The alley fell silent behind them, swallowed by the city’s indifference. Jasper’s body, limp now, rested in Damien’s arms like a broken ornament. Expensive. Useless. Finally quiet.

He moved through the alleyway without hesitation, approaching a black custom sedan waiting at the curb like a loyal accomplice. Opening the back door, he eased Jasper inside with practiced efficiency. No ceremony. No hesitation.

Outside, He lit a cigarette and watched the smoke curl like a smirk. He knew this game. He didn’t win it by being nice. He won it by being inevitable. Inevitable, and thorough.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, Damien rested a gloved hand against his jaw, his eyes narrowing on the road ahead. The city peeled away behind them, its glass towers gleaming like knives under the now falling rain.

Jasper sat unconscious in the back seat, head tipped sideways against the glass, a bruise blooming beneath his cheekbone like a flower of consequence, betraying the softness he'd expected from someone who’d never known hardship in his life. Damien’s eyes lingered on it longer than they should have. 

He hadn’t meant to be rough. This wasn’t revenge. It was extraction.

He’d expected the boy to fold. He hadn’t expected him to fight like that. Teeth bared, breath ragged. The resistance had been small, but it had ignited a cold flicker of satisfaction in him. 

The engine was quiet, the sound of pattering rain filling the silence between them. Droplets traced delicate lines down the tinted windows, washing the filth of the city into shadows. 

Damien’s grip on the wheel was steady, his expression unreadable.

Jasper wasn’t the point. Not entirely. Although he had plans for him, it was about sending a message to a man who’d gotten away with too much for too long.

Senator Vincent Sinclair, one more name carved into the rotting spine of a system built on coercion, blood, and smiles for the press.

The car turned off the main road and slipped into an industrial district, where flickering streetlights died without anyone caring, where the road gave way to broken warehouses, and graffiti splashed across rusted metal and crumbling concrete. Here, forgotten things went to decay. Or be repurposed.

He cut his gaze back to Jasper. He looked different up close. Prettier now that there was no grain from the camera feed. Expensive haircut, soft skin, the faint scent of cologne still clinging to him like armor. He wasn't dangerous in the slightest. 

Worthless here, but that could be unlearned.

Damien reached back to check the metal cuffs on his wrists, not out of kindness, but necessity. Carelessness got people killed. And Jasper… Jasper was valuable. For now.

Later? That depended on how well he adapted.

He drove through a chain link gate that opened just long enough to admit them, then slammed shut with a hydraulic hiss. Inside, the compound was a skeleton of function. Reinforced walls, security cameras, and the steady purr of machinery.

This place wasn’t built for comfort. It was built to contain.

He leaned his head back, staring at the boy. He didn’t feel guilt. That luxury had been bled out of him long ago. But somewhere, buried deep in the hollow of his ribs, was the ghost of a thought. What would Jasper become, after his glass cage was ripped apart and the real world dragged him out by the throat?

He’d find out soon enough.

Damien stepped out into the dim light, pulling his hood up against the drizzle. He opened the back door, removed the cuffs, and lifted Jasper from the seat with a quiet, careful motion. The boy’s weight folded into his arms easily. Still unconscious. Still unaware.

As he approached the warehouse entrance, a man stepped out from the edge of the doorway. Silent, solid, and exactly where Damien knew he’d be. Rafe Madden. He was a burly man he had known since before their operation began and a man he trusted with his life. 

There were no greetings. There wasn’t a need. Thirteen years of loyalty didn’t require a hello.

Rafe's dark eyes moved to Jasper, then back to Damien. “This the kid?” His voice cut through the rain.

Without a trace of emotion, he held Jasper’s unconscious body forward, his voice calm but edged with command. “He’s not dead. Just out. Long enough for you to handle him without fuss.”

Rafe grabbed Jasper with practiced hands, like passing off a rifle. “Lightweight,” he muttered, half to himself. Damien huffed a short breath, the closest he came to a laugh these days.

“Put him in the second room,” Damien said, slipping his hands into his jacket pockets. “The one with the soundproofing.” His eyes lingered on the boy a moment longer. His voice lowered, a faint edge of irritation cutting through. “And don’t touch him more than you have to.”

Rafe grinned, just a little. The prominent scar on his right cheek curved with the lines of his smile, like it had grown into his expression over time. “Not my type.”

Damien didn’t smile back. “Didn’t ask.”

Still grinning, he gave a single nod, no questions. He never asked. Not when Damien dragged bodies in at midnight. Not when the mission got too personal. That’s why he trusted him. Not for his silence, but for his certainty.

