We meet in the underchapel—a place below Deadreach even the rats avoid. The stone’s too clean. The torches too fresh.

  Seven figures wait for us.

  All cloaked.

  All watching.

  Hooks steps forward. "Graymark. These are Bishop’s Hands. The ones still breathing, anyway."

  One of them chuckles. "So this is the brat? Thought he’d be taller."

  Another elbows him. "You said that about the last one. He stabbed your thigh."

  I keep my face flat, but inside something flickers.

  Hooks doesn’t smile. "This one lasted longer than the last three combined. Killed four men and didn't cry after. It's a start."

  A tall woman steps forward. Her cloak hangs open to reveal a strange apparatus around her neck—small glass vials, tubes running into her throat.

  "Iris," Hooks says. "Her Answer makes her blood toxic. She cycles it with that thing or she dies choking on her own spit."

  She grins. Her teeth are stained dark.

  "I spit in people’s mouths when I fight."

  I blink.

  She winks. "Welcome to the family."

  Another steps forward. Silent. Masked. His arms are too long, his fingers tapping a rhythm I can’t place.

  "Donovan. Answered with something... strange. He can sense when people are being watched. Feel the presence of eyes, even through walls. Uses it to bait ambushes and sniff out spies."

  Donovan nods once. Says nothing. Keeps tapping.

  I’m sure he’s already mapped me like a maze.

  Hooks gestures to the others but doesn’t name them all. Just one more.

  A boy younger than me. Pale. Smiling too wide.

  "Called Pez. He talks to rats."

  Pez gives a little bow. A rat peeks from his sleeve and sneezes.

  "We clean up what the Blessed ignore," Hooks says. "Bishop speaks through us. His will moves through knives and silence. Zenith forgets about Deadreach. We remind them."

  Hooks lifts his chin. "Enough."

  He turns to me. "You’ve met the family. Now get out."

  I blink. "I can—"

  His voice hardens. "You’ve seen enough. We’ll call when it’s time."

  I bite back whatever instinct rises, nod, and step out. Door slams behind me.

  Later that night, I hear Hooks approaching. He doesn’t knock. Just pushes into the training space behind the safehouse. No fire tonight. Just cold air and bare stone.

  "You killed some Deadreach trash," he says. "You want a medal for that?"

  I shrug. "Didn’t ask for one."

  Hooks drops his coat. The man’s body is a latticework of scars. Old and new. Slashes, punctures, burns. One runs the length of his ribcage, jagged and purpled.

  But underneath it all—muscle. Rope-tight and brutal. A body honed for violence.

  I glance down at myself. I’ve grown taller, sure. Hardened. My ribs show less than they used to. Scars curl across my arms and back like quiet warnings. Crooked nose. Nothing pretty. But nothing like him.

  He gestures. "Come on, then, Graymark. You’ve had your rest. Time for your training to begin for real."

  I step forward. Muscles aching. Still bruised. Still raw.

  So this is the real training? What the hell was last year—some kind of warm-up? Starvation, beatings, humiliation—the welcome parade to rot and ruin? I survive my first kill, and now I get tossed into a ring with a walking nightmare built out of rusted steel and bad intentions.

  Fine. Let’s see what breaks first.

  Hooks doesn’t wait.

  He strikes—a blur of movement, too fast for a man built like punishment itself. I barely get my arms up before his palm slams into my shoulder, hurling me sideways across the training ring.

  "Too slow," he grunts.

  I recover, legs bracing, breath sharp in my throat. He comes again, this time low. I try to counter, swinging for his ribs, but he’s already twisted past me. His fist clips my jaw—not enough to break anything, but enough to make the world tilt.

  "You think killing some alley scum makes you dangerous?" he says, circling.

  I spit blood, steady my stance. "They weren’t weak."

  "They weren’t strong."

  He comes again. A flurry of jabs, precise, testing. I parry the first. The second grazes my ribs. The third I barely dodge, my heel slipping on sweat-slick stone.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Hooks doesn’t stop. "You know what real Answered can do? They won’t miss. They won’t hold back. They won’t let you breathe."

