The buzzer crackled.

"Yeah?" Hahn's voice rasped through the intercom.

"Damian Scott," he answered, running a hand through his damp hair, the drizzle clinging to him like a second skin. He removed his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his navy Henley while he waited.

There was a pause before the response. "First floor above, second door on the right. Two knocks. Come on up."

The door clicked. Damian pushed it open and stepped into the musty hallway, the scent of damp concrete and mildew wrapping around him. The walls bore decades of neglect, paint peeling like old wounds. He jogged up the stairs, his shoulders brushing the narrow walls.

After knocking twice at the second door, it swung open. Agent Hahn leaned against the frame, a tissue pressed to her nose, smudged with streaks of crimson. Her dark curls sprang free from a messy bun, and her T-shirt hung loose at the shoulder, torn and smeared with blood.

"You're late," she muttered, waving him in.

Damian stepped through, his gaze scanning her face. "You look like hell. What happened?"

Hahn's lips twitched. "Marino's little messenger happened."

Damian frowned, placing both hands on his hips, his tall frame towering over her. What jerk would lay a hand on a woman barely five feet?

"Show me the asshole who did this to you. Call an ambulance and get yourself checked after that."

The federal agent blew out a tired sigh. "I'll be fine. The asshole's in the living room."

A coppery stench, like old coins, assaulted Damian's nostrils the second he crossed the threshold.

Blood.

Sharp, metallic, raw. It clung to the air, curling into his lungs and coating the back of his throat like rust. Sweat hung just beneath it, sour and stagnant.

"Come on," Hahn called out, jerking her head toward the center of the room.

Damian scanned the small but homely apartment. Mismatched pillows cluttered a faded couch facing a flatscreen television. An office chair lay sideways on the floor next to a desk, and papers were scattered on top of a laptop.

A man tied to a folding chair in the middle of the room caught his attention.

Young. Thin. Wiry.

His shirt clung to him, damp with sweat, and blood crusted around his split lip. He kept his head down, chest heaving in shallow, uneven breaths.

Damian stepped closer, the hard soles of his leather boots thudding against the hardwood. The man didn't look up, but his shoulders tremored.

"What's his name?" Damian asked.

"Will Nguyen. He used to be my partner," Hahn replied, leaning against the counter. Her face twitched as she shifted her weight. Was she in pain?

Damian crouched before the man, tilting his chin to meet his eyes. "Will."

Will flinched. He tried to move, but the handcuffs held him in place.

"You know who I am, right?" Damian asked.

"You're Damian Scott," Will answered.

"You're going to tell me why you sold me out," Damian murmured, stroking the man's pale cheek. "Go ahead. I'm listening."

Will stammered, the words spilling out in a frantic mess. "H-Hahn is lying. She's the t-traitor. She said Marino was our informant, and you signed a deal to take over Saira Quinn's businesses."

"Liar," Hahn interjected, kicking Will's foot. "You lying piece of shit." Turning to Damian, she shook her head. "Don't listen to Will. He's playing—."

"I know the truth." Damian cut in, standing to his full height. He loomed over the chair, his shadow falling across Will like a guillotine.

"Yeah, you know the truth, that Hahn's the liar. Can you uncuff me?" Will begged, his eyes shining with tears.

Damian turned to the agent, eyeing her pistol. He extended his hand, palm up, his fingers curling in a subtle wave—hand it over.

"Are you sure, Mister Scott?" she questioned.

"Hahn," Damian commanded, shooting her an icy glare.

For a moment, she didn't move. The only sound was Will's whimpers and babbling pleas to be released.

Then, slowly, Hahn placed the gun in Damian's hand. Their fingers brushed—her warmth touching the tip of his steady, cool forefinger. The gun settled into his palm as if the slick, cold steel belonged there.

"Now, did Hahn betray me? I'll kill you if you lie to me."

"It's all a big misunderstanding. I didn't mean any harm. I'll tell you anything if you unlock the cuffs," Will pleaded.

Damian's eyes locked onto Will's, sharp and unblinking. "No harm? If you meant no harm, why does Agent Hahn look like a domestic abuse victim?"

At first, Will didn't answer. Damian clicked his tongue three times. Slowly.

