Page 101 of Corrupt

Fuck.

He had his wrists wrenched back behind him. Ankles cuffed. Shirt hung torn at the collar, fabric darkened with sweat and blood. One side of his face was swollen, skin pulled tight and angry, a split at the corner of his mouth crusted black. When he lifted his head at the sound of my footsteps, relief flashed across his face so fast it almost knocked the breath out of me.

Until I saw the floor.

Where a plastic mat had been laid out, edges taped down to the concrete. On it lay a man. On his side, limbs twisted at the wrong angles, one arm bent beneath him as if folded there by accident. His face, Christ, what was left of it was turned towards the floor, cheek flattened, features swollen and broken beyond distinction. Blood pooled beneath his head, thick and dark, already beginning to congeal, the mat doing exactly what it was there to do.

Dead.

A low, wet smell hung in the air, iron-heavy and nauseating, and I realised distantly that I was breathing through my mouth to stop retching.

Doyle crouched beside the body, methodically wiping down a length of metal with a cloth already soaked through. The tray next to him held other implements, neatly arranged, wiped clean of anything visible but not of their purpose. He looked up at me and smiled.

Jesus.

Fucking.

Christ.

Cormac stood a few feet away, immaculate as ever. Coat still on despite the scorching heat. Hands tucked into his pockets as if he were waiting for a late arrival at a private function. He might as well have been in a boardroom for all the emotion he showed. Doyle rose to his feet behind him, folding his arms, content to let the evidence of his work speak for itself.

Cormac met my gaze and smiled. “Good lad. Knew you wouldn’t keep me waiting.”

I didn’t look at Tyler. If I did, I’d hesitate. And that was a luxury I didn’t have.

“What’s he done?” I kept my voice steady. Detached. Razor’s voice.

Cormac sighed, disappointed I’d made him spell it out. “Your boy took an order he wasn’t authorised to take. Used your name, too. Moved my product without clearance.”

“That’s on me.” The words were automatic. Reflex. Street instinct hard-wired deep. I didn’t hand my people over. Not ever. Didn’t matter how high I climbed or how clean my suits got, my rules didn’t change. I protected my crew. If someone had to bleed for something, it was me. “I wasn’t available.”

Cormac’s eyes snapped to mine, sharp as a blade finding its mark. “Exactly.” He stepped closer, boots echoing in the open space. “If you’re not available, Razor, then your people start making decisions. And when your people make decisions, I start wondering who’s actually in charge.” He gestured with his chin towards Tyler. “Is he in charge?”

“No.”

“So he’s a problem. Your problem.” Cormac gestured vaguely at the corpse, as if it were an item on an agenda. “Same as he was. But we handled that one for you so you could have your nice weekend away.”

Behind him, Doyle finished wiping down the knife. Slow. Thorough. He set it neatly back on the tray. That was when it hit me. The shape of the body. The jacket. The trainers. Kyan. Fuck. Kyan had started on my line years back. Street runner. Reliable. Kept his head down. Tyler had pushed for him to move up. Errands, collections, nothing big. A reward for loyalty. I felt it in my knees before I felt it anywhere else. A brief, vicious buckling, like the floor had dipped.

“I don’t care how you handle it.” Cormac’s voice stayed calm. Almost bored. “But it needs handling. Now. So I know you’re still the man I put there.”

I understood then. This wasn’t about Tyler. It was about me.

If I refused, Cormac would nod once, and Doyle would step forward, and Tyler would leave here broken beyond repair. Or not leave at all. And I’d be next. But if I complied… I’d live. Tyler might too. And Cormac would know exactly how far he could push me.

I looked at Tyler then.

Fear sat heavy in his eyes, thick and wet, but threaded through it was worse. Trust. Stupid. Misplaced. And he shook his head once, barely there. A plea. Or absolution. I didn’t know which cut deeper.

“I fucked up,” he rasped. “I thought—”

“Shut your fucking cunt mouth.” Cormac stepped forward, pointing at Tyler as if he might grind him under his shoe. “This isn’t your conversation.” He turned back to me. Calm again. Assessing. Then angled his head. “Go on.”

My chest folded in on itself, the last soft piece collapsing inward. The part Tristan had touched mere hours ago, coaxed open under warm water and steady hands. I shoved it down. Locked it away. There was no room for Rich here. Only Razor survived rooms like this. So I stepped forward, close enough to feel the heat coming off Tyler. Fear, sharp and sour. The copper tang of blood on his lip. I leant in enough so he could hear my breath, feel my presence, know this wasn’t Doyle, wasn’t Cormac.

It was me.

I hit him.