Page 28 of Brotan

"Gus," Crow's voice drops to that dangerous register that would make most people retreat. "Fucking enough."

The cabin goes silent except for Gus's labored breathing. Crow's massive shoulders rise and fall as he struggles to contain whatever's raging inside him. His eyes meet mine briefly—anger layered over something raw and wounded—before he looks away.

"I'll wait outside," he mutters, ducking through the doorway that's too small for his frame.

The door closes with careful restraint, like he's fighting the urge to slam it. Through the grimy window, I watch his silhouette retreat toward the motorcycle.

"He'll be alright," Gus says softly behind me. When I turn back, the old man looks drained, illness and emotion carving deeper lines into his weathered face. "Just doesn't like being seen."

I finish packing my equipment, trying to process everything I've just learned. "You two have a lot in common."

"More than either of us wanted," Gus admits. "First time he told me about those camps, about what they made him do there..." He shakes his head slowly. "It was like looking in a goddamn mirror. Same eyes I'd see when I came back from 'Nam. Man who can't wash the blood off his hands, no matter how hard he scrubs."

I swallow hard, understanding resonating through me. Just like my father wants to wash away my connection to Jamie's death, to pretend it never happened by burying me in a prestigious practice far from here. But some stains don't wash away—they become part of your skin, part of who you are.

"I'll be back tomorrow to check on you. Take the antibiotics every six hours, even if you start feeling better. Drink water until your urine runs clear."

"Yes, ma'am." A hint of a smile breaks through his gruff exterior. "He's not as tough as he pretends to be."

"I know," I say softly, and realize I mean it.

Outside, Crow stands by his motorcycle, one hand resting on the seat, staring into the surrounding woods. His profile is sharp against the afternoon light, jaw still tight with the tension from inside.

He turns as I approach, expression guarded. "He okay?"

"He will be," I say, breaking the silence. "If you check on him like you promised."

Crow nods, not looking up from the bike. "I will."

"Why do you care?" I challenge, stepping closer. "About him. About that dog. About this town? You act like you're just some... fighting machine. Like caring makes you weak."

He straightens to his full height, gaze burning into mine. "Because it does."

"Bullshit."

The word hangs between us. His nostrils flare, jaw tightening.

"You don't know a fucking thing about me," he says, voice dangerously soft.

"I know what I've seen. What you try to hide." I stand taller, refusing to back down. "What Gus couldn't help but tell me because he needed me to understand who was really standing in that room."

He steps closer, using his size to intimidate. I stand my ground even as my pulse hammers.

"What you've seen is a fucking mask," he snaps, the words erupting like they've been held back too long. "Gus doesn't know shit. Nobody does." His chest heaves with the effort of trying to control his voice. "You want to know who I really am? I was the smallest kid in the camps. Easiest target. Guards used me for entertainment. Older Orcs used me for practice. Every fucking day was about survival, nothing else."

The raw admission stuns me. He continues, words flowing like poison from a lanced wound.

"When I was ten, I fought back. Nearly killed a guard with his own baton. That's when I learned the only way forward was through blood and pain. Mine or someone else's." His voice drops, nearly vibrating with controlled rage. "I fought to survive, then for money, then because it was the only thing that made me feel anything at all."

He turns away, jaw working. "There's not a protective bone in my body. Not after what humans took from me."

I step closer, refusing to let him retreat into the comfort of his familiar pain. "That can't be true. You relocated to Shadow Ridge to protect this town. You sat with Gus when he was ready to end everything. You made sure he knew he wasn't alone. You held that burned dog when it was terrified, gave it comfort when it expected pain."

"That's not—"

"And that night at the hospital," I press on, "you didn't give a shit about yourself. You were more worried about me losing my job. Where was your selfish fighting machine then?"

He stares at me, and for a moment, I see past the rage to something raw and wounded beneath.

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