Chapter 1: Midnight Hunger
I rub my eyes as I wake up. Peyton is curled up next to me, her head resting on my chest. My fingers drift through Peyton’s hair while she sleeps beside me, the strands soft and warm against my hand. I twist a lock around my fingers and slowly pull it to the side, exposing the back of her neck.
There it is.
The mark.
My thumb brushes the skin just below her hairline and I trace the lines I already know by heart.
The butterfly spreads across the nape of her neck, its wings dark and detailed, each spot and vein inked with precision. It looks delicate at first glance—something fragile, something beautiful.
But the blade that pierces through it tells the truth.
An ornate dagger runs straight down the center of the butterfly, the steel carved with intricate patterns, the handle crowned like a relic from another age. Beneath it sits the sheath, angled across it, the two forming an X across her skin. The metal looks sharp enough to cut just by looking at it.
A butterfly and a blade.
Grace and violence.
Transformation and death.
Most people would see art.
I see identification.
My finger traces the edge of the wing slowly, then slides down the engraved spine of the dagger. The skin there is warm under my touch, the ink slightly raised beneath my fingertip.
Quinn.
Not a rank you announce.
Not a name you say out loud.
Just a mark.
Just a signal.
Just a quiet confirmation to the people who know how to read the deck.
I shift closer behind her, letting my finger follow the dagger down to its tip before resting my hand flat against the back of her neck.
Anyone else would think it’s just a tattoo.
But in our world…
It’s a crown.
A reminder that some things look delicate right up until the moment they change everything.
My hand still rests against the back of Peyton’s neck when the thought drifts to the back of my own.
Ink recognizes ink.
I shift slightly in the bed, reaching back and rubbing the place beneath my hairline where the lines sit carved into my skin. The motion is instinct now, like checking for a weapon that never leaves your side.
Mine isn’t delicate.
There’s no butterfly.
No illusion of softness.
Just the dagger.
It runs straight down the center of my neck, long and narrow, the blade etched with the same intricate patterns you’d see on a ceremonial weapon. The pommel sits just beneath my hairline, heavy with detail, the guard flaring out slightly before the blade narrows into a sharp, deliberate point.
Behind it sits the sheath.
Crossed.
The dagger and sheath forming an X across the back of my neck.
A mark most people would assume is just another piece of ink.
But the people who know the deck… they read it differently.
My finger traces the handle slowly, feeling the raised edges of the lines.
The sheath means the blade has a place.
The dagger means it comes out.
And the way they cross…
That’s the identifier.
FCJ.
Full Colored Joker.
Not a local.
Just tied to a district.
Los Angeles.
We belong to the system.
I let my hand fall from my neck and glance back at Peyton, my fingers brushing her hair aside again just long enough to see the butterfly and blade beneath it.
Quinn.
Different mark.
Different role.
Same deck.
Same war.
Two tattoos sitting in the quiet of the room, hidden beneath hair and skin…waiting for the moment the world needs to remember what they mean.
A reminder that death doesn’t gamble— it deals.
Every Joker has a sort of id card on the back of their neck just different suits and different tools identifying what role they take in the system.
I look over at the clock. It reads 4:30 am. I look back down at Peyton and graze my fingers down her bear back. She stirs slightly and nuzzles into my chest. I feel the warmth of her breath against my skin.
This past year, Peyton and I have gotten closer. She isn’t just my friend anymore. She’s my everything. I’m not sure when it happened, but somewhere along the way she became my reason to breathe. My peace. My anchor.
I used to think nothing could thaw my frozen heart. But Peyton… she’s like sunlight breaking through winter. She doesn’t fix me—she sees me. She doesn’t demand I change—she accepts me.
I lift her up slightly and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. She stirs and wraps her arm around my waist as she whispers. “J?”
I look back at her and play with her hair. “I’m right here, Peyton.”
She doesn’t say anything else just kisses my lower back and moves her thumb over my naval. I grab her hand and kiss it before standing up and stretching. The large scar on my side, a reminder of the life I’ve chosen, stretches with me.
Peyton and I have been with the jokers for a year now. My scar is from my third job. I was careless and paid for it. I was alone and was determined to complete the job, so I duct taped myself closed and finished the job. When I came back to the warehouse, I was in bad shape. Peyton almost finished me off, she was so pissed.
C and F had a hell of a time fixing me up. But I made it.
I walk over to my bathroom and brush my teeth and wash my face. I look in the mirror and stare. When I used to look in the mirror, I saw a broken man. But now, I see a man who is void of emotions, but is still alive. I see a man who is still standing.
