53. Reckoning

The air on the balcony is heavy, not just with smoke but with the weight of the conversation. Jet’s face is tight, like he’s balancing on the edge of a decision neither of them can walk away from. An empty vodka glass is at his elbow. Jet’s only had one—straight—even though Kit is sure Jet is craving more.
He watches his friend, taking a drag off his cigarette, the smoke curling around them like the tension in the air. The lyrics that have been floating around in his head surface again—long nights, daydreams, with that sugar and smoke ring—the kind of memory that lingers, sweet and stinging all at once.
“They would have arrested him,” Kit says softly, his voice barely cutting through the haze. He hands Jet’s phone back, the cold reality settling in. “This information was obtained illegally. Even if Chalam was declared guilty, Kai would be in jail, too.”
Jet stares at the phone in his hand, the weight of Kit’s words sinking in deeper than the smoke hovering around them. When he speaks, it’s as though the words themselves drag something broken out of him.
“Kai’s dead. So they can’t touch him.”
Kit nods, but his expression is far from hopeful. “But we can’t use any of what he left us, either.”
“Everything on Kai’s phone corroborates everything else we’ve found.” Jet tenses, his voice sharp with desperation.
“Everything on Kai’s phone could be construed as illegally obtained.” Kit’s tone remains maddeningly even, almost detached. “Which makes it inadmissible evidence. You know that. His testimony about Chalam orchestrating your parents death might be different. But then, it might be seen as tainted evidence, too.”
“So no matter what we do, it’s a lose-lose situation.” Jet’s frustration flares, his knuckles white against the balcony railing. His jaw clenches as if he’s holding back something darker, deeper. “We’re at an impasse. Again.”
Kit doesn’t argue. Instead, he inhales deeply, letting the cigarette smoke fill his lungs. He knows Jet well enough to leave the silence between them, knowing words would only cheapen the bitter truth. The lyrics echo in Kit’s mind again—always taste like you, a reminder of those things they can never quite leave behind.
Jet finally breaks the quiet, his voice low and tight. “Do we really need to say how this information was obtained?”
“Only if we go to court.” Kit looks less than enthusiastic about that.
“You make it sound unlikely.”
“It is, for now.” Kit flicks ash of the end of his cigarette, his voice carefully neutral. “Chalam is still in the hospital, and Interpol and the NIA are still sifting through the backlog of admissible evidence.”
Jet slides the phone back into his pocket, staring out at the city lights. “So then, what do we do?”
“Wait.” Kit sighs. “I know you hate that, but we don’t have any other choice.”
“No.” Jet’s palms dig into the balcony railing, figures twitching. Kit wonders if Jet’s imagining them locked around Chalam’s throat. “We really don’t.”
Jet takes the empty glass and heads inside for a refill, leaving Kit alone in the heavy silence. He stares after him for a moment before exhaling another stream of smoke into the night. His phone buzzes in his pocket. When he checks it, a smile ghosts across his lips despite the heaviness of the moment.
SILO: You win. Got all one hundred of your damn voicemails. I’ll be home soon. We can talk then.
Kit sighs, that bittersweet smile widening just a little as he stubs out the cigarette. He watches the last bit of smoke curl into the air before following Jet inside, the lyrics still humming in his mind—strawberries and cigarettes, always taste like you.
◼️◼️◼️◼️
Nail stares at the hospital entrance, calculating every possible outcome. There’s no other sound but the rain on the windshield and the hum of the car engine. He planned this down to the very last detail—it hadn’t been hard, just a little time consuming. Luca hadn’t taken much convincing, but Pepper had. There always had to be a back-up plan. And a back-up plan for the back-up plan.
Kai had come up with the first one—it’s why he’d enlisted Nail in the first place—but Luca and Nail had devised the second one. Both Luca and Nail had known Kai was not cold enough to kill. He’d pull the trigger, but chances were he’d injure Chalam rather than kill him. Kai wouldn’t kill because of his conscience…and Jet? Jet was held back by something else. Duty, maybe. Or guilt. It tied him up in knots, trying to be the hero even if it tore him apart.
