Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
Sienna
Stray - jxdn
The last few days are a blur.
The warehouse feels colder now. Not physically, just in the way grief hangs in the rafters like smoke—thick, lingering and refusing to clear.
No one’s loud. No one’s laughing. The crew moves like shadows. No music. No tools clanking. Just the distant hum of engines being tuned, and the low mechanical throb of The Gauntlet still moving. Because it doesn’t stop.
Not even for Doc.
The way she went, Maggie said it was quiet. Peaceful.
But there’s nothing peaceful about the silence that follows. There’s no roadmap for this kind of grief. No messy breakdowns. No dramatic wailing in the corners. Just silence where noise used to live.
We all keep moving, but it’s not real. It’s just mechanical. Bishop welds like he’s trying to burn it out of his bones, his visor down and sparks flying. Luca hasn’t said a single thing that could be mistaken for a joke. And Ghost? He doesn’t look at anyone. Just works. Sharp. Distant.
No one says much.
But it’s not avoidance.
It’s survival.
We fall into the same rhythm. Prep. Patch. Repeat because The Gauntlet doesn’t wait. Because Doc wouldn’t want us standing still.
So we don’t.
We keep moving. Keep pretending and pressing forward like we’re not cracked open at the center.
The pit is where the Syndicate dumps the dead. Concrete. Burn piles. Mass graves. Forgotten.
That was never going to be good enough. Not for Doc. Not for any of us. And definitely not for Riot.
When he tells us he’s taking her out—alone—no one argues.
There’s no pushback, no defiance, no sharp words flung across the room.
We all want to go. Every single one of us wants to stand by him and carry her weight together.
But the moment Riot says, “I need to do this” we know what he means. We know why.
It isn’t about tradition, or some quiet, unspoken rule.
It’s about guilt. About love that got twisted into something heavier than anyone should have to hold.
We’re all hurting. We all lost her. But Riot’s the only one who isn’t blaming Jace.
He blames himself. The one who always swore he’d protect us all.
And now he’s bleeding—physically, emotionally—because in his mind, he failed.
So we nod. Quiet. Respectful. We don’t follow, and we don’t offer to help. We just watch him, silent and still, and we let him go. Because even if we don’t like it, even if it splits something open inside us, we understand. This isn’t about us. This is for her. This is for him.
Riot walks into the infirmary without a word.
She’s already wrapped in the white sheet Ghost gave them—clean, tucked, sealed like they were trying to protect what was left. No one moves. No one dares to.
He steps up beside her and leans down, arms sliding beneath her with that same steady control he uses when handling a weapon. One under her knees, one cradling her back, he lifts her.
Wrapped like that, she looks too small. Too light. Like she’s just sleeping, like if he held her close enough, she might wake up.
But she doesn’t.
His movements are careful. Slow. Gentle in a way that guts me.
He cradles her like she’s still breathing. He pauses for a second and presses his forehead to hers. No words. Just a moment. A goodbye.
Then he turns and walks out. Past the gates, beyond the pit, and through the kill zone.
Alone.
He digs like pain isn’t something he registers anymore.
Every shove of the shovel is harsh, methodical.
Like each strike into the dirt is a punishment, or maybe a penance.
His jaw stays locked, shoulders rigid. I can see the muscles in his back tensing under his shirt, the fabric stretched tight, soaked through with sweat and dust. Blood stains the gauze at his ribs, and fresh red has started to leak down his side again, seeping into the waistband of his pants.
But he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even seem to notice.
When the grave is deep enough, he plants the shovel into the ground and drops to his knees beside her.
Riot reaches out, hands trembling as he slips one arm beneath her shoulders and the other beneath her knees. He lifts her with a kind of reverence that makes my throat close. He adjusts the sheet again, tucks it tighter, like she might wake up cold. Like this matters.
And then he lowers her.
Slow. Careful. Like she could still break.
He places her into the grave like she’s still breathing, and then, without a word, he starts covering her.
No shovel now. Just his hands. One scoop of dirt at a time, fingers sinking into the soil. It clings to his skin, coats his knuckles, gets under his nails. The wind howls through the weeds at the edge of the field, but that’s the only sound besides the dirt falling over her.
Behind me, the rest of the crew stays back. We’re close, but not too close. This is his moment. His grief. His guilt. And we give it to him.
Luca stands with his arms crossed, his hoodie sleeve damp where he’s wiped at his eyes too many times.
