Chapter 13
Thirteen
Sienna
Worst Behavior - KWN, Kelhani
I’ve slept in some pretty shitty places.
Back alleys. Storage closets. The floor of a Syndicate van with a busted heater and blood-stained seats. But this? This place takes the fucking cake.
Wraithmoor’s idea of luxury is a half-collapsed warehouse that smells like wet cement, sweat, and old engine grease.
The walls are tagged in every language of ‘fuck off,’ and the lights flicker like they’re just as anxious as we are.
The whole place feels like it's one deep breath away from giving up and crumbling into the dirt.
And of course, the cherry on top?
I’m sharing a room with Riot.
Because the universe has a twisted sense of humor.
Our ‘quarters’ are shoved in a rusted foreman’s office overlooking the garage pit.
The sliding metal door jams halfway. The windows are cracked.
There’s one flickering bulb above, one cracked mirror in the corner, and two beds shoved about three inches too close together for comfort—or, let’s be honest, for my self-control.
I step inside, boots crunching over broken tile.
“Well, damn,” I mutter. “They really rolled out the red carpet for us, huh?”
Riot grunts behind me. That’s his thing. Gruff silence, brooding presence, and grunts that somehow mean about seventeen different things.
I toss my bag on the mattress closest to the door. Not because I want it but because I know he wants that one. Petty? Absolutely. Worth it? Always.
Taz hops up after me, sniffing around like even she’s unimpressed. Can’t blame her.
Riot plants himself near the window, surveying the yard like we’re under siege. Which, knowing this place, we probably are.
He finally speaks. “Stay here. I’m going to help Bishop unload the bus.”
I shoot him a smirk. “Aw, how romantic. Bringing in the groceries together?”
His eyes snap to mine. Flat. Dark.
“I’m serious, Sin. Don’t leave this fucking room.”
I give a slow, sarcastic salute. “Aye aye, Captain Buzzkill.”
He doesn’t laugh. Of course he doesn’t. Just stares for a beat too long before sliding the door shut behind him with a bone-deep growl of steel.
The second he’s gone, I flop back onto the bed, arms spread wide, staring up at the ceiling like it owes me an apology.
“Stay in the room,” I mock under my breath. “Don’t wander off. Be a good little girl, Sienna.”
Please.
It takes exactly twenty-three minutes for me to get bored.
Taz’s passed out on the pillow, dead to the world. Riot still hasn’t come back. And the buzz in my blood from the ride—the heat he left in my skin, the tension in my chest—it’s all still simmering.
I’m not some fragile thing waiting around for a man to give me orders. I don’t care how hot he is or how good his hands feel around my throat.
So I grab my jacket, kiss Taz on the nose, and walk straight out the door without a second thought.
Fog curls thick across the yard like it knows I’m not supposed to be here. The wind claws through busted scaffolding and rattles old chains above like the whole damn place is scolding me.
I walk faster.
Because yeah, Riot’s gonna be pissed.
But pissed Riot is fun.
Dangerous. Loud. Unhinged.
And lately? I think I like the way he snaps when it’s over me.
I wander until the world feels quiet enough, until the sharp edge in my chest dulls a little. That’s when I spot him—Ghost—perched like a statue on top of a rusted container.
“You always lurk like this,” I call out, “or is tonight special?”
He looks down slowly. “You’re not supposed to be out here.”
“And you’re not supposed to be giving main character energy on a shipping crate, but here we are.”
He actually cracks a smile. First one I’ve ever seen on him that doesn’t look like it hurts.
“Touché.”
I climb up beside him, the metal creaking under my boots. We sit in silence for a second. The good kind. Like neither of us is trying too hard.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he finally asks.
“Be honest,” I say. “If you had to share a room with a guy who looked like he wanted to either kill you or bend you over every five minutes… would you sleep?”
Ghost snorts, just barely. “Depends. Is he hotter than me?”
I blink. Then laugh. “Did you just make a joke?”
“Don’t get used to it.”
I swing my legs over the edge of the container, letting them dangle.
Ghost sits a few feet away, hunched slightly forward, hoodie drawn over his messy black hair.
His boots are unlaced. Fingernails bitten down.
There’s always this slight shake in his fingers—not fear, but energy.
Like his brain moves faster than his body can keep up.
Face still a little too young to look as tired as he does. There’s a faint scar that cuts through his left eyebrow, and his skin’s pale under the moonlight—haunted, but not hollow.
He’s the quietest person in the crew. Deadliest with a keyboard. And probably the only one who could hack a Syndicate satellite and hotwire a bike with a hairpin if you gave him five minutes and a Monster energy drink.
But tonight, he’s not typing or hiding. Just sitting. Staring. Thinking. Silence stretches between us for a second. Not tense. Just… full.