Nail wasn’t like that—he’s never had the luxury of restraint.
So he’d devised this plan—pretend to die and go back for Chalam later. The only reason Pepper knew about it was because Nail had needed a place to lie low in case everything else blew up.
Which it had. Just not in the way Nail thought it would. Knocking himself out had been a little too easy thanks to Chalam’s marble floor. He’d been unconscious on the trip to the hospital, and hadn’t known about Kai until Luca was able to smuggle him back to his condo. Pepper had known first. Her sobs were the first thing Nail heard when he’d finally come to. He hadn’t let her go to the hospital, even after Luca had texted and said Kai was in the morgue—had actually physically held her back, so the plan wouldn’t be compromised. Nail didn’t expect her to forgive him for that. He didn’t expect her to forgive him for a lot of things.
Nail had gone to Kai’s funeral, staying out of sight. Corpses don’t walk around in the daylight, if at all. Pepper had driven them, but he’d stayed in the car, watching. He’d known Kai would be stupid enough to get himself killed. So why did the kid’s death feel like someone had blown a hole in Nail’s gut? Nail wasn’t supposed to care about Kai at all. But he did—more than he was willing to admit even to himself. The image of that casket is burned into Nail’s memory, gnawing at his conscience.
The kid had been naive and stupidly tenacious, which had annoyed Nail. Annoyed him until he realized why. Kai wasn’t just a snarky, tenacious little shit, a pawn in some deadly game. He was an idealist who believed the truth was the only thing needed to bring down bastards like Chalam. That idealism had made him a target, and ultimately got him killed.
Nail’s chest constricts. He should have seen it coming—he was usually so good at seeing all the angles. But he’d been distracted, and the shark had outmaneuvered him. Again.
Not this time.
This plan is simple: get in, finish it, get out. But there’s still a weight inside Nail’s chest, an unease he can’t quite shake.
“Nail.” Pepper’s voice breaks through the rhythm of the rain. “You really don’t have to do this.”
Nail says nothing. He’d only let Pepper come with him because someone needed to drive the car back to his condo. Just in case. This part he has to do alone. He’s always alone.
“Nail.” Pepper presses.
Damn, his sister could be annoying sometimes.
Nail turns to face her, his expression blank. “What?”
“Don’t do this.” Pepper’s voice is soft, her hazel eyes almost glazed with worry. Worry about him. “You can’t just—”
“I can.” Nail cuts her off, looking at the hospital rather than her face. His hands grip the steering wheel, the leather creaking under his tense fingers. “Everyone but you and Luca thinks I’m dead. That’s our edge. It has to be me.”
“And after?” Pepper’s tone implies she knows the answer, but wants a denial rather than a confirmation. “What happens to you?”
“Why do you care?” The words slip out before Nail can stop them. Guilt twists inside him when Pepper flinches.
“You might be a total jackass most of the time, but you’re still my little brother.” Now there are tears in Pepper’s eyes as she searches his, digging for cracks in his armor. “I have every right to worry about you. Tell me what happens after.”
Nail hesitates. He’s thought about that—every possible outcome, including the inevitable. The consequences of the choice he’s making are ones he won’t be able to talk himself out of; and no matter what shitstorm he’s found himself caught in, Nail never allowed his sister to be tainted by it. Tonight was no exception.
“Luca’s picking me up afterward.” The lie is easier to tell than Nail thought it would be. “He gets me out of the country, and you don’t have to worry about me anymore. Drive the car back to my place once I’m inside. You can keep it or sell it, I don’t care which.”
Nail gets out of the car before she can protest. Raindrops sting his skin, sending cold tremors through his body. Not fear—he can’t afford those. He hasn’t gone more than two steps before Pepper calls out his name. Automatically, Nail turns to face her. Without warning, Pepper leans forward, wrapping her arms tight around him. Nail flinches, unused to public displays of affection, even from his sister. Pepper holds him, the rain and her tears mixing on his shoulder, warm and cold at the same time. It stirs something alien inside him—something he’s ignored for years.
