Lock's face was calm as a blade.
"I can let you live," he said without emotion. "So you won't leave this world with regrets."
Zeke's expression didn't shift to gratitude. If anything, it hardened. "That isn't an attractive condition," he replied, eyes flicking over to Grisha and Dina with a meaning that needed no translation.
Before anyone could speak, a whisper of movement—sharp, surgical—cut the air.
A knife flashed. Pain bloomed across Zeke's shoulder as steel nicked the skin at his neck; blood welled and ran slow and red. The sound was small and intimate against the stone silence.
"Don't!" Dina cried, half-rising, shock and maternal terror colliding in her voice. She tried to lurch forward; Grisha's hand clamped over her mouth and held her back, fingers iron as guilt and resolve warred across his face.
Lock watched them all. For a moment, something like surprise crossed his features—he had misjudged a detail of human nature. Women were soft-hearted; mothers were softer still. He made a quiet note to himself. If influence and control had to be welded with subtler tools, he would remember that. For the plan's sake, he could be ruthless, but he would not waste an advantage to breed needless enemies.
He sheathed the blade as Zeke hissed, more from anger than pain. Up close, see the Beast's fear was obvious: not of death itself, but of the calculation and forces around him.
"Do you think I dare kill you?" Lock asked lightly.
"You—don't play games." Zeke's voice shook with outrage. He'd expected bargaining, threats, promises—but not the cold intimacy of a knife stroke. He had grown up on hard bargains; this was another kind of pressure.
Lock's gaze didn't waver. "Do you object to my earlier offer?"
Zeke's breath was ragged. He swallowed. "No. I'll help you make contacts. But success is on me, not you."
"Good." Lock's smile was faint. "It would have been better if you'd seen reason sooner. Maybe then you wouldn't have committed the things you did."
"You played dirty," Zeke whispered, venom edged with a broken tone. "Aren't you afraid I'll betray you?"
Lock's reply was almost mild. "Technology matters. But if worst comes, if we run into an impossible wall—what then? At worst, let the world bury itself with me." There was a madness behind the words, a defiant, all-consuming willingness to risk everything.
"Madness," Zeke spat. Pieck, who had lingered at the edge of consciousness in the next cell, shuddered and could no longer maintain the pretense of sleep. Something in Lock disturbed her down to her bones; this youth carried the kind of vision that toppled orders.
"You are a madman," Zeke yelled.
"Maybe," Lock said, turning to leave, the blade's small kiss still fresh in the Beast's memory. "But it's better than waiting to be slaughtered."
Zeke's anger settled into a brittle pragmatism. He thought of what his life had been, of the small, cold certainties of Marley's command. Options had been scarce; freedom, rarely offered. The idea of being useful on his own terms—of leveraging his position to make arrangements rather than obey—had an appeal. He breathed out, and the tension in his shoulders eased.
"If I want to live," he muttered, "I have no choice."
"Exactly." Lock's nod was brief.
Zeke's voice softened, edged with something like wry curiosity. "You're interesting. This is going to be… interesting."
He looked to Grisha and to Dina then, guilt and a measure of odd, private relief flickering across his face. Dina broke free of Grisha's restraining hand and moved close—mother to son—eyes raw and pleading with the hurt of everything.
Lock didn't linger for that scene. He stepped away, saying, "I'll go out. I'll leave them to you."
Grisha, voice heavy with the weight of a father's contradictions, promised, "I won't let Dina do anything reckless. I'll keep her from undoing this."
Lock accepted the promise. He didn't want to know what the three of them might say next—binding iron chains with lock and key would hold them for now. The restraints were heavy, purpose-built; without his key, the men could not remove them.
Passing through the guard lines, Lock found Petra and Ymir waiting, their hands full of report sheets and lists. A thousand small tasks waited in the corridors of power.
"Thank you for your work," Lock said with a quick, sincere tilt of the head.
The two women rolled their eyes in tandem at his formality.
"Since you know how hard we've worked, stop standing there and making snitty remarks," Ymir grumbled. "Help."
Petra pushed a stack of papers forward. "Get ordering these reports, merge them into the book we'll submit to the government. No shortcuts—procedures are the backbone of stability."
Lock understood. Even with his influence, the process could not be ignored. Petra's point was practical: legitimacy needed paperwork, or the façade would crumble into chaos.
They knuckled down and finished the paperwork with practiced efficiency. The three of them worked in near-silence; each sheet was a small brick in the edifice of control that Lock was building.
When the last bundle was bound, Lock asked casually, "Is Historia still assigned to headquarters?"
"Yeah," Ymir replied. "We couldn't find anyone else to leave in charge. She's accepted, and the troops respect her name. No problems."
Petra looked puzzled. "Why the sudden interest in Historia?"
"Just caution," Lock said smoothly. "We're stabilizing things, but I want contingency plans—especially for those tied to the royal line. Better safe than sorry."
Petra's mouth thinned. "You mean…?"
"Exactly," Lock said. "If anything goes sideways, I want backups in place."
They both fell silent. The name of the puppet king, the legacy of the Reis family, the fragility of newfound order: every piece fit into the larger machinery Lock was assembling. For stability to hold, the people who might pull at threads—nobles, old factions, relatives with claims—had to be watched and constrained.
Outside, the city hummed—workers, soldiers, the low thrum of life returning. Inside, the machinery of rule wound on: interrogations, detainments, files filed in triplicate.
Lock looked at his companions. "Get some rest. We'll need you."
Ymir snorted, but there was relief in her otherwise dour expression. Petra smiled, thin but real.
Lock turned away and walked toward the window. In the distance, the walls caught the light of the afternoon. He let his fingertip trace the seam where steel met glass—small, meaningless motion, and yet it steadied him.
This was only the beginning. The binding choices would come hard and fast. Friends and enemies, blood and policy—they would be woven together into something fierce and enduring, or they would splinter the island apart.
He thought, briefly, of the three in the cell: a father, a mother, a son. Of the Beast who might now be an ally; of the Armored and Cart titans, still bound and living. Power had the shape of teeth and hunger and terrible pragmatism. He had used a blade to point a truth into the Beast, and it had done what he required.
One way or another, the future would be bought in blood or built in iron—and he would choose the path that kept the island alive.
"Don't sleep on your guard," he murmured to himself. "Peace is a fragile thing."
The papers in Petra's hands rustled as the afternoon light shifted. Outside, men sang as they worked on the roofs. Somewhere, a child laughed.
Lock turned back to his duties. There was no time for sentiment. The next move—quiet, inexorable—was already forming in his mind.
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