Chapter 45
The first time Riven surfaced, it was only halfway.
The pressure in his leg sharp enough to draw a broken sound from his throat.
Hands touched him—firm, efficient. Someone was wrapping his thigh, pressing something cool and wet into the wound.
The touch didn’t feel cruel, but it wasn’t kind either.
Indifferent. Clinical. Just part of a job being done.
He tried to say something, but no words came. The black pulled him under again before he could see a face.
The second time, the fog was thinner. He could breathe again, though every inhale felt like it scraped against the inside of his skull. He blinked blearily up at a ceiling—cracked plaster and water stains, a light fixture with only one flickering bulb left.
There was a bed beneath him. Real sheets. Worn, faded. The smell of dust was thick in the air.
He turned his head slightly, vision catching on the shape of something painted on the wall: a unicorn. Blue and silver, glittering with chips of long-dried paint. It looked like it was meant for a child’s room once, before years of neglect claimed it.
The absurdity of it lingered in his mind as he sunk back under.
The third time, he didn’t open his eyes at all.
He couldn’t. His limbs wouldn’t move. His body felt nailed in place, heavy and slack. But he was aware. Dimly. Enough to feel the presence of others in the room, to hear the murmur of voices.
They weren’t speaking to him.
“…just lucky the bullet didn’t go through the artery,” one voice was saying. Cool, crisp, irritated.
“You’re being dramatic,” a second voice replied—lazier, edged with amusement. “He’ll live.”
“He’d better. The Hollow Hand has waited too long for its moment to allow it to be undone by recklessness.”
Something about that name pierced through the fog. The Hollow Hand. Even in his dazed state, it landed like a weight in his gut.
A pause.
“Everything’s going to go according to plan,” the second voice said, confident. “I’ve got this under control.”
Riven wanted to move. Wanted to open his eyes, to see their faces, to remember their voices. But he couldn’t do anything. Not even lift a finger.
The darkness took him again before he could try.
The next time Riven surfaced, his head felt clearer—and the pain was excruciating.
It lanced up his thigh in a hot, pulsing rhythm that left him biting down hard to keep from making a sound. His leg was still there, and he could move it, sort of, but every twitch sent a sick wave rolling through him. He pushed through it anyway.
The bandages were loose. Sloppy. Someone had tied them with the care of a drunk medic or a street thug mimicking one. He pressed a hand against the wrap and felt a bit of warmth—not fresh bleeding, he told himself. Not a good sign either.
He took in his surroundings slowly.
The room was small and strange. The air smelled stale.
His gaze caught on the mural again, a unicorn rearing on its hind legs, glittery silver paint and chipped stars in the background.
It gleamed faintly even in the dim light, a bizarre, haunting thing that felt entirely at odds with the pounding in his leg and the cuffs cutting into his wrist.
Because he was cuffed. One wrist secured to the bed’s metal headboard. Not so tight he couldn’t move, but definitely enough that he wasn’t not going anywhere fast.
The window across from him was there, but useless. The glass has been smashed out and replaced with planks nailed crookedly across the frame. He could see the outline of light between the boards, a watery gray morning filtering through.
He didn’t hear anything—no voices, no footsteps. Just the creaking of the old house settling around him.
He sat there, silent and still, trying to catch his breath, when the memory came crashing back with sudden force.
The Hollow Hand.
The words hit him like a cold slap to the face, and his entire body tensed in response. The voice in the room, crisp and angry, warning the other that the Hollow Hand had waited too long. It hadn’t just been a drug deal. It hadn’t just been a local ring trying to grow too fast.
The whispers had been right.
The Hollow Hand is real.
It’s not just an old ghost story meant to scare low-level runners. It’s not just something used to blame when things go wrong in the dark undercurrents of Atlantis.
They’re real. They’re here. And they’re planning something.
Riven pressed his head back against the pillow, breathing hard through his nose. He didn’t know how long he’s been out. Didn’t know where he is. Didn’t know if anyone from Virellien even realized he was missing yet.
But Thane needed to know.
Thane had to know. Whatever grudge was hanging between them, whatever mess Riven had made of things, none of it mattered compared to this.
If the Hollow Hand was involved—really involved—then everything changed. Every deal. Every alliance. Every plan Virellien was building. And if they were working through people like Lareth, poisoning the city with that new, “purified” Soulglass…
Riven yanked once at the handcuffs, but there was no give. He wasn’t getting out without help—or without getting creative.
He closed his eyes, jaw tight. He had to get a message out. Had to get free. The only thing that mattered now was making sure Thane knew what he’d stumbled into.
And hoping to hell it wasn’t already too late.
Riven forced himself to breathe slower. In. Out. In. Out.
Panic was a luxury he couldn’t afford.
He shifted upright again and fumbled for his wallet, fingers clumsy but practiced. It was still in his pocket—thank the gods—and tucked behind the ID cards and burner cash was the emergency lock pick. A slim, flattened bit of metal no one ever thought to search for.
It took longer than usual, and his hands shook with effort, but eventually the cuff clicked open and fell away. He sagged against the headboard, drenched in sweat. That small victory felt enormous.
The next step was worse.
Sitting up sent a rush of nausea spiraling through his gut, white-hot and dizzying. He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood, refusing to throw up. He wasn’t going to lie in his own vomit, not today.
Realistically, he knew what kind of shape he was in. His leg was a mess, his body weak, and he had no idea how far from help he was. Escape probably wasn’t possible.
But that didn’t matter. He had to try.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed. Standing was an exercise in sheer will—he had to brace himself against the mattress and push up in stages, wobbling like a newborn fawn. His injured leg nearly gave out, and he gritted his teeth hard enough that his jaw popped. But he managed it.
He limped toward the door, every step a bolt of fire up his thigh. His progress was slow and halting, breath catching with each movement.
He was only a few feet from the door when it rattled.
Riven froze.
The knob turned.
There was no time. He scanned the room frantically for a weapon. A broken lamp, a curtain rod, the bed’s metal headboard—but before he could grab anything, the door creaked open.
One of Lareth’s men stood in the frame, silhouetted by the dim hallway light. Riven recognized him from the truck—tall, dark-haired, always quiet.
The man’s gaze dropped to Riven’s unshackled wrist, then to his trembling stance.
“Shit,” he muttered. “You’re not supposed to be up yet.”
Riven narrowed his eyes, heart hammering. “You want to explain that before I make you eat your own teeth?”
The man stepped quickly into the room and shut the door behind him. “No time. I’m Virellien. We have to move, now.”
That stopped Riven cold.
“What?”
“I’m with House Virellien,” the man repeated, more urgently this time. “Deep cover. You were supposed to stay sedated until we could extract you, but plans changed. We’ve got a window, but it’s closing fast.”
Riven stared at him, searching for a tell—a flinch, a lie, something that gave him away.
But the guy looked dead serious. And tense. Scared, maybe. Focused.
There was no time to be sure.
Riven had to make a call.
He exhaled sharply through his teeth. “Fine. Let’s go.”
The man nodded and moved in to help. Riven didn’t shove him away. He hated that he needed the support—but if there was a way out of this place, he was taking it.
Even if it meant trusting a stranger in the dark.