  I’m already tasting copper, heart hammering. And I think—for one second—I could use the Mark. Just a flicker. Let it sync with Hooks. Read his body like I did with Gav. But I don’t. Deadreach taught me better. Keep the best parts hidden. The evolved edge of my Answer—the pulse-sense, the muscle-read, all of it—stays mine.

  And honestly? He doesn’t need help killing me.

  He throws a punch that would break bone—I drop under it, roll, and try to tag his leg with a sweep.

  He hops it like I’m moving in slow motion and drives his knee into my side. The air leaves my lungs in a grunt.

  "Again," he growls.

  I drag myself up.

  This time I lead. Quick jab, then feint low and aim for his throat. He parries with ease, twisting my arm until I feel the ligaments stretch.

  Pain flares.

  Hooks leans in. "You’re not soft anymore. But you’re not hard enough."

  He lets go and steps back. "Again."

  And I move. Again. Bleeding. Bruised. Breathing hard.

  Because this is what I asked for. Because this is what it means to be Graymark.

  Hooks watches me for a moment, unreadable. Arms crossed, carved from stone, like he's weighing the damage. Then he gives a small nod—barely more than a tilt of the chin.

  “You’re not completely hopeless.”

  That’s it. No smile. No praise. Just that.

  I think it’s the closest thing to approval I’ll ever get from him.

  He turns, grabs his coat from the hook, and starts walking.

  “Get some sleep,” he calls over his shoulder. “Tomorrow, we stop pretending.”

  I don’t ask what that means.

  I already know it’ll hurt.

  I breathe in the cold, the ache, the sting—all of it sinking into my bones like it never left. Pain’s not a warning anymore. It’s a language. One I’ve been speaking fluently for months. Hooks carved the grammar into my ribs, taught me the vocabulary with fists and silence. Now it just lives there—settled deep, like marrow.

  ***

  The next morning comes cold and gray. My limbs protest when I move—each bruise from last night’s beating like a fresh accusation. I dress without thinking. Muscle memory. Everything hurts, but pain doesn’t surprise me anymore. It’s just proof I’m still here.

  Hooks doesn’t come.

  Instead, there’s a note nailed to the wall. A slip of torn paper with three words written in that ugly, slanted scrawl:

  “Backstairs. Now.”

  I don’t hesitate.

  ***

  The alleys behind the old butcher quarter reek of blood and smoke. Even the rats avoid this stretch—it’s too open, too exposed. Which means it’s meant for something loud, or something quiet no one should see.

  Hooks waits at the base of a crumbling stairwell, half-shrouded by hanging sheets of rusted chain. He’s not alone.

  Two others stand with him. Cloaks marked with the Bishop’s sigil—one I recognize as Iris, still fiddling with her vials like she’s building a bomb she might drink. The other’s new. Young, broad-shouldered, clean-faced in a way that feels wrong down here.

  Hooks doesn’t introduce him.

  “This one’s called Rett,” Iris says with a voice like wet stone. “He melts things. Real helpful, unless it’s your boots.”

  The boy nods to me, then looks away. His hands are bandaged, red seeping through the linen like it can’t be helped.

  Hooks jerks his head toward the stairwell. “Deadweight inside. Owes Bishop. Thought he could vanish. You’re gonna help prove him wrong.”

  I blink. “You want him dead?”

  “No,” Hooks says, then smirks. “I want him terrified. You're just going to listen.”

  I nod.

  I don’t ask why I’m needed. I already know the answer.

  The Mark.

  And maybe Hooks suspects more than I’ve told him.

  But for now, I play the obedient ghost. The one they send ahead, unheard and unseen.

  Because Graymark doesn’t ask questions.

  Graymark listens. And learns.

  Hooks doesn’t follow me. He lingers in the alley, his coat dark against the rust-streaked wall, speaking in low tones to Iris and Rett. I pretend not to watch. Pretend I don’t want to know what they're planning.

