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Chapter 3: Jaxon

The hangar is dead quiet, a cavernous void with only a faint hum of wind slipping through cracked windows and rusted beams. Shadows cling to every corner, stretched long and thin across the concrete floor, but I stand in the middle, completely exposed, hands shoved in my pockets. I got a text saying this place would hold answers about the Jenkins murder, a crime that’s stirred up a storm among the Black Vipers.

I know better.

This is an ambush.

My lips curl into the slightest smirk. I hate when people waste my time.

I don’t bother moving. I don’t need to. The air shifts, a hint of movement in the darkness, and then four figures step out, big guys, each with a look that says they think they’re invincible. One of them, the leader if I had to guess, grins, flashing yellowed teeth as he takes a slow step forward.

“Well, well,” he drawls, his voice echoing off the walls. “Jaxon Steele himself, standing right in our little trap. You know what that means, don’t you?”

I tilt my head, unimpressed. "It means four idiots are about to waste what little life they had left," I say, my voice cold, detached. I let the words linger, hoping they'll take the warning. Hoping they'll leave, so I don’t have to spend another minute of my night dealing with this stupidity.

But they don’t listen. They never do.

The leader sneers, chuckling as if he’s in on some cosmic joke. "Look around, Steele," he says, gesturing to the three others moving to encircle me, closing in, blocking off every exit. "You’re surrounded. Nowhere to run."

I almost laugh. As if I’d ever run.

“Last chance,” I say, slowly pulling my hands from my pockets. “Turn around and walk out, and I’ll let you keep your pathetic lives.”

Their leader scowls, clearly not appreciating my tone. "You think you’re invincible, huh?” He pulls out a knife, flashes it like it’s supposed to scare me. “Not so tough without a weapon, are you?

I glance down at the blade, unimpressed, and look back up, meeting his gaze with a cold, bored stare. "I don’t need one."

That does it. He lunges, swinging the knife in a wide, messy arc, and I sidestep easily, catching his wrist mid-swing. Before he can react, I twist his arm back with enough force to hear the satisfying snap of bone. He screams, and I feel nothing, not even a flicker of satisfaction. It’s all mechanical to me—a necessary task. I shove him to the ground, stepping over his writhing form as he clutches his broken arm, eyes wide with panic.

The second one charges in, fist aimed for my jaw, but he’s slower than he thinks he is. I sidestep, grab him by the back of the neck, and slam him face-first into a rusted metal beam. He crumples instantly, a trickle of blood seeping from his nose as he collapses in a heap on the floor.

The third guy has enough sense to pause, hesitating as he realizes I’ve taken down two of them without breaking a sweat. I raise an eyebrow, waiting to see if he’ll make the right choice and leave. But he steels himself, growling, and pulls out a chain, swinging it in wide, reckless circles as he charges forward.

I duck under the chain, my movements fluid, controlled. In one swift motion, I grab his arm, twist it around his back, and shove him to the ground. He lets out a grunt, but before he can struggle, I drive my knee into his spine, hard enough that he goes limp.

The fourth man is frozen, a look of terror twisting his features. He takes a step back, his face pale, sweat dripping down his temples. “Please,” he whispers, voice cracking as he looks around at his fallen friends. “Please, man, I—”

“Shut up.” My voice is cold, emotionless. He wasted my time, made a mess of my evening, and now he’s here, pleading with me, as if he has a right to mercy. I don’t have any to give.

He stumbles backward, eyes darting around the hangar like he’s hoping for an escape that doesn’t exist. Then he bolts, running for cover, his breath loud, panicked. I move without thinking, a silent shadow on his heels. He tries to duck behind a stack of old crates, but I catch him by the collar, dragging him back as he chokes out a sob.

“Please,” he whispers again, voice shaking. “I didn’t know—I didn’t know who you were.”

“You should have thought of that sooner,” I say, the words cold and final. With one quick, calculated motion, I finish him, his body going limp in my hands.

I let him drop, standing over the mess of broken bodies and wasted potential, feeling only the faintest flicker of annoyance. This is how I spend my nights—dealing with fools who think they can take me down, people who think I’m just another name, just another target. But they always learn the hard way.

I wipe my hands on my jeans, casting one last look around the hangar, and shake my head. What a waste of time.

With a sigh, I step out into the night, where my black motorcycle waits, a gleaming beast that’s as much a part of me as anything else. I swing a leg over, fire up the engine, and let the roar echo into the dark. The city blurs past as I speed down the empty streets, the cold wind biting at my face, cutting through whatever fragments of warmth are left inside me.

There’s nothing left to feel. Nothing I haven’t already buried.

I park my bike in front of The Den, an old, nameless club hidden away in the back alleys of Alderstone, where only Black Vipers are allowed past the door. The place reeks of smoke, whiskey, and danger, just the way the Vipers like it. The bouncer gives me a quick nod, and I step inside, the bass thumping like a heartbeat, swallowing the air around me.

I move through the crowd, and as usual, women reach out, eyes dark, smiles sharp as they lean into my path, draping their arms toward me. A few hands catch my arm, and I shrug them off, barely acknowledging them. I’m not here for them.

I weave through the dimly lit room until I reach the back, where my “brother,” Silas, sits, a glass of something dark in his hand, his gaze half-lidded and lazy as he watches the dancers on the floor. Silas. The true heir of the Black Vipers. Same age, same crew—but we’re cut from two different blades. Where I’m just a weapon, Silas is royalty here.

He grins as I slide into the seat next to him, his eyes sharp with amusement. “So,” he says, voice low, amused. “Did you find anything good out there tonight? Any leads on Jenkins?”

I shake my head, not wanting to waste another second on the mess back at the hangar. “Nothing worth mentioning,” I mutter, picking up the glass he ordered for me. I take a long sip, feeling the burn in my throat, letting it settle in my chest. The headache from earlier fades a bit, but I still feel the pulse of annoyance lingering in the back of my mind.

Silas chuckles, probably guessing I ran into more bodies than answers. He turns his attention back to the dance floor, where women move together, throwing glances our way, trying to catch our eyes. Silas raises his glass to one of them, his grin lazy, inviting. He’s always had a taste for this scene, the attention, the thrill of someone else’s gaze.

But I’m already bored, already wishing I was anywhere but here.

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