Broken Hands

121. Death fight

Trapped. That word didn't even begin to describe their situation.

Grayson had drifted into consciousness, his head pounding, his body stiff and aching. For a fleeting second, he wished—prayed—to wake up in his bed, tangled in warm sheets, the soft hum of life going on around him. But reality crashed down like a weight. The air was damp, thick with the stench of rust and something rotten. Cold metal pressed against his back when he shifted, his wrists aching from the tightness of his restraints earlier.

He was caged.

The space was barely six meters square, reinforced with thick metal grates that stretched from floor to ceiling, like something out of a twisted zoo. Beyond the bars, the hall was shrouded in darkness, but distant echoes of movement slithered through it. At one point, a roaring cheer erupted somewhere far off—loud, brutal, animalistic. It made Grayson's stomach churn. He hated this. Hated being trapped.

Beside him, Russell was unnervingly still. The boy had been optimistic—insisting Damien would come for them. But Grayson knew better. They weren't getting out of this anytime soon. Whatever reason they were being held for, it wouldn't be long before pain came with it. He had already braced himself for that. There were too many consequences waiting, too many ways this could end in a rough tragedy.

He turned his head slightly, stealing a glance at Russell. The dim light barely illuminated him, but it was enough to see the dirt streaked across his face, the way his strands were matted from the rough handling. A dark bruise spread across the side of his head, standing out against his pink skin. He looked tired. And a little too relaxed.

Grayson clenched his jaw. This was still better than having Julian in here. The best decision he could've made. Julian wouldn't have lasted a day. But that didn't ease the tightness in his chest. He should've done more—kept Russell out of it entirely. If only he had been more careful.

Time blurred. It could've been over twenty-four hours since they'd been taken, or more. The hunger clawed at his stomach, but worse than that was the exhaustion. Sleep was not an option. Not here in a cage.

Some kind of deal was happening—Eddie was waiting for someone, and that someone was taking too damn long.

Grayson curled his fingers, fists clenched so tightly his nails bit into his palms. One opening. That's all he need. One chance to run, and he'll get Russell out. This will be the end.

Russell suddenly broke the silence. "Hey, Gray, guess what day it is today." His voice was almost playful, the kind of forced lightness that barely masked the tension. He was fiddling with something—what looked like a small ball, probably a discarded piece of junk he'd found in the cage.

Grayson exhaled sharply, not in the mood. "No."

Russell smirked, tossing the ball against the floor and catching it lazily. "Your birthday."

Grayson stilled.

Russell gave a short, dry laugh. "Happy birthday, Grayson. This place is nasty, but it's never the worst time."

Grayson swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He had completely forgotten. Not that it mattered. Birthdays weren't a big deal—he had only celebrated twice in his life. But the way Russell brought it up made something twist inside him. This was the worst time. He could've been home. He could've been surrounded by good people. Instead, he was here. In a cage. That stunk like rat poop.

And all because of a stupid dream.

What the hell was he thinking?

He had let his guard down. Ignored Hera's warnings. Trusted Eddie Race, of all people, maybe he didn't trust the man he was just too blind to not see where this could lead. Eddie man who built his life on illegalities. Of course, he pulled this stunt.