Will spat on the ground, spittle lining his bloodied lips. "Okay, okay. I'll tell you the truth. Mike Marino—he offered me money. He said it'd just be intel on you, nothing big. I swear, I didn't—"

"Where's your big man? Hmm? You thought he'd protect you?" Damian's smile widened, yet there was no warmth in his eyes when he stared at a dark patch spreading at the front of Will's trousers.

"You're a little bitch who betrayed the girls and boys who want to go home. You know what Marino does for a living. He threatened me and my wife for trying to stop him."

Damian's emerald glare shot out shards of cold malice.

Pure, vengeful malice.

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "And here you are. Bleeding. Shaking. Pissing yourself in a folding chair. How's that working out for you, Will?"

Will's breath hitched as sweat trickled down his brow. "I didn't know he wanted to come after your family. He was close to your mother. I didn't mean for you—"

"You didn't mean," Damian said coldly. He crouched again, getting right in Will's face, their noses nearly touching. "But you made it personal the second you put my family at risk."

Will shook his head, his words tumbling over themselves. "I'll fix it! I'll tell you everything. Please, just don't—"

Damian raised the gun, leveling it at Will's forehead. His voice dropped, conversational, almost polite. He tilted his head, studying Will like a scientist examining a lab rat.

"Where is Marino?"

"In Europe."

"Country? City? Town?"

"He has hidden villas in Italy or Spain, I don't know."

"You don't know, or you won't tell?"

"He has connections on the continent, including in the Nordic countries. He and your mother had affiliations with the mafia in Oslo and Stockholm through the dark web."

"Fuck," Damian swore under his breath, swallowing down the bile rising in his throat. Saira's trafficking cartel was worse than he'd imagined. "Where exactly is Mike? I need a location."

"I don't know, I promise."

"You're either fucking dumb, or you're fucking with me. I'm the man who makes sure scum like you remember their place. We could've ended this mess. Instead, you fucked it all up. All for money?"

"A million, and I'm sorry. Not everyone was born with privileges. You don't understand every day is a battle." Will sobbed, incoherent with his words. Sweat poured down his face, mixing with the sharp stink of urine.

"We all have our battles, privileges or not. Ultimately, we choose who we want to become, how we harness our inner demons, and how we control them."

"This world owes me!" Will shrieked. "I put my life on the line in my job all the time. What do I get? Nothing."

"The world doesn't owe you. It owes no one." Damian's voice stayed calm, almost soft.

He aimed the gun at Will's face and played with the trigger, his fingers feeling its cool tongue. People like Will would never learn. They were sob stories, blaming the world for their damages.

Damian hated whiners. They were a waste of space. He'd seen them blow one chance after another and drag others with them to hell. They were misery embodied, showing no remorse to the people they hurt. Including children.

Damian pulled the trigger.

To end the misery.

The gunshot shattered the air, sharp and concussive. Will's head snapped back, the force jerking his body against the chair. Blood spilled in a thin, glistening line down the bridge of his nose, pooling at the hollow of his throat as his body slumped forward, lifeless.

For a moment, there was no sound except the faint creak of the folding chair under his weight.

Damian stood still, the gun steady in his hand. He didn't lower it right away, as if waiting for something. But the room remained muted.

Hahn flinched but didn't look away. She stepped forward, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Was that necessary?" she asked.

"Yes," Damian replied as if she'd asked him if it might rain. He strolled to the counter, placing the gun down with a deliberate clack. "And next time? Don't let it get this far."

Hahn exhaled sharply through her nose, pursing her lips. "There's always a next time."

"Not for him." Damian glanced down at Will's limp body.

Her brown eyes followed him as he washed his hands at the kitchen sink, wiping them on a hanging towel.

The tension in the room hung heavy, almost stifling, until they heard the faint sound of sirens.

"The cavalry's here," Hahn quipped.

"You called your pals already?"

"While you were talking. Yeah. The ambulance, too." She shot him a sharp look. "Thought you might want me to take care of the body. Clean it up."

"Clean it up?" Damian raised an eyebrow. "Not sure that's in the FBI handbook."

She shrugged, her lips twitching with the faintest hint of a smirk. "It's a gray area. We'll find Mike, I promise."

