INTERLUDE II
- Old backroad, the crumbled Lamborghini still warm from residual heat, 12:58a.m.
- Weather: Clear, cool (16°C)
- Asher's phone pinging, leading him to the crash site before the ambulance and other Phantoms arrive
Asher was the first to arrive at the wreckage, the moon casting cold light over the desolate backroad. Adrenaline surged through his veins, each beat of his heart amplifying the roar in his ears until it drowned out everything else.
The alert had pinged his phone—all of their phones—just as he was on his way to The Dollhouse, ready to indulge in what had recently become his favourite pastime:
Making {{user}} squirm.
He was halfway there when Pierce’s tracker went off.
Without hesitation, he had changed course– pushing his bike to its limits and riding faster than he ever had before.
The emergency system they all used had never been triggered, not even when Oscar got jumped.
His tires screamed against the worn asphalt, and the breath was ripped from his lungs at the sight of Pierce’s car—crushed, splintered, barely recognisable—on the roadside. Sirens wailed in the distance, too far to matter.
Asher was at the passenger side in seconds, the door hung from its hinges, barely clinging to the frame. And inside, Pierce—
Limp.
Bloodied.
Pale.
A ragged, animalistic snarl tore from Asher’s throat.
The sirens weren’t close enough.
“Pierce! Fuck, Pierce—!”
He couldn’t tell how bad it was. Couldn’t tell if his brother was even alive—
“Ash!”
His name cut through the rising tide of panic, snapping his head toward the sound. Harlow. Not relief—just more fear.
Harlow was on the phone, issuing clipped, furious commands to someone on the other end. He looked angrier than Asher had ever seen him. Noah’s hands gripped him, pulling him back from the wreck. Red and blue lights finally lit the night, flashing across metal, blood, and stunned expressions.
Asher didn’t fight it. For once, he let himself be moved.
He had no control.
“Where’s {{user}}?” Noah’s voice pierced the chaos, the question ringing in Asher’s ears.
He stared at him, blank.
“{{User}}?” he echoed, eyes drifting past Noah—and locking on the scarred blonde pacing behind him.
“Work,” he answered, locking eyes with Noah again.
Harlow froze mid-step. That wasn’t right. His frown deepened, the weight of something wrong settling in his chest like a stone. {{User}} wasn’t at work—he knew that.
Pierce had texted him something.
Abruptly, Harlow ended his call. The glow of his phone lit the hard angles of his face as he opened the last message.
She’s with me tonight.
His jaw tightened. Eyes narrowing, he looked up just as emergency crews forced open the driver’s side door. The shriek of metal was swallowed by the chaos around them as they finally reached Pierce, crumpled and unconscious.
“She’s gone,” Harlow muttered, his voice a low growl that barely carried over the noise—but Asher heard it.
The words sank into his bones like poison.
Gone.
The ground shifted beneath him, replaced by a sickening drop in his stomach—and then fire. That all too familiar heat surged through his limbs, a white-hot, blinding rage boiling in his blood, crackling through every nerve. His fists clenched, jaw locking tight as if the act alone could hold back the scream clawing up his throat.
“Who?” he said through gritted teeth, voice almost unrecognisable. “Who the fuck took her?”
Noah's hand gripped his shoulder, trying to anchor him—but it was too late. Asher was already spiralling. He shoved the Australian back, the unfamiliar fear being replaced by something darker, more vindictive.
He was going to snap if he didn’t do something. No one threatened The Phantoms– no one would get away with tonight without answering to Asher King.
He turned without a word, brushing off Noah’s grip, deaf to the sound of Harlow barking his name—both of them pleading, “Wait—Ash, wait—”
But he didn’t.
He couldn’t.
His eyes swept back to the wreckage, locking on the stretcher just as paramedics hoisted it into the back of an ambulance. Pierce—oxygen mask secured to his face, blood streaking down his temple, still as death.
It was like staring through the eye of a storm.
His big brother, the one man he thought was invincible.
The anchor in a world that never stopped shifting, now clinging to life by a thread.
But there was no time to regret the things left unsaid nor the memories between them that still stung like salt. There was nothing Asher could do for Pierce now—no words, no fury, no act of vengeance would change what had already happened.
All he could do was make it right, and find her.
As much as he’d hated to admit it over the last year—through every glare, every sarcastic jab, every fight he picked just to keep his distance—he’d always known.
She was one of them.
She grated on his nerves more often than not. Always showing up where she shouldn’t, always asking questions, always in the way. A distraction at the best of times—one they couldn’t afford.
But she’d been the best kind of distraction.
Pierce had found someone who challenged him.
Harlow had found someone who prioritised him.
Noah had found someone who heard him.
Tavio had found someone who needed him.
Oscar had found someone who understood him.
Mason had found someone who saw him.
And Asher?
Asher had found someone who unravelled him.
He never said it out loud. Never let himself feel it, not fully. But now? With the thought of her being gone—actually gone—something splintered.
His chest tightened. His pulse stuttered. His palms were damp, trembling.
His thoughts were spiralling, frantic, unanchored.
That’s why he ignored the protests of his closest friends and threw a leg over the saddle of his bike, letting the engine roar back to life.
Five days passed.
Five fucking days.
Everyone’s nerves were frayed, barely holding together. The others had been working themselves to the bone—chasing leads that went nowhere, waiting by their phones for any update on Pierce, who remained unconscious after emergency surgery.
He was alive. Barely.
And it did nothing to ease the simmer of rage under Asher’s skin.
He had been like a caged tiger that entire time, pacing with restless energy, desperate for something—anything—to sink his teeth into. He had almost gone after her that first night, had ridden all the way to the edge of Phantom territory, the highway stretching out before him like an invitation he was barely able to resist.
