The silence that came after Mark's voice faded was a different kind of quiet. Not the kind that settled softly like snowfall. No. This was the kind that dug into your skin, seeped into your bones. A silence carved by betrayal, frustration, and a thousand unanswered questions.
I held the phone so tightly I thought the glass might crack in my hand.
His voice still echoed in my ears, polished and calculated, like a dagger wrapped in silk.
"I heard about what happened to Sienna. My condolences."
"And my apologies, Reynard, because I was the reason your identity was revealed."
The words hadn't faded. Not even a little.
"Mark," I growled. "You'd better explain."
On the other end, his breath caught just slightly. Then came that damnable laugh. Light, disarming, almost affectionate. It curdled my blood.
"You always are so direct. That's one of the things I like about you, Reynard."
"Alright, alright. No need to turn our little reunion into a shouting match." He exhaled, his tone laced with mock sympathy. "They figured it out. The World President. Somehow, he knew that I was aware of the identity of the Masked Syndicate members. Maybe a slip-up on my part, maybe surveillance seeing us together that night—who knows anymore. But once they suspected, they brought me in."
I didn't respond. I didn't care about his dramatics. I wanted the meat, the reason.
"I lied, of course," Mark continued. "Said I didn't know who the Masked Syndicate really was. Said that you were just a potential suspect that we were still investigating. But they didn't believe me. And, well... governments do what governments do best when they're desperate."
"You're telling me they tortured you."
"Oh yes," he said it as though he were commenting on a mild inconvenience. "Unimaginative methods, if I'm being honest. Fingers, electricity, a little drowning—but nothing original."
I didn't say a word. I didn't ask him if he was okay. Frankly, I didn't care. He was nothing more than a cracked cog in a corrupted machine. My mind was already three steps ahead.
"The World President," I muttered. "He figured it out."
Mark hummed. "Sharp as always."
"You know who he is." My tone wasn't a question.
A pause. A long, unsettling pause that thickened the air around me like tar.
"...Yes," Mark said softly.
The muscles in my jaw tightened. My knuckles turned white as my grip on the phone intensified.
Another pause. Longer. Colder.
Something in me shifted. The air in the room grew still, the walls closing in tighter.
Mark sighed—a sound so quiet it barely touched the edge of the receiver.
The word stabbed into my spine like a needle of ice.
"No?" I echoed, stunned.
Rage erupted in my chest like a volcano. My voice came out in a snarl. "If you actually mean it when you say you want to rule the world with me—if you meant any of the nonsense you've spouted that night on the bridge—then help me take him down. Just tell me his name, and I will burn—"
"Don't you dare," he snarled, interrupting me with a venom I hadn't heard from him in years. His playfulness vanished, replaced by a brittle edge that cracked through the call like thunder. "Don't pretend we're anything alike. I have no intentions of helping a bastard like you."
His words struck like a whip. My anger boiled over. "Mark—"
"Don't call me that!" he screamed, his voice raw and furious. "That is not my name!"
I blinked. His voice had never sounded so unhinged.
"I'm hanging up," he said sharply, the cold professionalism returning beneath the fury. "We both need to cool off."
The call ended before I could finish.
I stared at the screen, still lit with his name, my own reflection ghosting in the dark glass. The name stared back at me, cold and indifferent.
I was one step away from the truth.
The phone slipped from my hand, landing on the floor with a dull clack.
My breath grew shallow. My pulse raced, erratic. It felt like I was suffocating from inside.
I turned and drove my fist into the wall without thinking. The impact sent a shock of pain racing up my arm, but I didn't care. Cracks spiderwebbed out from the point of impact, dust crumbling onto the floor.
I stood there, chest heaving, knuckles bruised and bloody again. The skin split, reopened from earlier. I stared at the damage.
Another crack in the foundation.
Another reminder that I was losing control.
My thoughts were chaos—memories and failures, screams and dust. I leaned my forehead against the wall, breathing heavily.
That's all I needed. One name. And he wouldn't give it to me.
I waited there for a minute, maybe more. Let the anger thrum through my blood until it dulled. Until the rage couldn't carry me anymore.
Then I turned, wiping my bloodied knuckles on my pants.
I stepped out of the room.
The moment I did, I saw them.
Sienna and Camille were still on the couch, curled together beneath a shared blanket. Alexis was beside them, legs crossed, her glasses reflecting the soft blue light from her laptop. They all turned to look at me.
Their eyes scanned my face. My hands. My posture. Silent, worried.
Camille sat up slightly. "Rey... is everything alright?"
Sienna's gaze flickered to my bruised knuckles, her lips parting as if to speak. But she didn't.
Alexis looked ready to stand, but didn't.
I paused for a second too long.
Not a real smile. Not something warm or genuine. No.
It was the kind of smile that didn't reach the eyes. The kind that you practiced in mirrors and wore like a mask when everything inside you was unraveling. It felt stiff, alien on my face. A parody of joy. A warning sign in disguise.
"Everything's fine," I said, voice light, almost cheerful.
They didn't believe me. I could see it in the way their expressions twitched, the tension in their bodies. But none of them challenged me.
"I simply dropped something."
And with that, I walked past them.
Their eyes stayed on me the whole way. I could feel them like a weight on my back.
But none of them saw what had really shattered.
Because it wasn't the mug. Or the punching bag. Or the wall.
This smile was all I had left to offer.