Page 73 of Torgash

I stand motionless in my kitchen, coffee cooling, phone clutched tight. The evidence wall stares back at me—six years of work, leads that went nowhere, a system that failed my sister at every turn.

Ash fixed it. Without telling me. Without asking. Derek Sullivan will go to prison because of what Ash gave up.

Just like he promised in my bed three months ago: I'll help you get justice. Even if you hate me for it.

I throw the coffee mug against the wall. It shatters, dark liquid splattering across crime scene photos like arterial spray.

Six years. Six years of carrying Carman's death, fighting a system designed to forget victims like her, promising her grave that someone would pay.

And he took that from me, too.

Except... he didn't. He gave Carman justice. Got me the outcome I'd fought for and failed to achieve on my own.

I grab my laptop, fingers moving before my brain processes the decision. Flight to New York, one way, leaves in three hours.

I don't pack. Don't plan. Don't think beyond the urgent need to stand in front of him and demand answers. To understand why, after everything, he would do this and then disappear without a word.

To ask the question that's been burning in my chest since Hammer spoke his name: What exactly did Ash give up to get my sister justice?

And what the hell am I supposed to do with that?

New York doesn't care that I'm running on zero sleep and pure adrenaline. The city swallows me the moment I step off the plane. Another body in the crowd. Exactly how I've lived for three months.

Not anymore.

The cab driver gives me a side-eye when I tell him the address. "You sure about that, lady?"

"Just drive."

He shrugs, meter running as we crawl through late afternoon traffic. The New York chapter house sits in an industrial zone in Queens. Unmarked brick building with reinforced doors. Security cameras positioned at every angle. Different location, same setup as Shadow Ridge.

I pay the driver and step onto the sidewalk.

Two prospects guard the entrance—orcs with green skin and the tattoos that mark camp survivors. Their patches are newer,but their scars are just as deep as any full member's. They track my movement, hands shifting toward concealed weapons.

"I'm here to see Ash."

The taller one looks me over—jeans, boots, leather jacket, exhaustion I can't hide. "Nobody here by that name."

"Tell Hammer's VP that Nova Reyes is here. He'll see me."

Recognition shifts across their faces. Wariness. The smaller one disappears inside while his partner keeps steady watch on me, not hostile but ready. They know exactly who I am. And probably why I'm here.

My chest tightens. What am I doing? Flying across the country to confront an orc who... what? Fixed the thing that's been destroying me for longer than it should? Got justice for Carman when I couldn't?

Minutes drag. Finally, the door opens. Not Ash. An orc with shoulders like granite slabs and intricate tattoos wrapping around forearms thick as my thighs. Forest-green skin marked with scars from the camps, and a single gold ring piercing one tusk.

"Sheriff." His patch reads Road Captain. His name tape says Grinder. His tone doesn't leave room for argument.

"Not Sheriff anymore."

"Inside."

Grinder leads me through a common area where brothers pause mid-conversation to watch us pass. A dozen orcs scattered around - some playing cards, others nursing beers, one reading a newspaper. All with the unmistakable green skin that marks them as Ironborn. No hostility in their gazes, just curiosity. And something else. Respect, maybe. Or caution.

We reach a hallway lined with doors. Grinder stops at the last one, raps his knuckles against metal.

"What?" His voice is rough, distracted.

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