Page 29 of Corrupt

“It’s complicated. SOCPA covers a lot. Where did you hear it?”

“A hearing for someone who got bust in a raid eight months back.”

Ah. Fuck. One of his. I inhaled.

“That’s…” I paused, searching for the least explosive phrasing. “SOCPA is part of the Serious Organised Crime and Police Act.”

Razor’s frown deepened. “Once again, I need the explanation, not the dictionary definition I could have looked up on my phone.”

“It’s… a type of agreement. Or the possibility of one.”

“A possibility for what, exactly?”

The car suddenly felt too small. Too warm. Too close.

“A Section 74 reference means the prosecution is acknowledging that under the right circumstances, a defendant might provide assistance to law enforcement in exchange for a reduced sentence.”

Razor stared at me. “Kid’s flipping?”

“It doesn’t mean they are doing that. It doesn’t even mean discussions have happened. It just means the Crown wants the judge to know that option exists in this kind of case.”

“So…they’re… what? Offering a deal?”

“It’s not an offer. It’s a legal framework. It’s routine in some organised crime-related cases. The prosecution mentions it so the court is aware of all possible directions the case could go. Nothing more.”

He gripped the steering wheel. “But it means someone could talk.”

“It means the mechanism exists.”

He let out a jagged breath. Not quite a laugh, not quite despair, but dropped his head back against the rest with a thud. Then another. Another. As if trying to knock the thoughts clean out of his skull.

“I’m gonna guess that when they say the defendant is to be assessed for appropriate safeguarding arrangements, that means prison, yeah?” He looked at me. “No bail. No random visitors. Locked down.”

“Can do, yes. Controlled environment. Where they’ll be considered safer.”

He thudded his head again. “Fuck.” Another. “Fuck.” Another. “Fuck.”

Something inside me snapped. Instinct. Empathy. Madness. I didn’t know but whatever it was, it had me reaching out, sliding my hand behind his head, catching him before he hit the seat again.

He froze. Completely. Resting his head in my palm.

Then he dipped forward and I drifted my fingers down to the nape of his neck. I stroked. Once. Twice. Soft. Slow. And Razor, who started fights for fun, ruled alleyways and walked with a predator’s swagger, melted. Right under my touch. As if I’d found a switch he didn’t know he had.

He turned his head towards me.

And those eyes.

Christ.

They weren’t hard right then. They weren’t sharp. They were soft. Wide. Wounded. Puppy dog eyes. On a man who could break bones without thinking. That undid me. Because he’d just admitted he wanted access to someone the court was protecting and here I was, soothing him for it. Touching him as if it was the most natural thing in the world for me to do.

It wasn’t natural.

And it wasn’t safe.

Certainly wasn’t smart.

But it felt inevitable.