Slowly, he raises his arms, gently pushing her away. “You should go.”
Pepper’s hands stay on his shoulders, unwilling to break contact. “Are you really sure about this?”
“Yeah.” Nail forces a tight smile across his lips. “Just go.”
Doubt flickers across Pepper’s face, pulling at Nail’s own emotions. Then she nods, moving reluctantly back to the still running car.
“Ploynira.” Nail calls out before he can stop himself. He’s used her full name, the one he never uses unless something really matters. It probably gave too much away if anything went wrong. But maybe she needed to suspect the worst.
Pepper turns back to him, hope lighting up her face. “Yes?”
“Thank you.” It’s two words Nail rarely says—actually, he hasn’t said them to Pepper since they were kids—but right now it’s the only thing he can think of. The only way to say everything and nothing.
I’m a jackass. I’m sorry. I love you.
Pepper nods. She’s always been able to understand what he’s not saying. “I love you, too, little brother. Please, please be careful.”
He doesn’t respond, just turns back to the hospital entrance. The automatic doors slide open—a very real line he has to cross. Nail doesn’t look back. He can’t. Luca had told Nail he would wait at Nail’s condo but that probably wasn’t true.
Luca isn’t coming, or Luca’s Interpol friends, or Kai’s friends. He knows that. This is something he has to do alone, just like everything else in his life. As the elevator doors close, cutting him off from the rest of the world, the uneasy weight moves up from his chest, spreading through the rest of his body. He tamps it down.
Nail has always been alone. Tonight will be no different.
The hospital room is lit by the faint glow of monitors and the harsh fluorescents from the hallway. Nail steps inside, shoes clicking on the linoleum, locking the door behind him. Private rooms are double edged swords—the rooms should be monitored, but apparently, Chalam has been deemed stable enough, because there’s no staff in the hallway. No one would suspect anything if the patient was supposed to be sleeping, and even if Chalam was awake, no one would dare disturb him.
Nail’s eyes fix on the figure in the bed. Chalam doesn’t look like one of the most powerful CEOs in the city anymore. The gunshot wounds to his kneecap and elbow have clearly weakened him. Nail moves to the IV stand, his fingers lightly tracing the tubing. He disconnects the line long enough to allow an air bubble into the IV. Chalam shifts in the bed, tugging at the sleeve of his hospital gown as Nail reconnects the IV line. For a split second, the gown slips, revealing the ouroboros tattoo coiled around his shoulder.
“A walking corpse.” Chalam’s eyes narrow as they meet Nail’s, oblivious to the shift in control. “Not dead after all?”
Nail shakes his head. “Tying up loose ends.”
“Oh yes?” Chalam’s eyes dart to the IV drip, suspicion flickering across his face. “What ‘loose ends’ could you possibly have?”
Nail’s expression doesn’t change. “Your mess. You wanted it thoroughly taken care of. That’s exactly what I’m doing.”
“Is it?” Chalam sneers, but there’s a hint of uncertainty in his eyes. “My loyal little watchdog. Always eager to be seen as someone other than my shadow. Do you really think you have something left to prove?”
“They say if you kick a dog too much, eventually it will bite back.” Nail locates the alarm panel on the wall beside the bed, pressing a button with a quick flick of the wrist. The incessant beeping stops, plunging the room into unsettling silence. “And pawns learn to play the king’s game.”
“Taken up philosophy, have you?” Chalam scoffs. “You think you can outmaneuver me?”
“I already did.” Nail’s eyes are cold. “You always taught me no loose ends, no weaknesses. You said never underestimate the person in front of you. Right now, that person is me—and I’ve been underestimated. By you. Never expected me to apply those lessons, did you?”
The lights on the heart monitor begin to flash. Chalam lurches forward, his limbs jerking. “You really think—”
“I think about power.” Nail braces his hands against Chalam’s shoulders. “The power I currently have over you.”
