The first scream barely registered anymore.

That was probably unhealthy.

Evie sat cross-legged on the safehouse couch tightening bolts inside a half-disassembled motorcycle carburetor while bad reality TV played quietly in the background.

Somewhere downstairs, a man screamed once.

Then stopped abruptly.

Evie tightened another bolt.

Kane walked through the living room carrying coffee.

“…You’re adapting disturbingly well.”

Evie looked up.

“I grew up around street racers and illegal cage fights.”

“Fair.”

Another muffled impact echoed faintly through the floorboards below them.

Evie paused mid-bolt.

“…That one sounded expensive.”

Kane sat heavily on the couch arm.

“That’s probably Dominic.”

“Is Dominic being tortured or doing the torturing?”

“Yes.”

Evie nodded slowly.

“Honestly impressive workplace efficiency.”

Kane drank his coffee.

“You know,” he said carefully, “most people get uncomfortable hearing interrogation noises.”

“Most people don’t live inside a Call of Duty side mission.”

“That’s concerningly accurate.”

Another crash sounded downstairs.

Then silence.

Evie glanced toward the hallway.

“…How bad is it?”

Kane looked at the ceiling for a second.

“Bad enough the traitor’s probably reconsidering several life choices.”

“Ah.”

A beat.

“…Do you guys have, like, HR?”

Kane looked deeply offended.

“We had HR once.”

“What happened?”

“Dominic threatened them with pliers.”

“Of course he did.”

Kane stood again with a sigh.

“I’m going downstairs before somebody dies incorrectly.”

“That sentence raised additional questions.”

“Don’t ask them.”

He disappeared down the hallway.

Evie looked back at the motorcycle parts.

Tried focusing again.

Didn’t.

Another sound drifted faintly upward.

Not screaming this time.

A chair scraping concrete.

Then Cassian’s voice.

Low.

Flat.

Dangerously calm.

Evie couldn’t make out the words.

Only the tone.

And weirdly—

that bothered her more.

Not because she thought he was pretending.

The opposite.

Because she suddenly understood something uncomfortable:

Cassian probably sounded exactly like that during missions.

Cold.

Precise.

Controlled.

Like violence became easier when emotions stayed somewhere else entirely.

Evie stared at the wrench in her hand for a second too long.

Then set it down.

Curiosity officially became a terrible survival instinct at this point.

Five minutes later she stood outside the basement interrogation room holding absolutely no plan whatsoever.

Muted voices came through the steel door.

Then a sharp impact.

A man groaned painfully.

Evie winced.

“…Okay, maybe this is emotionally above my pay grade.”

She should leave.

Definitely leave.

Instead she cracked the door open slightly.

Mistake.

Huge mistake.

The room smelled like blood and antiseptic.

One hanging light illuminated concrete walls and a metal chair bolted to the floor.

A man sat restrained in it.

Face bruised.

Lip split.

Breathing hard.

Dominic leaned against the far wall cleaning blood off brass knuckles with visible irritation.

And Cassian—

Cassian stood directly in front of the prisoner.

Black gloves.

Black clothes.

Grey eyes empty in the worst possible way.

Not angry.

Not emotional.

Just focused.

The prisoner looked terrified.

Actually terrified.

Cassian crouched slowly in front of him.

“You sold route information.”

The man shook violently.

“I-I didn’t know Viktor would attack the garage—”

Cassian grabbed the chair hard enough to stop the movement instantly.

“You sold information.”

Not louder.

Worse.

Quiet.

The prisoner swallowed hard.

“I needed money.”

Cassian stared at him for one long second.

Then stood.

The man panicked immediately.

“Please—”

Cassian hit him once.

Short movement.

Efficient.

The prisoner gasped against the restraints.

Evie flinched instinctively at the doorway.

The sound made Dominic glance over first.

Then Cassian turned.

Silence hit the room instantly.

Evie froze.

Well.

Fantastic.

Nobody moved.

Cassian looked at her across the concrete room.

Expression unreadable again.

A thin line of blood marked one black glove near the knuckles.

Evie’s brain completely failed to produce a useful survival response.

So naturally—

“…Do you guys need paper towels?”

Dominic stared at her like she’d descended from space.

The prisoner blinked in confusion.

Cassian said nothing.

Evie lifted the roll slightly.

“I saw blood.”

Still silence.

Evie kept going because apparently self-preservation had abandoned her years ago.

“And technically this room has terrible cleanup infrastructure.”

Dominic slowly looked toward Cassian.

Then back toward Evie.

Then silently walked out of the room entirely.

Coward.

The steel door shut behind him.

Now it was just:

Evie.

Cassian.

The traitor.

And whatever deeply concerning emotional situation this counted as.

Evie cleared her throat awkwardly.

“So.”

Cassian looked at the paper towels.

Then at her.

“You shouldn’t be down here.”

“That feels hypocritical considering you are literally down here.”

The prisoner looked between them with visible confusion.

Honestly relatable.

Evie stepped into the room slowly.

Not close.

Just enough to set the paper towel roll on a nearby metal table.

The prisoner stared at her like he genuinely couldn’t process this interaction.

Probably fair.

Cassian’s eyes followed her movement carefully.

Still quiet.

Still unreadable.

Evie glanced once toward the blood on his glove.

Then back up at him.

No lecture.

No fear.

No dramatic reaction.

Just:

“You missed some.”

Cassian stayed completely still.

The room went silent again.

The prisoner looked increasingly concerned by the entire vibe.

Evie pointed awkwardly toward the glove.

“…Left hand.”

Cassian looked down briefly.

Small blood smear near the knuckles.

He reached for the paper towels automatically.

Stopped halfway.

Then looked back at her.

Like he expected something different.

Fear maybe.

Revulsion.

People usually looked at him differently after rooms like this.

Evie just leaned lightly against the table.

Waiting.

Cassian took the paper towels slowly.

Black glove against white paper.

Small movement.

But careful.

The prisoner suddenly spoke weakly from the chair.

“She’s not scared of you.”

Cassian’s eyes snapped toward him instantly.

The room temperature dropped ten degrees.

Evie spoke before the prisoner could continue.

“Oh, I’m definitely scared of him.”

Cassian looked back at her.

Evie pointed casually.

“I just also think you need better stress management hobbies.”

A tiny pause.

Then:

“You followed me into a torture basement.”

“…Okay, wow, when you phrase it like that—”

“Bad decision.”

“Historically true.”

Something almost moved near the corner of Cassian’s mouth.

Gone immediately.

But there.

Evie noticed.

Unfortunately.