Page 52 of Claim

Which meant he wasn’t a defendant anymore.

He was prey.

And that led neatly to the second problem: if he was prey, I couldn’t be seen with him. And if I wasn’t seen with him, I’d never forgive myself. Darren was Keeley’s kid’s dad. My niece’s father. Responsibility I hadn’t asked for and couldn’t walk away from. It didn’t matter that he was a fuck-up. Didn’t matter that this was his mess. I wasn’t letting something happen to him while I watched. Which meant association. Attention. And that this move, this operational reshuffle, also wasn’t a coincidence.

Someone, somewhere, was having a right laugh at my expense.

I took my tea and toast and crossed the room. Then I slid my tray down opposite him, the scrape of plastic on metal loud enough to make him look up. And he just about shit himself.

“Fuck.” He leant back hard, staring at me as if I was a ghost.

Ironic.

“Darren.”

Up close, he looked worse. Old cuts stitched badly around one eye. Cheeks hollowed out, skin pulled tight over bone. He hadn’t had a single easy day in here.

“You look like shit.” I slurped a mouthful of tea. Lukewarm. Weak.

“You don’t exactly look pampered yourself.”

I snorted. “Still got that mouth.”

He didn’t smile. He glanced sideways again, nerves humming under his skin, then back to me. “You might wanna do yourself a favour and fuck off.”

“Why’s that?” I bit into the toast. Barely buttered. Dry as dust.

“They think I’m talking.”

I looked at him properly. “Are you?”

“No.”

“Then you shouldn’t be worried.”

He let out a breath that shook on the way out. Half laugh. Half panic. “That’s not how it works in here.”

No, it wasn’t.

This place ran on pressure. Same as the street. Same rules, just fewer exits. Walls instead of pavements. And everyone—everyone—answered to someone. Which meant this wasn’t random. It wasn’t lads on a wing getting bored. Someone on the outside had decided Darren needed reminding who still owned him. Who was still watching. Who could still reach inside these walls and touch whatever they liked.

Could be Cormac.

Could be someone else, sure. But Cormac was the one who played chess. Who moved people instead of pieces. Who liked messages delivered in flesh.

But like I’d said before: I wasn’t chess.

I was muscle.

Across the room, someone laughed. Too loud. Too timed. A sound meant to be heard. I felt the usual shift, then. Not noise. Attention. Bodies angling without moving. Conversations thinning. The wing leaning in. They weren’t surprised to see me.

They’d been waiting.

A chair scraped. One man stood. Then another. Big lads. Easy in their skin. They didn’t hurry because nothing in here made them. The one who’d clipped Darren earlier was with them. His eyes stayed on me. Smile lazy. Measuring. I didn’t look away.

Darren sat rigid, both hands locked around his mug. I could see what was happening in him. He was counting breaths. Wondering how long he could sit before someone made him stand. How quickly this would turn.

“Fuck off, Razor,” he said under his breath. “You being here makes it worse.”