Page 8 of Brox Boar

“Understood.” He nods once and heads out, steps fading down the hall.

The door clicks behind him.

“I’m not waiting,” Rio says. “She drugged her and dragged her out of here.”

“You don’t think I saw that?” My molars grind.

“Then move.”

I take the first step toward the door instead of shifting aside. “I’ll go in first. You stay behind me until I say otherwise.”

He laughs, low and bitter. “You think you can hold me back?”

“I know I can put a bullet through your foot if I have to.”

That gets a flicker in his eyes. Not humor. Recognition. I mean it.

“Brox–”

“We need her talking,” I say, pushing forward. “Morales is the only one who knows where Lana is right now. You kill her, you cut our last line of information.”

The word “kill” spears straight through the air between us. Rio’s fingers tighten around the gun.

“Thirty seconds,” I say. “Give me thirty seconds to get something out of her. After that, she goes down.”

His eyes flare, dark and vicious. He doesn’t believe he can wait that long. He doesn’t trust himself. I don’t trust him either.

Still, he jerks his chin once. “Fine. Thirty.”

I open the office door, and both of us head out. The metal staircase echoes under our boots. Rio’s cell rings again in his hand. He glances down, doesn’t bother to read the screen, just presses ‘reject’ and shoves it into his pocket.

We enter the Black Chamber, and walk through it, heading for the basement. Upon reaching the door to the stairwell, I push it, and it opens with a groan. I take the first step down.

The light changes on the descent. Down here, it’s much colder. Harsher. The air that uplifts in the Black Chamber is not present here. We made it like this, so the pets know what they get in the Black Chamber is worth getting addicted to.

My hand slides along the rail. I picture Lana’s pulse under Morales’ fingers. The emptiness in Lana’s eyes.

“Drugged,” Rio mutters behind me. “She drugged her here. In our house.”

I ignore him, whatever I say will only rile him more.

“I swear it, Brox. If she’s already dead-”

“No,” My voice comes out iron. “She isn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Dr. Morales cares more about results.”

We descend one level down, turn at the landing and take the deeper stairwell. The air shifts again. Colder. Cleaner. The lighting drops slightly, the fixtures recessed, functional, bright enough to show every inch of these lines of corridor. Gray walls, steel doors every few meters, each with a code panel and a small viewing window. Some lead to the kennel, cages dressed up as private apartments for the pets. Others open into plain cells reserved for punishment or overflow.

Soft sounds float from behind the doors. A female laugh, a muttered voice, the faint drag of music from someone’s private speaker. Our pets know these walls. They understand the trade they have made: security and pleasure for surrender and rules.

Rio strides slightly ahead now. He knows this layout blind. Left at the first junction, then right past the shower rooms, then straight toward the metal-fronted door that leads into Morales’ main space.

Rio’s cell vibrates again. He doesn’t look at it. He doesn’t even touch it.

I reach out and press my hand flat against his shoulder, just for a heartbeat. “Remember thirty seconds.”