Page 54 of Traitor

The interrogation room is exactly what I expected. Cold, lifeless, a box made of cinderblock and bullshit. The metal chair beneath me is uncomfortable, the overhead light flickering just enough to be annoying, and the two-way mirror on the wall screamsgovernment fuckery.

I lean back, stretching my legs out under the table, completely at ease. If they think they're gonna shake me, they're in for a surprise.

The agent sitting across from me? Some buttoned-up fed with a superiority complex. The kind of guy who probably gets off on busting men like me, who tells himself he'sone of the good guyswhile playing just as dirty as the rest of us.

He folds his hands together, staring into my eyes like he's waiting for me to crack. Amateur.

"You've got a nice setup with your MC, Mr. Mercer," he starts, his voice smooth, calculated. "Clubhouse. Businesses. Close-knit brotherhood. Almost like a family."

I smirk. "We bake cookies on Sundays too. Real wholesome shit."

He doesn't bite, just nods, like he expected the sarcasm. "And yet, here you are. In custody. While my guys tear through every inch of your operation."

I shrug. "I hope they brought flashlights. Wouldn't want them to stub their toes on all thenothingthey're gonna find."

His jaw ticks. "You think this is funny?"

"I think you're wasting your time," I reply, tilting my head. "You have nothing. And we both know it."

He watches me for a beat before flipping open the file in front of him. "We've got plenty of evidence tying the Iron Vultures to weapons smuggling, illegal gambling rings, money laundering—"

I bark out a laugh. "You sound real confident for a guy who had to pull me in on suspicion."

His lips press together. I got him.

I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table. "If you had anything real, we wouldn't be having this little chat. You'd have me locked up in max already. Instead, you're sitting here, trying to rattle me with big words and empty threats."

Silence stretches between us, thick with his frustration and my boredom.

Then, he flips the page in his file, and the tension shifts.

"We know what you did to Elyna Holloway."

I go still.

His eyes are sharp, watching me, waiting.

The words don't hit all at once. They sink in slow, heavy, suffocating.

I don't flinch. I don't move. But I feel it. The burn crawling up my spine, the weight of my own fucked up actions slamming into me again, and again, and again.

He leans forward. "We know about the tattoo. About how you gave her to the Crimson Riders. About what happened to her after."

A muscle in my jaw twitches. I don't speak.

"Assault," he continues, like he's testing the weight of the word in his mouth. "That's what it is, you know. Hell, that's the polite version."

I exhale slowly through my nose. "If that's the case, why am I not being charged?"

He lets the question hang for a second, dragging it out before dropping the final blow.

"Because she wouldn't press charges against you."

It's a gut punch. A fucking knockout blow I wasn't prepared for.

"She refused," he says, voice even. "Didn't want to ever see you again. Didn't want to have to stand in court and look at your face."

My fingers curl into fists under the table, nails biting into my palms. She wanted to erase me.

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