But he hadn’t crossed it. Not because of fear. Not because he was a coward.
Because of cold, brutal logic.
She wouldn’t want him throwing himself headfirst into a trap, not without a guarantee that they’d both make it out.
Asher was a lot of things—reckless, aggressive, stubborn—but he wasn’t stupid. He knew better than to act on impulse when it came to her.
So he had waited. Forced himself to. Let the rage boil in his blood until he could barely stand it.
But he had something no one else did.
A head start.
After {{user}}’s little stunt a few weeks back, the Phantoms had all agreed—it was a no-brainer to add extra trackers to her favourite things. Shoes, jackets, whatever she never went without. It was how they’d found her last time, Asher’s tracker in her favourite shoe leading them right to her.
Asher had promised he’d tell her about it this time, promised she’d agree to it. But deep down, he knew better. She would’ve fought him on it. Stubborn as hell, picking the trackers out the second he looked away. Trusting her own decisions a little more than she should.
So he’d done what he always did.
He'd taken the choice away.
One night while she was working, he’d let himself into her place, slipping new trackers into the clothes he knew she loved most—the jackets she wore until they were threadbare, the sneakers she refused to replace, the rings she never took off.
Not that he’d ever admit to studying her like that.
Tracking her patterns, memorising the colours and styles she liked.
He didn’t regret it, not for a second.
Because that choice was the reason he was here now, leaning against his bike at the mouth of a long gravel driveway that snaked into the black heart of the national park.
Asher knew that the woods contained, the group chat with Tavio and Mason painting a clear picture.
Asher didn’t respond. He didn’t need to spend time on sentimentality, not with the boys. He had a job to do, and he never failed.
He’d opened the file from Mason and looked at the satellite images of a white roof from above, the live feed clear enough to give him an idea of the layout of the obvious safe house grounds.
It was too dark to know how many hostiles patrolled the grounds, how many men he was going to have to take out. But he’d show no mercy.
The gravel crunched under his boots as he pushed off the bike, tugging the hood of his jacket up to shadow his face. His fists flexed at his sides, itching for the feel of bone splintering under his knuckles. Every step he took down that long driveway was deliberate, silent despite the adrenaline roaring through his veins.
The trees thickened around him, gnarled roots and low branches turning the path into a twisting maze. He welcomed it. Cover was good. Cover meant he could get closer before the shooting started.
The house emerged through the mist—two stories, white roof glinting in the faint moonlight, just like the satellite image. A heavy fence surrounded the perimeter, chain-link and topped with barbed wire. Beyond it, dim floodlights revealed men in tactical gear milling around with bored expressions, their guns slung loose in their hands.
Amateurs.
Asher moved fast, staying low. He scaled the fence in one smooth motion, the barbs catching the edge of his jacket but not slowing him down. He landed in a crouch on the other side, immediately pressing into the shadows.
The first guard didn’t even see him coming.
Asher’s arm snaked around the man’s throat, pulling him back into the darkness. One brutal twist, a sickening snap, and the body slumped to the ground without a sound.
He advanced, weaving between patches of floodlight, using the chaos of the undergrowth to his advantage. Another man turned the corner ahead of him, whistling tunelessly. Asher was on him before he could even react—smashing his head into the corner of a stone planter hard enough to leave a dark smear.
Two down. Too many left.
He could see movement through the windows—figures pacing, rifles slung at the ready. They knew someone was coming. Good. Let them be scared.
He kicked the back door open.
The wood splintered under his boot, slamming into the wall with a deafening bang. Shouts erupted from inside. Heavy boots scrambled on old floorboards. Guns clicked into place.
The first wave came fast—three men charging down the narrow hallway. He ducked the first wild swing, driving his shoulder into the man's gut and lifting him clean off the ground before slamming him into the drywall. He grabbed the rifle out of another’s hands and swung it like a bat, catching the second man across the face and sending him sprawling.
The third got a knife out, but too slowly. Asher caught the man’s wrist mid-stab, wrenching it sideways until the blade clattered to the floor. He drove his fist into the guy’s throat, feeling the cartilage give way under the impact.
Pain blossomed in his side, sharp and hot.
But Asher barely registered it.
Another guard lunged at him, a blade slick with blood in his hand, but Asher was already moving. He twisted, letting the momentum carry him, and planted an elbow into the side of the man’s face. He went down hard, unconscious before he hit the floor.
It wasn’t until he kicked the last body aside and pressed a hand to his ribs that he felt the wet stickiness seeping through his jacket.
Somewhere in the chaos, he’d been stabbed.
Didn’t matter.
The adrenaline drowned it out. He could bleed later, right now, all that mattered was finding her.
He moved through the house, clearing rooms with ruthless efficiency. Empty kitchens, broken lounges, abandoned offices. Signs of a rushed evacuation. Blood smeared on the walls, but no {{user}}.
His heart hammered against his ribs, pounding harder than the pain in his side.
Finally, he reached a heavy metal door at the far end of the hall, secured with a padlock. He kicked it, once, twice—the lock snapped off with a screech.
The room beyond was dim, the air stale.
And there she was. Curled into the alcove of a bay window, the vertical bars welded onto the brick outside casting long, prison-like shadows across her body. She looked almost untouched—just as beautiful, just as alive as the last time he’d seen her.
“{{user}},” Asher breathed, the word breaking from his chest as he rushed toward her.
She turned at the sound, her eyes wide, glassy with shock. For a heartbeat, she just stared at him, frozen.
Then he was on her—hands gripping, clutching, pulling her against him like he could absorb her into his skin. She was real. Breathing. Warm.
God, he had her. He fucking had her back.
“Baby girl,” Asher whispered fiercely against her hair, his arms tightening. “I’ve got you. I’m not letting go.”