat.
"Well, I was going for 'psychotic dude with a splash of mechanic precision,' but yeah. Close enough."
Skylar wandered over to the workbench, dragging her finger through the fine layer of dust.
"You got space for custom work?"
Marco shrugged, already watching her like a puzzle he wanted to take apart and maybe frame.
"Depends. What are we talking? Explosives, implants, or something more… creative?"
Skylar smirked without looking up.
"You tell me. You're the one with a drill and zero supervision." Marco leaned against the table, voice low and amused.
"I've also got reinforced restraints and a bone saw. We can improvise."
Skylar turned to him, eyebrow raised.
"Is that your way of flirting?"
"Yes," Marco replied simply.
Rocco, still standing by the door, sighed loud enough to cut through the tension.
"You two are absolutely insufferable." Neither of them looked at him.
Skylar rolled her eyes at Rocco, then turned to Marco with a smirk.
"Don't touch my stuff while I'm gone. Unless you wanna get electrocuted or flashbanged. Or both."
And with that, she disappeared through the connecting door—just through Taz's lab—into her own space. Skylar's computer room was… something else.
It didn't just hum with power—it vibrated with it. Walls lined with screens, wires like veins running through the ceiling and floor.
Multiple high-spec towers sat stacked like a digital altar, each with custom cooling systems, LED lighting pulsing like a heartbeat. The air smelled faintly of ozone and burning ambition. Cables were everywhere—some carefully routed, others looped in organized chaos only she understood.
There were half-disassembled drones on one table, open laptops on another, and an entire wall dedicated to encryption keys, access points, and a few devices whose purpose probably violated Geneva conventions. In the far corner, a steel staircase led to the upper level—her loft.
That was Skylar's den. Low light. Black-out curtains. A mattress on the floor surrounded by mismatched pillows, books, and empty tea mugs.
A projector faced the wall opposite her bed, and a neon sign above it all read "CtrlZGod"—flickering slightly like it had seen some shit.
It wasn't pretty.
It was perfectly her.
And it was locked down tighter than a military base. Down there, surrounded by code and chaos, Skylar was in control.
Above it, she could pretend to rest.
What most people didn't know—what they weren't supposed to know—was that beneath the lab, the garage, and Skylar's digital lair… there was more. Much more. Hidden doors, nearly invisible unless you knew exactly where to look, connected both Marco's garage and Skylar's computer room to a long, narrow hallway in the sub-basement. Reinforced steel. Low lighting. Temperature controlled. No cameras. It was known simply as The Hall. At the end of it?
The Pit.
No one talked about The Pit casually.
It wasn't just a place—it was a boundary. Between normal and monstrous. Between science and sadism. Skylar's entrance was concealed behind a false server rack—one she'd rigged to zap anyone without the right biometric signature.
Marco's was behind a false panel in his garage floor—disguised as a maintenance hatch, complete with hydraulic lift. Both doors led to the same hallway.
A place of silence, concrete, and purpose.
And in that hallway, when Skylar and Marco crossed paths on their way down…
They didn't speak. They just exchanged that look.
And together, they went to work.