Broken Hands

13. Caught in web

Grayson stood frozen, his mind racing with escape plans as he mentally cursed himself. Out past curfew, without his tracker, and with Alex likely worried sick, he realized he'd been reckless. There's a reason for the curfew, he thought bitterly. He bit his lip. Alex had been right, and now, here he was, a gun pressed to his head.

"Turn around. Don't play smart," the voice commanded. It sounded odd, distorted. Grayson obeyed, slowly turning, his body tense.

"What do you want?" he asked, his voice a low growl.

"Fun," the stranger replied with a hint of mockery.

The response jolted something dark in him-a memory he buried long ago-but he forced it down, fingers itching toward the knife hidden in his pocket.

The figure stepped closer, and for a moment, the helmet obscured their face. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, they lifted it, revealing a familiar face. Grayson's heart sank, a mix of dread and anger flaring up. Hera.

Her cold eyes sparkled with amusement as she chewed her gum while slipping her gun in her belt, her expression a mixture of mockery and indifference, same as always, she could look at death and call it a joke. "Has anyone ever told you how weird you are?" she smirked.

Grayson glared at her, a hint of anger cutting through his fear. "I could have stabbed you, Hera."

She laughed, dismissing him with a wave. "Relax, Grayson. You're as harmless as a kitten. Not scary at all, my boy."

He scoffed, yanking his bike out of the trees as Hera followed him casually, her nonchalance infuriating.

"What brings you here?" he muttered, unwilling to entertain her games any longer.

Hera's gaze turned serious, her eyes holding a glint of something unreadable. "The wind... the same old wind," she replied sarcastically.

Grayson glanced sideways at her, noting her red bobbed hair glowing faintly under the streetlamp. They had grown longer from the last time they met, "Stop with the riddles, Hera," he said, watching her closely. "When you show up, it always means trouble," he said, his tone edged with wariness.

She smiled, tilting her head. "Oh, you know me so well." There was sarcasm in her voice, but beneath it, something else lingered-an unreadable edge that put him on guard. Hera had always been a puzzle, someone he could count on in a crisis but never fully trusted. She was dangerous, beautiful, and as unpredictable as the wind she claimed brought her here.

"You haven't forgotten, have you?"

Grayson's stared at her. "Forgotten what?"

She stepped closer, her voice dropping to an almost sinister whisper as she locked eyes with him. "Grayson, you know you don't belong where you are. You're living someone else's life, clinging to a lie." Her words cut, each syllable dripping with dark intent.

"What do you mean?" he asked, fighting to keep his voice steady.

Hera's gaze drilled into him. "Charlie did a good job on you-locked you up in a cage without walls. He made sure you'd never find your way home."

He stepped closer, his eyes blazing. "I have a home and I know the way. That's the only place I belong."

Hera shook her head, dismissing his words. "That's what you tell yourself. But you and I both know it's a lie."

Grayson's fist tightened. "It's not a lie." He growled, "I don't have anything to do with Mr. Crime Lord aka rapist, or whatever he is. He's dead." His voice rose, defiance masking the small tremor of fear inside him. "The only family I have is the one that pulled me out of that hellhole."