Leon sat on the hood of a rusted-out Dodge Charger, chewing the inside of his cheek like it owed him something. His fists were wrapped in black tape, still crusted with old blood from a job that didn't go clean.
He hadn't slept since they left the Bone Yard. He hadn't wanted to.
Aaron was inside, arguing with Reggie about maps, guns, pressure points.
Leon didn't do strategy. He did violence.
And now, he did fear.
Because of the phone.
It buzzed twice. Once an hour ago. Once just now.
No number. No voice.
Just a photo.
A polaroid, same kind Bishop used to send when he wanted to cut you without touching you.
Leon stared at the image.
It was blurry.
Old hallway. Fluorescent lights. A man in a wheelchair. Face turned away, but the tattoo was visible—coiled serpent on the neck.
Mason.
Leon's brother.
Or what was left of him.
Mason had taken a bullet meant for Leon six years ago during a job Bishop set up. After that, he'd disappeared into some home out west. Leon assumed he'd died. Hoped he had.
But now?
Now Bishop was dangling him like bait.
Attached to the photo, a message.
> "He remembers your name. But not what you did."
Leon's stomach twisted.
He'd left Mason behind. Traded his silence for a way out. Let Bishop write the narrative. Let him bury the truth.
And now the grave had been dug back up.
The car door creaked. Aaron stood there, eyes like flint.
"You good?" he asked.
Leon didn't look up.
"Define good."
Aaron didn't push. "We're hitting one of Bishop's labs tonight. Reggie's boys are half-drunk and all armed."
Leon nodded slowly, folding the photo, tucking it inside his jacket like it might burn a hole straight through his heart.
"I'll be there."
Aaron started to turn away.
Then stopped.
"You ever think about walking away?" he asked.
Leon exhaled through his nose. "Only when I can't sleep."
Aaron just nodded.
"Same."
Then he disappeared back into the warehouse, into blueprints and bullets.
And Leon sat there, alone with the photo.
And the lie he'd built his life on.