Y/n's heels clicked against the grimy concrete floor as the brute dragged her through the doorway, his fingers digging into her elbow hard enough to leave bruises. The sudden brightness made her squint, but she refused to blink.

Ahead, a knot of leather-jacketed figures had formed a loose semicircle around two girls—Betty and Veronica, both bound and furious, their usual polish smudged with dirt and defiance.

And at the center, leaning against a pool table with an almost lazy arrogance, stood Malachai. His eyes slid over the captured girls, then flicked to Y/n, a slow grin spreading across his face.