The warehouse was silent when she left.
The rusted door had slammed shut behind her with a finality that echoed down Ethan's spine. Chains bit into his wrists as he shifted, his muscles sore from the night's tension. He had no idea how long he stayed there—hours? A full day?
But eventually, the door creaked again.
Anna stepped in like she owned the place. Like it was just another morning at the office.
She wore a grey hoodie, stained jeans, and boots crusted in dried mud. In her hand, she carried a brown paper bag, grease blooming through the bottom like oil on water. The smell of egg and sausage hit him before she even got close.
"Brought you breakfast," she said.
Ethan raised a brow. "Is this the part where you pretend we're friends now?"
She ignored that. Walked up to him, crouched just out of striking distance, and unwrapped the sandwich. It was cold. Cheap. The kind of thing you get from a vending machine when you've given up on life. She held it out.
He stared at her.
"You want me to eat that with my teeth? My hands are still shackled."
"Not for long," she said quietly.
Before he could retort, her fingers moved to the chain locks.
He tensed—fully expecting a trick, a tranquilizer, a shift in her body language that would betray a trap.
But she didn't hesitate. One click. Two. Then the chains dropped.
Ethan stumbled forward slightly, surprised by the weight gone from his shoulders. His arms were sore. Weak. But free.
He looked up at her.
No weapon drawn. No tension in her stance. No fear in her eyes.
"What—" he began.
She tossed the sandwich onto a crate. "Eat."
He didn't move.
"You're not worried I'll shift? Attack? Run?" he asked, voice low.
Anna tilted her head, calm and deadly.
"No," she said. "Because I've made sure you're more dangerous alive than dead."
He narrowed his eyes. "Meaning?"
She pulled out her phone. Tapped the screen. "Remember the footage? The one I showed you yesterday?"
He remembered. Too well.
She held the phone up like a priest with scripture.
"It's in a dead drop now. Third-party courier service. Private. Untraceable. Every twenty-four hours, I have to check in with them. One passcode. One phrase. If I don't?"
She smiled. Cold and precise.
"They release the footage. Publicly. Straight to CBNS News."
Ethan froze.
"You're bluffing," he said.
She raised her eyebrows. "Am I?"
There was no bravado in her voice. No flare of triumph. Just clean, surgical certainty.
"Where?" he asked.
She smirked. "Nice try. I don't name the city. I don't name the service. You could kill me, search my body, and still have nothing. I made sure of it."
His voice dropped to a growl. "Why would you do that?"
Anna stepped closer, into his personal space, her eyes locked onto his.
"Because I needed you to know, Ethan," she whispered. "You're not just chained by steel anymore. You're chained by time. Every sunrise I don't make that call, you burn."
He tried to speak. She cut him off.
"Think of it like a guillotine. Not hanging over your head. Hanging over everything you've built. Your name. Your bar license. Your client list. Your empire."
A pause.
"If I die, you die slower."
He stared at her—truly stared. She was calm. Too calm. This wasn't a threat thrown in desperation. It was a structure. A plan. A system.
"That's not a leash," he said, voice dry. "That's a damn guillotine."
Anna's smile was razor-thin.
"Call it what you want," she said. "You'll sleep better knowing it's sharp."
She stepped back and tossed him a bottle of water. It landed at his feet. He didn't reach for it.
She didn't care.
"I want you alert for tonight," she said. "We have work to do."
Ethan gave a hollow laugh. "You think I'm just going to play nice after that?"
"I don't need nice," Anna replied. "I need results."
She turned to leave, then paused at the doorway.
"Oh—and in case you get any clever ideas about turning me in? About trying to out me first?"
She looked over her shoulder.
"There's a second copy. With a second courier. Different time zone. Different deadline."
Her eyes gleamed.
"You're not just protecting yourself anymore, Ethan. You're protecting me. Welcome to the alliance."
The door slammed shut.
This time, it didn't echo.
This time, it reverberated.
For a long moment, he didn't move.
The bag sat on the crate, quiet and accusing.
His legs were still half-dead from disuse—blood circulation returning in bursts of fire. Ethan hissed under his breath as he gingerly got to his feet, each step pins and needles, knives and curses. He limped toward the door. Tested the knob. Locked.
He shuffled to the nearest window—cracked but barred.
Another door. A stairwell. All locked.
He stood there, breathing hard, forehead against cool metal.
Then the words seeped in. Not just the threat, but the reality: there was no escape. Not from this room. Not from her. Not from the trap he'd helped set years ago when he'd built his empire on protecting monsters.
He turned slowly.
The crate was still there. So was the sandwich.
The scent hit again—cheap meat, runny egg, too much salt. It churned his stomach, but not in revulsion. In hunger.
He limped back and sat on the floor beside it, legs stretched out and aching. Slowly, distastefully, he pulled the grease-stained paper open. The sandwich was smashed and slightly cold. He stared at it like it was a symbol of every indignity he'd ever suffered.
Then he took a bite.
Hunger didn't care about pride.
By the third bite, decorum was gone. By the last, so was the sandwich.
He washed it down with what was left of the water. Then he sat in silence, stomach full but thoughts gnawing.
Strategy. That's what he needed.
Not hope. Not bluster. Not another attempt at escape.
He needed to survive this. Not unscathed. That would be fantasy.
But alive? That was still an option.
And Ethan Cross always played the long game.