Broken Hands

129. Battered for it

Grayson drew in a breath. It hurt. Everything did. His ribs, his skull, even his own thoughts felt like bruises pressing down on his brain. He was back in a cage, locked up again. The last thing he remembered was Peter's frantic voice, the sharp sting of panic in his words, and then—nothing. Just a hand over his nostrils, the suffocating grip of darkness, and now, this.

The space was different. Smaller than before. Unlike the previous places, it wasn't a damp, putrid cell with rusted bars or grimy chains. Instead, a dim white bulb flickered overhead, casting a sterile glow on bare concrete walls. The door was metal, sealed shut. No windows, no cracks. Just him and the silence. Grayson didn't bother testing the door. They wouldn't be that careless. He leaned back against the wall, exhaling slowly. They would come. They had to.

Russell. Was he awake yet? How bad were his injuries? The last time Grayson saw him, he wasn't moving.

Hera. The gunshot still rang in his ears. Was she down for real?

And then Perez. Was this his doing? Did he finally make a move? Grayson thought of Perez's version of the story—the way his voice had sounded amused when he spoke of Charlie. Charlie had used him, like he had used everyone else. A parasite that latched on anything and drained it dry. Charlie was an evil man. A man beyond saving. A good thing he died. But even in death, his poison lingered, staining everything Grayson touched. His past refused to let go. It followed him, shackled him, crushed him under the weight of ghosts that refused to stay buried.

His stomach twisted. He was starving. Weak. But somehow, his body had reached a point where it barely registered anymore. Numbness had settled in, thick and heavy. Time blurred. Hours? Days? He didn't know. His breath was slow, controlled. His mind, however, raced.

What next?

They had him again.

Who was he meeting this time?

A sound broke through the stillness—footsteps, steady and deliberate. Grayson tensed, his pulse kicking up. The sharp jangle of keys followed. Then, the door swung open in a single, fluid motion, no creak, no hesitation. Three men stepped inside. Their presence filled the small space, thickening the air. Grayson's skin crawled, but his expression remained blank. He refused to show them anything.

The first man stepped forward, clothes in hand. His lips curled, voice smooth yet edged with something mocking.

The first man stepped forward, a bundle of baby blue fabric in his hands. He wasn't in a rush, taking his time as he let his eyes rake over Grayson with an expression that sent a pulse of cold fury through him. Then, a smirk curled on his lips, one laced with mockery.

"Put this on, guapo." His tone was amused, condescending, like he was speaking to something delicate, something meant to be played with.

Grayson didn't move. He barely blinked.

The second man, the one standing just behind, crouched beside him, his presence unsettlingly close. He was younger, his face smooth but etched with a suspected violence, and the way his eyes gleamed as he tilted his head made Grayson's stomach coil with disgust. He leaned in, his breath thick with alcohol and something sour, and let out a low chuckle.

"Or I'll do it for you," he murmured, voice laced with a hidden intention, a sick one.

He wasn't just threatening to strip him; he was enjoying the idea.

Grayson didn't react. He wouldn't. He couldn't. Any sign of discomfort would feed them, give them exactly what they wanted, and maybe fuel them. His breathing was even, his expression blank, but inside, something burned.