Kant

I watched as Fadel pulled the knife from the hitman's leg, his movements sharp and efficient, like he'd done this a hundred times before. The man's pained groans filled the room, but I barely flinched. I should have, maybe. A past version of me would have. But I had seen enough, been through enough, to know this was just how things worked in his world.

Fadel wiped the blade on the hitman's shirt, his expression unreadable. Bison was standing beside him, arms crossed, his massive frame radiating a quiet, unshakable authority. Across from them, Style remained perched on the counter, twirling a knife between his fingers, his usual amusement laced with something sharper.

I, on the other hand, stayed still. Just watching.

A snake emblem.

That meant something to Fadel. I could tell by the way his jaw tightened for just a second, by the way his grip on the knife had shifted, his fingers pressing just a little harder than necessary before he let go. Like he recalled or knew something but was not sure and not saying anything.

"Looks like we have something to go on," he said finally, his voice calm, composed. But I wasn't fooled.

Bison rolled his shoulders, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. "And a snake to hunt."

Style let out a soft chuckle. "This just got interesting."

I kept my eyes on Fadel, searching his face. He didn't look back at me, but I could feel the weight of something unspoken hanging in the air. Something about this wasn't just business for him. It wasn't just another job, another faceless enemy.

I wasn't sure what it meant yet.

But I would find out.

I turned my gaze to the hitmen, their bodies slumped against the chairs. They had given us what we needed, and that meant their use was almost up. Style shifted slightly, his fingers still playing with his swiss army knife, and I knew he was thinking the same thing.

"Well," Bison said, stepping forward. "What do we do with them?"

I expected Fadel to answer right away, but he hesitated for half a second before exhaling sharply. "We'll deal with them later. Right now, I want to know where that emblem leads."

Bison grunted in agreement. Style just smirked, but I caught the way his fingers finally stilled on the knife.

Fadel turned away, and this time, his eyes met mine. Just for a second.

It was brief, but it was enough.

There was something in his gaze, something edged with a quiet storm.

And I knew, without him saying a word, that whatever this snake emblem meant-whoever it belonged to-this wasn't just another job.

This was personal. Because they had not just attacked me, they tried to attack Bison too. And for Fadel, this enemy just got personal.

Fadel's POV

"Lock them up for now," I said, my voice steady. "We'll decide what to do with them after we get more information."

Bison didn't question it. He grabbed one of the still-groaning hitmen by the back of his shirt and hauled him up like a sack of bricks. Style sighed dramatically but moved to help, dragging another by the collar toward the back room. Kant stayed where he was, still watching, still quiet.

I let out a slow breath before following Bison. The room we used for situations like this wasn't big-bare walls, a single light overhead, no windows. A place designed to make people feel trapped. The hitmen were dumped onto the floor, still tied up, their faces twisted in pain and exhaustion.

"You're lucky," Bison muttered to them. "Fadel's in a generous mood tonight."

One of them coughed, his head lolling forward. He was barely conscious, but I could still see the flicker of fear in his eyes. He knew what we could do. What we would do, if we wanted.

I turned and walked out without another word.

Back in the living room, Style was already making himself comfortable again, one leg draped over the other as he leaned back against the counter. Kant hadn't moved from his spot. He was still looking at me, but this time, there was something in his gaze. Something questioning.

I ignored it-for now.

Instead, I walked past him, straight to my stash, where I kept my weapons. My hands moved on instinct, checking my guns, making sure my knives were sharp. I was good at keeping my focus, at shutting out everything else.

But then I heard it.

A sharp breath. A quiet hiss.

I turned my head slightly.

Style.

He was still sitting on the counter, but now Bison was standing in front of him, his usual scowl deeper than usual. He had Style's arm in his hands, unwrapping the bandage he had hastily put on earlier.

I frowned.

The cut wasn't just a scratch like Style had brushed off earlier. It was deeper, a thin line of red still bleeding sluggishly down his forearm. Bison was muttering something under his breath, his jaw tight, his hands working quickly as he pulled out a cleaner bandage from his pocket and started wrapping it again.

Style didn't say a word. He just sat there, his mouth pressed into a thin line, letting Bison work.

That was what made me pause.

Style never let anyone fuss over him.

It was strange.

It was... close.

I leaned against the table, crossing my arms. Neither of them seemed to notice. Bison's hands were steady, wrapping the bandage tight but careful. Style's eyes flickered down, watching, but there was no teasing smirk, no usual sharp comment, just a soft smile coloring his face.

They were in their own world.

And I was watching from the outside.

For a moment, I just stood there, trying to make sense of it.

Then Kant shifted beside me.

"You saw it." he murmured.

I glanced at him. His arms were still crossed, his posture relaxed, but his eyes had a knowing look. Like he knew something I didnt.

I exhaled quietly and turned back to Bison and Style.

Yeah.

I saw it.

And I had a feeling that whatever this was-whatever was happening between them-it had been there for a while. I just hadn't been paying attention.

But it was not something I needed to ask now. We had bigger things to worry about.