Broken Hands

120. Dark hour

It was chaos.

The night air was thick with tension, the hum of restless movement filling the temporary headquarters where Damien stood, phone clutched tightly in his hand. He was restless, his mind racing through a dozen possibilities, each worse than the last.

Rex had been right—there was more to this than just two rebellious teenagers sneaking off to a tournament. Through persistence, threats, and relentless interrogation, they had finally pried a location from a cornered informant. But none of that mattered anymore, because Damien had just gotten the call that changed everything.

"They just left with Grayson and Russell."

Savanna's words echoed in his mind, chilling him to the core.

Grayson. Russell. Taken.

The rage was immediate, burning through the initial shock and gripping him with an iron fist. Damien had always known Grayson was reckless, but this? This was beyond reckless—this was outright suicidal.

And the worst part? He wasn't even surprised.

Deep down, a part of him had already known something like this was bound to happen. Grayson never could stay out of trouble. But Damien had been distracted—tied up with the contents of Charlie's old phone, tracking down dangerous men, putting criminals behind bars. He had thought for once that maybe, just maybe, Grayson would keep himself in line. Besides, he was at the Castle.

He should've known better. Grayson was smart. In a suicidal way.

The tournament had already been winding down when Damien arrived, just in time to watch officers detain the organizer—a middle-aged man with barely a grasp of English, Dimitri Nunez. They had arrested him for questioning, along with a few others, their illegal dealings finally catching up to them. But none of that mattered now.

Because Grayson had been there.

Under a false name. Competing. Illegally.

His blood had run cold the second he spotted the alias X on the list of racers—24 years old. It was a stupid cover, but one he recognized instantly. He'd seen it before, buried in the letters referencing his sister, the very same symbol she once used as an alias.

The confirmation came fast.

A quick pull of the race records, a blurry but undeniable image of a masked figure leaning against a motorbike. The angles, the posture, the very essence of defiance radiating from the still shot.

It was Grayson.

Damien had barely had time to process the betrayal, the stupidity of it all, before another name caught his attention—Edward Rally, also known as Eddie Race. A name that didn't belong in the same breath as Grayson, yet there it was. According to Dimitri, Grayson had competed under the man.

Just as he was about to order the team to track them, his phone buzzed.

Grayson.

Damien didn't hesitate—he answered immediately, his voice sharp and demanding.

"Where are you?"

But it wasn't Grayson who spoke.

"Mr. Smith?" A whisper. Hesitant. Familiar.

"It's Savanna."

His pulse spiked.

"Savanna, where is Grayson?"

"We got chased. Some guys—they shot at us. They're after us. Grayson went out to them—"

Silence.

A shuffle. Background noise.