"Thanks. For helping me clean up my mess. My family's mess."

"Don't get used to it. You think I do this kind of thing for everyone?" She snorted. "You helped us out. Saira Quinn was Lester Harbor's worst criminal behind the blue-blooded facade. What she left behind... I don't envy you."

Damian chuckled, smoothing the worn denim over his thighs. "Nobody envies me."

"Hey, where'd you learn to shoot?"

"My mother taught me."

The sirens grew louder, and Hahn shifted, leaning against the counter. She winced. Damian noticed her stiff movements as she stepped toward him. "Make sure an ambulance officer checks your wounds."

"I'm good," she assured, brushing him off. But when he didn't move, her expression softened. "Okay, maybe I'll let them check me out. Happy?"

"Thrilled."

The sirens stopped. The sound of car doors slamming echoed from the street below.

Damian glanced back at her. "I think you've got this under control now."

Hahn cocked her head. "You're leaving?"

"I've got people waiting for me," Damian said, pushing off the counter.

She hesitated, her expression unreadable for a moment. "Yeah. Of course, you do."

He turned to the door, but her voice stopped him.

"Hey, Mister Scott."

He glanced back, raising one eyebrow.

A faint grin tugged at the corner of her mouth. "You can call me Sofia."

"Call me Damian." He flashed his pearly whites.

"Noted. Damian." Sofia bit her lower lip, her cheeks blushing a splash of red.

They held each other's gaze for a second longer before Sofia opened the door for him.

"I've gotta get back to my wife," Damian said, his hands digging deep into his pockets as he strode away.

***

Damian cut the engine and coasted to a stop at the hill's edge. The city sprawled below him, its lights blinking like tiny fires in the dark. He swung off the bike, his boots crunching on loose gravel, and pulled off his gloves, shoveling them into his jacket pocket. The sharp wind carried the faint scent of rain.

He stared at the city, but it wasn't what he saw.

A gun. Heavy. Cold. Too big for his nine-year-old hands.

"Stop shaking," Saira scolded, crouching beside him. Long flaxen hair spilled over her shoulder as she adjusted his grip, her gray eyes locked on the target. "Control the gun, Damian. Or it'll control you."

"What if I miss?" His skinny arms trembled from the weight.

Her lips curved into a faint smile, a quiet menace behind it. "Then you don't deserve to hold it."

The first shot cracked, the recoil snapping his arms back. The sharp smell of gunpowder stung his nose, but when he looked up at her, her gaze was fixed on the target.

A perfect hit.

"Winning is all that matters," Saira asserted, standing. "Take what's yours, Damian. Always. Don't wait for anyone to give it to you. Don't be weak like your father."

Her harsh words stung like the cruel wind lashing at him. He blinked, and the memory shifted to when he was thirteen.

Alistair rested in his Danish designer armchair, his chest wrapped in bandages. Damian sat cross-legged on the floor, watching as his father winced and shifted to lean forward.

"That bullet wasn't meant for me," Alistair said. "It was for your stepmother, Vera."

Damian frowned. "You took it for her?"

"Yes," Alistair answered, meeting his son's eyes. "Because I love her. And you protect the people you love, no matter what it costs."

"But what if you lose?" Damian asked, scooting closer.

"Then you keep trying," Alistair replied, leaning back with a grimace. "Triumph depends on a roll of fate's dice. You know who said that?"

Damian nodded. "Nietzsche. You told me, remember?"

Alistair gave a faint smile. "Heaven or hell, son. That's your choice. No one else's."

The wind bit harder now, dragging Damian back to the hilltop. He exhaled, his breath visible in the cool air. Two voices from the past. Two lessons. His mother had taught him to take, to dominate. His father had taught him to protect, to love.

His fingers tightened around the handlebars as he climbed back onto the bike. The engine roared to life, cutting through the silence. The city stretched before him, sprawling, chaotic, waiting.

Damian leaned forward, speeding down the hill. The city blurred, but his focus sharpened. He couldn't rewrite the past.

But the future?

All he could think about was Chloe and Dawn. He had to find Mike and stop him before his threats became a reality.

***

A/N: Where do you think Mike Marino is? What will he do to Damian and his family?