  Instead, I pull back into the shadows, thoughts narrowing like a blade. The Mark thrums under my ribs—changed. Ever since Gav. That fight in the gutter cracked something open. Now, when I touch someone, I don’t just hear them. I feel them. Muscle tension. Breath patterns. Intent curled in the bones. A heartbeat’s edge from knowing exactly where they’ll move next.

  I think about using it now. Slipping inside, brushing skin, letting that edge guide me. Hooks might never know.

  But I stop myself.

  Deadreach carved that lesson deep: Never show what you haven’t bled to keep.

  And I don’t trust anyone—not really. Not even him. Especially him.

  If I start leaning on the Mark for everything, I’ll forget how to fight without it. Forget how to win without leaning on power. Hooks is a monster built from scars. If I want to survive, I need more than magic—I need to know I can do this alone.

  So I keep it buried. Let him think I’m still playing by the old rules. Still eavesdropping with nothing but ears and nerve. That the Mark is just whispers and echoes.

  It’s not. Not anymore.

  But I’m not ready to use it again. Not like that. Not until I need to.

  I’ve learned more by withholding than I ever did by giving. Real strength here isn’t power. It’s patience.

  So I slip down the stairwell—one step, then another—silent, deliberate. Just another shadow in a city built from them.

  The stairwell twists like a broken spine, slick with old runoff. I keep to the edges, boots soft against stone, eyes adjusting to the dark. A single door waits at the bottom, iron-braced and cracked just enough to glimpse light within.

  Inside, the target—some courier-turned-traitor—paces. He’s talking to someone, or maybe just to himself. My heart kicks once, then settles.

  I need the mark.

  I wait. Count breaths. Watch for the twitch in his jaw, the half-turn he does every few minutes—habit, not suspicion. The moment he shifts to scratch at his shoulder, I slip forward. Quick, silent. Let my fingertips brush the inside of his elbow.

  He grunts, annoyed, swats at the air like he brushed a gnat. Doesn't even glance my way.

  He never saw me.

  The mark takes. And the pulse flares in my chest.

  I step into the shadows near the crates, breathing shallow, staying still.

  His voice is louder now—not just in the room, but in my head. The connection is clean.

  "They’re late. Again. I don’t like it. Bishop’s hands are getting sloppy. Thought they were supposed to scare people, not sleep through their assignments..."

  He mutters more—names, movements, complaints. Every word settles into my memory. A full report, waiting.

  Then, footsteps above. He tenses.

  "You’re late," he calls.

  I slip away before the others arrive—up the stairwell, out into the blood-and-smoke night.

  Hooks is already waiting.

  I give him the words. Every last one.

  He nods.

  Rett eyes me like I’m something growing teeth.

  Hooks gives him a look. "You know what to do."

  Rett doesn’t say a word—just begins unraveling the bandages around his hands. The air shifts as the scent of heat and char creeps in. Whatever comes next, I don’t want to feel it.

  I dispel the Mark. Cut the connection. Let the silence drop back into my chest.

  Iris grins, dark-stained teeth showing. “Sharp little ghost, isn’t he?”

  Hooks doesn’t say anything else.

  He just walks.

  And I follow—quiet, precise, like I was never there at all.

  Because I wasn’t.

  ***

  When we return to the safehouse, there’s a pouch waiting on my cot. Heavy. Real coin. I pick it up, fingers tightening out of habit—because nothing this nice comes without a knife behind it.

  A note is pinned to the leather:

  Courtesy of Bishop. Job well done.

  Hooks doesn’t say a word. Just nods once.

  “You’ve earned your day. Spend it. Waste it. Doesn’t matter.”

  Then he walks past me, vanishing into the back hall.

  I stand there a long time, holding the pouch, heart thudding like it’s waiting to be punished.

  Deadreach doesn’t give out kindness. But two days off and a pouch of coin?

  They’re really spoiling me now.

  Almost makes me nervous.

  I think of a certain girl with raw hands and a crooked half-smile.

  And I know exactly what I want to spend it on first.