RIVAL’S POV
The address led us to a squat one-story shop with dusty windows and a peeling green door. No sign. Just the faint smell of oil and metal drifting from inside.
Thomas slowed as we reached the step. “You sure you don’t want me to—”
“I’m sure,” I cut in. “You’re backup. I’m lead.”
He raised his brows. “Your funeral.”
I knocked — three sharp raps.
The door swung open to reveal a man in his late forties, thick arms, gut hidden under a sweat-stained shirt, eyes sizing us up in one glance.
He barked a laugh. “The hell is this? Vega’s sending me kids now?”
“Not kids,” I said flatly. “Collectors.”
“Collectors?” His smirk widened. “From where I’m standing, you look like two lost brats playing dress-up. Get off my step before I call the cops.”
He started to swing the door closed
