Morning light slid across the floor.
Valentine woke to warmth. For a second, she didn't move—then the memory came back: the basement, the cold, his voice.
She pushed herself up. Her wrist was bandaged.
"…you didn't kill me."
A pause.
"I said I wouldn't."
"…you also said I deserved it."
Silence.
"I didn't mean that."
"But you said it."
He turned just enough to face her.
"…I'm sorry."
The word sat there, unfamiliar.
"I won't say it again."
A sound cut through the room—gravel, low voices, more than one set of footsteps.
Artavius's expression changed.
"Stay here."
"What—"
"Don't come out."
He was already at the door.
Four men stood outside.
The one in front—tall, controlled, the kind of calm that didn't need to raise its voice—watched him carefully.
"Artavius."
"…where is the girl?"
"I don't know."
"Don't do this." A faint, humorless smile. "We don't want trouble. Tell us where the daughter of Arthur Sylvester is."
"Arthur?" Artavius said. "I live here alone. I came for a few weeks. There is no girl here."
A quiet exhale.
"You remind me of my son."
A beat.
"Grab him."
They moved in together.
Hands locked around his arms.
Artavius didn't fight immediately.
"Last chance," the man said. "Speak."
"…there's no one here."
The grip tightened.
A punch landed—hard, clean. His lip split.
He moved.
Fast.
A twist, a break in the hold—an elbow back into ribs, a shove that sent one man off balance. Another came in from the side. Artavius blocked late, took the hit, then answered with a short strike to the jaw.
But it was four.
They closed in again.
One caught his shoulder, drove him down to a knee. Another hit from behind. His breath knocked out for a second.
"Finish it," the leader said quietly.
Artavius tried to get up—
A hand forced him back.
Blood at his mouth.
"Where is she?"
"…there is no girl."
A pause.
"Then we'll find her."
The door opened.
No one moved at first.
Valentine stood there, a metal bat in her hands. She took in the scene—the blood, the grip on his shoulder, the way he still tried to get up.
The leader turned slightly to Artavius.
"Get away, kid—"
The bat came down.
A sharp, solid hit to the side of his head.
Silence.
The leader drops.
All eyes on her.
She adjusts her grip on the bat—calm, unbothered.
Tilts her head slightly.
"...what?"
A small pause.
"He was hurting Artavius."
She shrugs.
"So, I fixed it."
Artavius and the man in front of him both glanced toward her at the same time—just a flicker of attention pulled by the impact.
The man's expression shifted, something almost amused crossing his face, as if he had already drawn his own conclusion.
Artavius saw it.
Even while holding him off, breath uneven, grip tightening—
"No—" he cut in quickly, almost instinctively. "She didn't mean it like that."
The man let out a short, knowing breath, not convinced.
And then the moment broke.
The fight snapped back into motion.
Everything snapped back.
One of the men lunged toward her.
"Grab her."
"Hey—get away from her," Artavius said, already moving.
She lifted the bat again, stance set.
"Come."
The man hesitated—just long enough.
Artavius caught him from the side, dragged him back. They hit the ground hard. A fist split the skin at Artavius's eyebrow; he didn't slow—one strike to the throat, another to the temple.
The man went still.
Another rushed in.
Artavius took the hit, turned with it, drove his shoulder forward, then a punch that sent the man staggering. He followed—finished it.
The yard went quiet.
The leader lay where he'd fallen. The others didn't get up.
Artavius stood there, breathing uneven, then looked at her.
"Valentine… you okay?"
She stared at him for a moment—at the blood, the cut, the way he was still between her and everything else.
"…I'm fine."
She hesitated for a second—then stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.
Tight.
He froze.
"…what are you doing? Get away."
"No."
He didn't push her off.
His hands hovered, uncertain, then dropped again.
They stayed like that a moment longer than they should have.
No one spoke.