Then I say, “So what’s your deal, Ghost? Something tells me you weren’t always this emo.”
He sighs dramatically. “God. Emo? Really?”
I bump him again. “Well? Spill.”
He hesitates. Runs a hand through his hair, then tugs the strings of his hoodie tighter like they’ll keep the story in.
“I was just a kid. Twelve. Maybe thirteen when my brother, Felix, raced his first Gauntlet. He was everything. Rode like he had fire in his veins. Took care of me after our parents died. Taught me how to fix bikes, break into locked terminals, lie with a straight face.”
He pauses and swallows.
“He entered The Gauntlet Riot’s first year. They weren’t friends, per say, but being first riders, they had this like unspoken respect. They helped each other out, when everyone else was out to get them.”
“What happened?” I ask quietly.
“He crashed.” His voice drops, guarded now. “Took a sniper shot to the chest in the second sector. Syndicate wanted blood for the cameras. He didn’t even get a name in the broadcast. Just... 'Racer 17 eliminated.’ Like he was nothing.”
My throat tightens.
“I was watching on a stolen tablet,” he adds. “Found a hotspot outside the arena gates and watched the whole thing with a bag of chips and a soda like it was some fucking movie. And then my brother died on screen, and I couldn’t do anything.”
I don’t say anything. Don’t breathe too loud. Just let him talk.
“After that,” Ghost says, voice quieter now, “I decided I was gonna blow the whole fucking Syndicate off the map.”
I blink. “That’s casual.”
He smirks faintly. “I’m serious. I hacked into one of their substations.
Rerouted security feeds. Stole floor plans.
I had a whole setup—homemade pipe bombs, tripwire triggers, even thermal charges I rigged from scrap tech and old drone cores.
Was gonna hit one of their Westport supply routes during shift change. Make it loud. Bloody.”
I stare at him. “You were thirteen.”
He shrugs, like that’s just a footnote. “Grief and rage make a solid motivation cocktail.”
“Jesus,” I mutter.
He grins. “I was a menace. Wired to blow. Would’ve done it, too.”
“What stopped you?”
“Riot.”
I turn, eyebrows raised.
“Tracked me down a day before it was supposed to go down. I don’t know how, still think he paid off someone at OmniCast. Found me wiring explosives in a storm drain under the city. Didn’t yell, didn’t even flinch, just stood there while I pointed a homemade detonator at his chest.”
I blink. “Let me guess… you tried to stab him.”
“With a screwdriver,” he confirms, smirking. “Still had blood on it from a guy who tried to rob me the night before.”
“Romantic.”
He shrugs. “Riot looked me dead in the eyes and said, ‘You do this, you’re dead. And Felix doesn’t get justice. He gets a body count.’”
My chest goes tight.
Ghost continues, voice softer now. “He told me revenge isn’t about making noise. It’s about making sure they never get back up. Said we’d get justice for Felix, but we’d do it smart. The right way. The lasting way.”
I swallow hard. “And you believed him?”
“Didn’t have much else to believe in.” He looks down at his hands, at the worn threads in his sleeves. “He didn’t treat me like some broken kid. Just… handed me gear. Gave me passwords. Trusted me like I’d already earned it.”
I nod slowly. “So he saved you.”
“Nah,” Ghost says. “He chose me.” A pause. Then, quietly, “And I’ve been building our reckoning ever since.”
I nod slowly. “That’s fair.”
Ghost looks over at me, something thoughtful in his expression.
“He acts like a machine,” Ghost says, staring straight ahead, “but he remembers everything. Every name. Every crew member who didn’t make it. Even the ones who probably didn’t deserve to be remembered.”
I glance over. “And he carries all that?”
“He wears it,” he says. “Like armor under the skin. You just can’t see the cracks unless you know where to look.”
We fall quiet again, the fog curling low around the containers like smoke from something long since burned out. The Graveyard hums around us—metal groans in the wind, somewhere distant a pipe bangs like a warning shot—but I don’t flinch.
Because for the first time, I see Riot the way they all do.
Not just the savage behind the wheel.
Not just the beast behind the scowl.
But the one who stands between the fire and the rest of us.
The one who guards the monsters because he knows what happens if no one does.
Ghost glances down at the cracked face of his old watch and sighs.
“You should get back. It’s past midnight. He’ll know.”
I snort. “Let him stew. I’m not afraid of Riot Carter.”
Ghost huffs a laugh, standing and dusting off his jeans. “You really should be.”
I hop down beside him, smirking. “I’ve dealt with worse.”
He flashes that rare, crooked grin. “Yeah. But I don’t think worse ever wanted to own you.”
The walk back is silent.