Kai’s face flashes across Nail’s mind, wearing a snarky little grin. He’d get it. Hell, he’d be throwing a fit that he couldn’t kill the shark himself.
“You little shit!” Chalam’s muscles contract and spasm. Every jolt from Chalam’s weakened body shifts the hospital bed. His eyes blaze with fury, pupils rapidly dilating as the flashing of the heart monitor becomes more erratic, but the alarms remain silent.
Nail leans closer to Chalam. His expression is that of a petty toddler. “I’m telling Kai you said that.”
One of Chalam’s flailing fists catches Nail just below the ribs. Pain flares up through his side, his body instinctively curling in. Adrenaline spikes. He slams Chalam back onto the bed, throwing all his weight on the shark until it stops thrashing.
“Bastard.” Nail exhales slowly. He straightens his jacket, then adjusts the sheets around his former employer’s body, smoothing the fabric to hide any signs of altercation. A dull ache awakens beneath his ribs, worsening with every movement. A bruise? Nail’s fingers hover over the spot almost subconsciously as he takes in the rest of the room, senses heightened in the silence.
Letting air into the IV had been easier than he thought. Funny how it didn’t prick his conscience much. No post mortem, no awkward questions, just a hospital patient dying in his sleep from complications due to existing injuries. Kai’s backup plan worked. With one or two adjustments.
A metallic gleam catches the corner of his eye—something lying just under the bed. Nail crouches to get a better look, squinting in the semi-darkness.
A scalpel? Nail frowns. How the hell did the shark manage that?
The instrument must have fallen from Chalam’s hand during the struggle. Leaving it here would alert the medical staff, possibly leading to questions everyone wants to avoid. Nail pockets it and gets to his feet. The ache in his side is more persistent now. A cracked rib? Broken, maybe. He clenches his jaw, casting one final glance around the room. Yes. Everything is as it should be. All he has to do now is get out of the hospital without drawing too much attention. Nail pushes the button on the alarm system a second time, reactivating the alarms. The machines scream as he slips out of the room.
The walk down the hallway is longer than he remembers. Outside, the rain has intensified, plastering Nail’s clothes to his body. He buttons his jacket up against the downpour, then hails a cab. Giving the driver his address, Nail slumps into the back seat. The adrenaline is wearing off, leaving him drained.
His side throbs in sync with the lights outside the cab window. An odd warmth is spreading across Nail’s ribs. It would have been comforting if it wasn’t cementing his shirt to his skin in a way that rain doesn’t.
What the hell? His hand slips back into his pocket, the metal of the scalpel cold against his fingers as he squints at it. The blade is dark. Dark with his blood. No. No, no, no.
Chalam had stabbed him.
The inevitable had actually happened.
Getting stabbed hurts. The thought makes Nail chuckle, gritting his teeth as reality sets in. The chuckle turns into a cough, sending fresh waves of pain through his side. A tremor starts deep in his chest, spreading out until his entire body shivers uncontrollably.
Scotch. He needs it. Needs it now. A warm burn to ease the ache, control these horrible tremors. It’s waiting for him in his condo. Just get there.
A snarky laugh in his ear. In his head? Kai? Nail almost laughs too, but it catches, dies in his throat. Kai’s gone. I’m still here.
Why am I still here?
His hands tremble. For a second, Nail is eight years old again, shivering in the rain outside a locked door, waiting for someone—anyone—to let him in. But no one ever did. Every time, he told himself it didn’t matter. He didn’t need anyone. He didn’t need anything.
He was always running, fighting, surviving. For what? There was no one waiting for him at the end of the road. No one would cry if he didn’t make it.
Alone.
The thought strikes with a strange clarity. Cold, like the rain soaking through his jacket. The world has never cared, and maybe he hadn’t either. And now, in the end, the loneliness felt too familiar, too fitting.
I’ve always been alone.
A sharp squeak from the cab’s brakes jolts him. Three tries to pull himself out of the cab. Probably over tipped the driver. Not that it matters. The word “drunk” muttered in his direction. The rain attacking him, forcing him down toward the pavement.