Bishop stares at the grave, unmoving, like he can will her back into existence through sheer force of will.
Ghost stands a few feet behind them, arms folded tight across his chest, head slightly bowed, like even he doesn’t know how to carry this kind of silence.
No one speaks. Not because we’re quiet by nature but because nothing we say will change anything. The weight of it doesn’t need words. It just is.
“Should we go down there?” Luca asks, his voice barely more than a rasp.
I shake my head. “He said alone.”
And we all know he meant it.
So we wait.
Riot keeps going until the grave is full.
Until every inch of white cloth is hidden beneath a layer of earth.
His side is bleeding steadily now, soaking the front of his shirt and mixing with the dirt along his ribs.
The gauze is useless. He has to feel it, has to know, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. Doesn’t even glance down.
Finally, he stands.
He doesn’t look at any of us. His face is unreadable and smeared with dirt. Blood crusts along his hairline, his eyes shadowed and unreadable. He turns silently.
We fall in behind him without a word. Even Taz trails after him, her tail low, ears pinned flat, like she knows something sacred just happened and she’s not allowed to break it.
Inside the warehouse, the air shifts. It’s heavier now. Not suffocating but thick. Still. Even the walls seem quieter, like they know something important is missing.
No one says anything.
They just go back to work. Bishop pulls his blades off the rack and starts sharpening them again.
Ghost takes apart a mod panel and starts rewiring it, even though it was already working fine.
Luca drags a half-busted coil across the pit and tears it open like it’s the only thing he can fix right now.
None of us speak. The handlers stay out of our way. No one dares come close.
We move, because that’s what we know how to do. Because we’re still alive. Because Doc would’ve expected us to keep fighting.
But me?
I follow Riot.
He doesn’t stop walking until he’s back inside our quarters.
He peels off his blood soaked shirt and drops it on the floor.
Then he sits on the edge of the bed, hunched forward like his body’s finally registering the weight of all of it—her death, the blood loss, the guilt.
All of it pressing down on him all at once.
He doesn’t look at me. Just sits there, shoulders hunched, jaw locked, both fists braced against his thighs like if he lets go of tension for one second, he’ll fall apart.
I shut the door behind us and turn the lock. Let the rest of the world keep spinning without us.
His breathing is shallow. Controlled. But I can see the stiffness in it. Every inhale pulls at his ribs. His side is still bleeding through the gauze again. Still. But he doesn’t mention it, just stares at the floor like it’s the only thing left that doesn’t need fixing.
I walk over slowly. No smirk. No sass. Just quiet. Just presence. I drop to my knees in front of him, placing my hands on his legs.
Then slowly he lifts his eyes to mine, and I see it. Not numbness. Not even emptiness. Something worse.
Raw grief. Guilt tangled into every tendon. Rage coiled behind his ribs like a fuse waiting to snap. He doesn’t need comfort. He doesn’t want absolution. He just wants silence he can survive inside.
His jaw tightens but he gives a short nod. His throat works like he wants to respond, but the words get stuck. He blinks a few times, slow and heavy but still doesn’t say anything.
Eventually, he leans back. Slowly. Like gravity’s heavier now. He lowers himself onto the mattress, one arm flung over his face, the other resting over the fresh blood seeping down his ribs. He doesn’t care that it’s still open, still raw. He just lays there.
I crawl in beside him and press in close, letting my body shape itself to his. I pull his head down onto my chest. He doesn’t resist. One arm slides around my waist, not tight, or desperate, just there. Like he needed something to anchor to.
Taz hops up a second later and curls at his boots, ears twitching every time the hallway creaks. She settles in like she’s not moving for anyone. Same as me.
I run my fingers through his hair, slow and rhythmic. Just enough to remind him he’s still here and that no matter what, he’s not alone.
“It’s not fair,” he murmurs, voice sandpaper-rough.
“No,” I whisper back. “It’s not.”
“She was family.”
“She still is.”
His hand tightens against my hip. Not to claim or control. But to feel something that won’t slip through his fingers.
“I should’ve fucking protected her.”
“You did,” I say, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. “You always do.”
He doesn’t answer, and I don’t need him to. Because grief doesn’t need answers. It doesn’t need permission. It doesn’t care who’s watching. It just swallows you whole and dares you to keep breathing.
This isn’t comfort. Not really.