What happened next lasted less than twenty seconds. Brock didn’t win—he was outnumbered, out-weaponed, and old. But he made sure that Harlow would eat through a straw for six months, that Chavo would carry a scar across his ribs like a signature, and that Dunleavy—the kid who froze, who didn’t stab when he had the chance—would watch Brock fall to his knees, bleeding from a gash in his side, and whisper: “Take the notebook. Burn it. But the letter… the letter goes to Miriam Haig. Tell her the last line of the sparrow poem was wrong. Change ‘pneumatic hiss’ to ‘the world’s indifferent kiss.’”

That was the problem.

“I’ll give you the notebook,” Brock said quietly. “But the letter stays.”