Not now. Not yet. He leans against the exterior wall of the condo building to lift his security fob, fumbling with the door handle. No stairs. Elevator. A wet trickle seeping though his shirt, down the legs of his pants.
The elevator lurches to a stop. Nail braces himself. Dizzy. Another coughing fit, doubling him over. Blood, now, so much of it. Splattering across the elevator floor, the hallway carpet. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. The hallway is tilting, twisting, bending. Not yet. Not yet. His Scotch waits at the end of that hall.
Nail’s numb fingers search for his key. The ache in his side feels alive now, drowning out everything else. Agony bends him almost in half. Ignore it. Not yet. Focus. The key. The lock. Scotch.
Key, lock, Scotch.
Footsteps on the other side of the door. Luca’s? Luca waited. Luca cares. Nail’s heart skips, surprised by the thought. Why? funny how the tiniest kindness can feel like a hook dragging at his chest. Something he'd forgotten how to feel. After all this time, had someone been waiting for him? Why does that thought make something in Nail’s chest tighten? Luca, who shouldn’t care, who has every reason to leave Nail behind.
Nail presses his palm against his ribs, feeling the warmth spread under his hand. The ache was turning into something else. A heaviness. It pulls him down, as though the weight of his own life was finally catching up with him.
Is this it? Is this my out?
For the first time in years, he’s not sure he wants it to be. Nail’s body lurches--less of a cough, more of a silent retch. Fresh splatters of blood on the carpet, across the back of Nail’s hand when he wipes his mouth, taking a shuddering breath that feels like drowning on dry land.
Luca can’t see Nail like this. No one can see Nail like this. Not now. Not ever.
He glances down, making sure his jacket hides the blood. Deep, steadying breath. Nail swallows hard against the metallic burn in his throat, trying to push the panic back, trying to hold onto the cold control that had always kept him alive.
I control pain. Pain doesn’t control me.
But the words feel thin now, hollow. The pain is everywhere, relentless, filling his head until he can barely think. He stumbles, catching himself on the doorframe. He’s not sure how much longer he can stand. But he has to. He has to make it.
Scotch first. Then… then… Nail’s thoughts drift, scattering. Then what? What if… what if I don’t have to be alone?
His mind snatches at the thought, desperate. It's foolish, too late, but it burns in his chest anyway. All those years, pushing people away, telling himself it was better. But now he feels the weight of it all—the loneliness, the choices, the walls he'd built.
He’s dying alone. He doesn’t want to die alone.
But he has to. He has to, because that’s what he deserves.
The lock clicks.
Open the door.
Luca needs to leave.
Then Nail can let go.
◼️◼️◼️◼️
Luca paces the length of Nail’s condo. The curtains are still tightly closed. Light from the lamps cast shadows over the disarray—the crumpled jacket on the couch, used empty glasses on the sideboard and coffee table, a definite layer of dust on the rest of the furniture. The hum of the AC is the only thing breaking the silence. Luca’s mind races. He checks his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. Nail should have been back by now.
The door finally opens.
“Luca.” Nail’s eyes meet Luca’s with an almost mechanical gaze. He closes the door with a soft click, leaning back against the frame. “You’re still here.”
“You’re late,” Luca’s reply is more of an observation than complaint. “And you look like hell.”
“I know. It’s still raining.” Nail’s voice is hoarse, with an undertone Luca can’t quite place. “Took longer than I thought. But I handled it. Chalam’s dead. People struggle when they’re dying. They lash out. A lot.”
“What are you talking about?” Luca catches the slight unsteadiness in Nail’s posture, the slight slur in his speech. “Are you drunk?”
“Not drunk.” Nail gives a humorless chuckle. “Not yet.”
He moves deliberately toward the sideboard. Retrieving a fresh glass, he pours a generous amount of Scotch from a recently opened bottle. His hand trembles slightly as he raises the glass to his lips, draining it in a single gulp. Trembling from cold? Or something else?
“You didn’t do anything stupid, did you?” Luca presses.