The corridor, lit by flickering LED strips, carried the faint smell of gun oil. He moved like a shadow through its halls, boots echoing softly against the wet stone. Everything about the base was temporary. It was a half abandoned warehouse, mimicking a war zone. But it worked. It kept them hidden.

And more importantly, it kept him in control.

He stepped into the comms room, nodding to Cam, who barely looked up from the wall of screens he was calibrating. A lean man with a predator’s gaze, he moved with the restless focus of someone whose mind was always ten steps ahead. Light from the monitors cast shifting colors across his angular features, half shadowing the familiar smirk that rarely left his face.

Maps, surveillance feeds, office schematics, and stacks of financial records littered the metal table. It had taken years to collect everything, and no one could navigate the data maze like Cam Reid, Damien’s second in command and the brain behind the operation.

“They’ve started asking questions, Graves.”

Damien’s fingers skimmed a file, pausing on Jasper’s name. “How loud?”

Cam’s eyes shifted to his tablet. “Quiet for now. They think he slipped off on his own. A few calls, some discreet tracking requests. Nothing official.”

“Good. We still have time,” he said, while sifting through more files.

Cam leaned back. “You think they’ll stay quiet when they realize he didn’t just take off?”

“No. That’s the point.” Damien finally looked up, the corner of his mouth curving, not a smile, just the idea of one. “Panic makes people careless.”

“And the kid?”

Damien stilled. His voice lowered. “He’s where he’s supposed to be.”

Cam raised an eyebrow. “You really believe that?”

“If I didn’t, he’d still be at that gala.” His words were cold, clipped. “I don’t waste time with trophies.”

“Just saying…we’ve snatched people before. This feels different.” Cam’s voice was quiet, measuring.

Damien turned toward the monitors. “He’s different.”

Cam’s voice softened. “You mean dangerous?”

Damien stared at the screen showing the boy’s unconscious form. “No. I mean interesting.”

He sighed. “Interesting or not, you don’t usually get your hands dirty like this. No backup. No signals. Just you.”

“I didn’t need backup," Damien replied. “I needed precision.”

Besides, he knew the boy would follow him. He had been begging for a way out, Damien just opened the door. 

Cam leaned on the desk. “You sure about this, though? The sons not exactly a power player.”

Damien turned, voice like ice over steel. “He may not be a player yet, but he’s the son of one. You don’t bring down tyrants with data leaks. You take what they love, hold it over the fire, and see how long they pretend it’s not burning.”

Cam’s words came cautiously. “And you think the kid is going to agree with this?”

“I don’t need him to agree.” He placed a folder under his arm. “I need him to wake up.”

Cam nodded slowly. “And if he doesn’t?”

“Then I’ll break him.” A glint of something dangerous filled his eyes. 

Cam studied him. “You’ve always been good at breaking things. Doesn’t mean everything needs to be broken.”

His mouth curved with an edge of amusement. “That’s why you’re still here, Cam. You fix things. I don’t.”

Cam didn’t argue. But his silence said enough.

“I need to see how he reacts when he’s cornered by the truth.” Damien turned, walking toward the comms exit door. “Keep an eye on the feed. If he does what I think he will, we move to phase two.”

***

Damien reached the holding room and tapped in a code, the door sliding open with a thud. Chains hung bolted to the wall, a table and chair positioned exactly where they were meant to be.

Jasper lay on a narrow cot, pale beneath the harsh fluorescent light, arms loose at his sides. The luxury had already been peeled off of him. Jacket gone, shoes removed, hair tousled and unkempt.

All that was left was the boy underneath.

He stood in the doorway, gaze solely focused on Jasper. The soft edge of his jaw, the tension still ghosting across his brow even in sleep, the way his chest rose in slow, shallow breaths. He looked completely vulnerable.

Damien had always intended to take him, be it leverage or an asset easier to manage from the inside. He'd watched him. Studied him. From rooftop angles, surveillance feeds, unsent messages. The way he looked at the world like it was something just out of reach.

He moved closer, slower now. A predator circling not prey, but a puzzle.

He wasn’t like the other brats dressed in silk and ignorance. Not completely. There was something in him. Not strength. Not fire. But the raw potential of someone who could be something more than just another empty heir in a designer suit. And Damien was darkly curious about that.

Regardless, his plan would come to fruition, with or without the help of Jasper Sinclair. 

He set the folder on the table. Classified documents, photos, lists of names. All the lies Jasper didn’t know yet, before turning back toward the door. Whatever Jasper had been before tonight didn’t matter. He was no longer anyone’s son. He was Damien’s now, soft clay in his hands, waiting to be reshaped whether he wanted it or not.

He lingered in the doorway one last time, eyes locked on the boy’s sleeping face.

“Time to see what kind of person you become without a leash.” The thought escaped in a low growl.