Thorne
Diablo’s gaze sweeps over us, calculating, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm on his belt. The silence stretches, thick as fog, until he finally speaks.
“All right,” he says, voice gruff with the weight of the deal. “You get one chance. If you cross me, I’ll make sure you regret it.”
With a snap of his fingers, one of his men hands him a sleek tablet. Diablo scrolls through a few screens, then turns the tablet to face us. It’s a photo, grainy and dark, taken at night. Nico stands outside an old, derelict building, a shadow of a structure that could have been a hospital or maybe an asylum in another lifetime. The walls are stained and cracked, graffiti crawling up like veins, and the barred windows hint at more sinister purposes.
“Nico’s been hiding out here,” Diablo says, his voi
