Chapter Twelve
The apartment sat on the edge of Los Angeles, heat already pressing through the glass.
The kind of heat that didn’t break, just settled in and stayed. Beyond the window, the street sagged under it—cracked asphalt, faded lines, oil stains baked into the surface.
A liquor store sign flickered half-lit across the way, buzzing weakly and unevenly. Trash clung to the curb in small piles, plastic and paper pinned in place by the heat and neglect.
A chain-link fence leaned along the lot next door, bent in places where it had been climbed too many times.
Somewhere down the block, voices rose—sharp, tired, already edged with something that could turn.
No breeze. No movement. Just the city sitting heavy and worn-out under the sun.
The air inside sat just as heavy, stale, like it hadn’t moved in days.
It pressed against his lungs on the first breath, as if the room didn’t want anything leaving it.
The place smelled faintly of stale smoke and something chemical that never quite aired out, the kind that clung to the back of your throat if you stayed too long.
Cheap blinds rattled gently against the window from an old box fan shoved into the frame, pushing warm night air in without cooling anything.
The fan whined on a low loop, the sound thin and constant, probably running for years.
Rook never understood why his boss rented a dumpy apartment in a suspect part of town.
Nothing about this place said power—just rot and neglect.
He pressed his lips together, staring out the dirty window until the man sitting behind a broken wooden desk cleared his throat.
Just like that, Rook snapped back.
Focused.
His chest tightened, breath locking for half a second before he forced it steady.
His pulse kicked once, hard, then settled into something slower, controlled.
“Sir?” Rook swallowed as those cold, dark eyes settled on him. He never wanted to be the one they fixed on for long. “You needed something?”
“Yes.” The man’s tone stayed even. “It seems Sage doesn’t take me seriously.”
Fuck. Poor Sage, he thought.
His boss took a breath.
The quiet stretched, the sound of the fan suddenly louder in the space.
It filled the silence, thin and grating.
“Let’s make it hurt this time.”
Rook’s jaw locked so tight it ached.
The tension climbed up the back of his neck, settling there with nowhere else to go.
It stayed there, coiled, refusing to ease.
Last time had hurt.
The man standing in front of him had killed his best friend. Adrian hadn’t done a damn thing to deserve it—and he was still dead.
The memory flashed fast and sharp, gone before it could fully land.
“Who?” Rook forced the word out, steady enough, even as he shoved his damp hands into the front pockets of his jeans.
“Ashley.”
Rook went still.
The name hit hard, a sharp drop in his chest that knocked the air thin.
For a second, the room seemed to tilt, the sound of the fan dragging with it.
“She’s expendable.”
For a second, it showed—shock, disbelief, something he couldn’t bury fast enough.
Ashley?
The boss’s own sister?
Half or not, that didn’t matter.
Blood was blood.
And he was being told to spill it as if it was nothing.
No.
That wasn’t happening.
Rook dragged in a slow breath, forcing his face back into place—even if the rest of him didn’t follow.
The breath scraped on the way in, dry and thin.
The breath didn’t settle anything, just gave him something to hold onto.
“Yes, sir.”
“And, Rook—”
He tipped his head.
The movement was small, but Rook felt a shift in pressure.
As if the room itself had narrowed, closing in a fraction.
“Don’t let me down.”
Rook didn’t answer.
He didn’t trust himself to.
A knock hit the door.
Not loud.
Not confident.
Just enough to carry through the apartment.
The sound cut through the space, thin but sharp against the stale air.
It broke the moment clean, leaving something jagged behind.
Rook didn’t move.
The man behind the desk didn’t look up. “Get that.”
Rook crossed the room and pulled the door open.
The landlord stood there—he recognized him from the rent knocks and the slow passes in the hall—shoulders hunched, eyes flicking past him, not sure what he’d find inside.
Sweat had already gathered along the man’s hairline, catching the dim light.
The landlord hesitated, then leaned slightly, trying to see past him.
“Uh… is Mr. Smith here?”
Rook glanced back over his shoulder at the man behind the desk.
Mr. Smith? Try Daniel Voss.
Rook almost corrected the guy—with a snort.
“Yeah, Mr. Smith is here,” Rook said instead, stepping aside.
The landlord stepped in, wiping his hands on his jeans.
His fingers kept moving, like he couldn’t get them still.
The movement was quick, nervous—as if he already knew he’d made a mistake.
“Look, I’m not trying to cause trouble,” he started. “Just need to talk about the rent. It’s late again, and I got—”
“You’re a problem,” Voss said flatly.
The landlord stiffened. “Not trying to be, sir. Just—trying to keep things squared away.”
A beat.
The fan rattled against the window, louder now in the pause.
Then, calm as ever—
“Rook. Handle it.”
Rook didn’t move right away.
His gaze flicked once to the side table.
A white envelope sat there.
Thick.
Untouched.
It stood out against the mess, too clean, too deliberate, out in the open.
He took a deep breath and grabbed the envelope.
When his boss said handle it, he meant handle it.
“Yes, sir.”
Rook ushered the landlord out the door and closed it behind them.
The hallway was dim, paint peeling along the walls, the air thicker out here than it had been inside.
The heat settled more heavily here, clinging without the chemical edge.
The shift hit immediately—less chemical, more heat, but no easier to breathe.
The landlord started talking again as they moved.
“Look, I’ve got people on me about this place, and I can’t keep covering for—”
Rook didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
His steps stayed even, steady, like nothing had shifted.
They reached the end of the hall.
The landlord pushed his door open and stepped inside without thinking, tearing the rent receipt from a small book he carried.
Rook followed.
Small place.
Cleaner than upstairs.
Lights on.
TV low.
And—
Two young kids on the floor.
One sat cross-legged, focused on something in his hands.
One looked up.
The other didn’t notice yet.
Rook stopped.
Everything in him went still.
The air caught in his chest, sharp enough to sting.
His chest locked, breath catching hard enough that it almost made a sound.
The landlord turned back, already mid-sentence. “—just need it handled, you know—”
Rook didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t reach.
His fingers curled slightly at his sides, then stilled.
His gaze shifted once—slow, deliberate—taking in the room, the kids, the man.
Then settled.