“Just what I told you.” Nail sets the glass down with a soft clink, nearly knocking it over. “Handled it. Alone. That’s all you need to know. You can go now.”
“You sure you’re all right?” Luca steps closer.
Nail presses his fingers briefly against his temples before lifting the bottle again. He needs both hands.. “Just a headache…”
“Then you don’t need Scotch.” Luca makes a grab for the whiskey glass.
“I’m not drunk.” Nail staggers back, away from Luca. “Why the hell do you even care? We’re not friends."
The way Nail grips the glass like a lifeline sets off alarm bells. Luca narrows his eyes. “That doesn’t mean I don’t want to help you. If you’ll take it. It’s been offered.”
“I remember your ‘offer’.” Nail’s laugh is a short, harsh bark, almost a cough. He moves behind the sofa, pressing his lips together as he leans against it. “And Kai’s. Both of you said you'd get me out.”
“You’re already dead.” Luca points out. “So far as Jet and the rest are aware, you died on the way to the hospital. Brain hemorrhage.”
“So. I really am a walking corpse.” Nail sways, looking down at his empty glass. He makes his way back toward the sideboard, leaving a dark smear across the back of the sofa. “You said you’d get me out. Beat you to it. Same way Kai did. Alone. Always been alone.”
“Tell me the truth.” There is a definite note of concern in Luca’s voice now. “How many drinks have you had?”
“I said I’m not drunk.” Nail slurs. The glass slips from his hand, shattering across the floor. He barely catches himself against the sideboard, sending the Scotch bottle toppling.“Just tired. I always...I always handle things my way. Leave…we’re done.”
Luca is across the room in two strides. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Chalam…more resourceful than expected.” Nail grimaces, leaning heavily against the sideboard. His face has gone ashen. Dark liquid drips from the hem of his jacket, mixing with the whiskey on the floor. “Never thought he’d—”
Nail’s hands slip. He stumbles, clutching his side, his body convulsed by wracking coughs. Luca catches him before he hits the ground. As he does, Nail's sleeve rides up, exposing the faint outline of his tattoo—a snake devouring its own tail, a quiet reminder of the cycles he can’t escape. Luca’s heart drops; he recognizes it from Jet and Kai. It’s a mark of their shared history, of choices that have left them all scarred. The tattoo feels like a ghostly echo of the cycles they can't escape, a reminder of the pain Nail has carried for so long. But right now, all that matters is the blood on Nail’s lips, the dark stain creeping at the corners of his mouth. And right now, as Nail’s life slips away, Luca knows he can’t let him go alone.
“Chalam…damn scalpel.” Nail’s eyes flutter open. He plucks at his jacket pocket. Luca pulls out the scalpel, stained with Nail’s blood. Nail’s body convulses. “Getting stabbed hurts…”
“Damn you.” Luca’s fingers fumble for his phone, ready to call an ambulance.
“Don’t.” Nail knocks the phone from Luca’s hand. “Don’t call anyone. No good. Just go away.”
“You think I’m just going to leave you to die?” Luca wipes the blood from Nail’s mouth.
“Yeah.” Nail’s bloodstained lips curve in an apologetic smile. Another cough shakes his body. “Yeah, you are. Boyfriend’s…probably waiting…”
“I’m not going anywhere.” Luca shifts his position, attempting to make Nail more comfortable.
“Typical.” Nail chokes on his scoff. His breathing becomes increasingly shallow, punctuated by weakening coughs. Luca holds him, murmuring nonsense both know isn’t going to help. The light fades from Nail’s eyes.
“This…is my…‘out’.” Nail’s hand twitches, briefly tightening around Luca’s arm before falling flaccid at his side. His voice is little more than a whisper. “My way. Always…been my way. Like Kai.”
He shudders once, then slumps against Luca’s shoulder. Luca looks down into Nail’s sightless eyes, frustration flickering across his face.
“Damn the both of you.” He whisperers again, softer this time. His words echo in the silent condo. “You stubborn, stupid little kids.”