I walk out of the bathroom and pull on a pair of sweat pants. Walking over to Peyton, I kiss her temple and walk out of the room. I take the elevator to the office floor.
The doors open and I walk through. C is already at the counter with a cup of coffee in his hand. I walk over and take the coffee from him and drink it. He just shakes his head. I pat his cheek and pour him a new cup. He takes it from me as I sit next to him.
C is usually in Miami, but all of the Jokers come to Detroit for the monthly meeting.
He slides a black file in front of me. I take another sip of my coffee and open it. My eyes landing on the card clipped to the corner. Burnt orange. Potential recruit . I flip the card up and read the name at the top of the page. Bo Thompson. I read through the file. Ex marine. Special ops. Currently employed with a human trafficker. Flipping to the next page, I see a picture of him. Fit, black hair, brown eyes. His employer has put a target on his back. Thinks he’s the reason for some of his girls escaping.
I close the file and slide it back to C. “I’ll scope him out.”
C nods. “He’s been in the lower east side. Peter requested a meeting with him this afternoon.”
Peter is Bo’s current employer and a major human trafficker. I rub my jaw. “Perfect. We know how that’s going to go.”
C chuckles. “Yeah, we do.”
Bo will be my recruit. Miami and Detroit are full. LA is the only district that needs to be filled. There are eighteen jokers per district. We have thirty-seven jokers in total right now. The goal is fifty-four. I’ll be running the LA district with Peyton. We’ll have to recruit sixteen more jokers for our district.
I stand up and put my cup in the sink and turn to face C as I cross my arms over my chest and ask. “Have you heard from him?”
C knows I’m asking about F. There are periods of time where F goes awol. It’s a pain in our asses when he does, but there’s nothing we can do about it.
C sighs. “Just a daily check in. But Loki said she got a message from Naylor he’s headed back. You know Naylor and Malachi stay close to him. I’m worried that he didn't say "him and Malachi.”” he stirs his cup of coffee.
I rub my jaw. “Fuck.” I turn and grab an apple from the bowl on the counter and take a bite. “Thought I’d mention, Alex screwed the pooch on his last job.”
C looks at me. “I saw. F has never had this problem before. He's most likely going to send a message. He'll ask you to help. Show the jokers they treat you equal to us.”
I nod. “I think the little prick has authority issues.”
Alex’s last target was a petty drug dealer. The job was simple. Find and eliminate. Alex was being friendly with the target. This not only puts him on the chopping block, but it puts his mopper Conner at risk.
Sweepers and moppers are a paird team. One exterm to another extrem. They balance eachother.
By mine and C's experiences with F's switch that's one way to switch them.
If Alex were under my district I would have put a bullet in his head the second I saw the exchange, but he’s not. None of our current jokers are under my district, so I don’t hand out punishments. I can’t. It’s not my place.
I’m also not F. Alex is under F’s district and this is the first time anyone has ever messed up like this. To teach the flock, you must show them the consequences. Send a message. Make them understand the cost of their actions.
C sighs and looks to the elevators. The elevator dings and both our hearts skip. Only Naylor comes through the door. C acknowledges Naylor then turns to me. “I'm going to go wake up Violet.” He says standing from the stool and pats my shoulder.
Walking away he greets some jokers at the elevator before riding it up to his room.
Naylor walks over to me and takes a seat on the stool next to me. I pat his shoulder. “Hey.”
Naylor rubs the back of his head and down his neck. “Hey.” He says. He sighs and rubs his jaw as I pour him a cup of coffee.
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Where’s Malachi?”
Naylor shakes his head. “Not sure. He went with F after Puerto Rico. F didn’t say where.” Naylor says, taking a sip of his coffee, trying to keep his mind off of it.
I pat his shoulder and stand up. “Alright.” I rake my hair back. “I’m going to go eat some breakfast.” I toss my apple in the trash.
Naylor smirks and says, “Tell Peyton, I said hi.”
I salute him with two fingers and make my way to the elevator. The doors open and I walk in, pushing the penthouse floor. The doors close and I lean back against the wall. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. The door dings and I open my eyes as I step off the elevator. I walk into my room. Peyton is lying on the bed spread out.
I bite my lip and walk over to her. I climb onto the bed and crawl over her. She’s asleep, but I plan to wake her up. I bow my head and take her nipple between my teeth. She moans in her sleep and I bite down gently. I move to the other one and bite it too.
Her eyes fluttered open, a soft gasp escaping her lips as the sensation pulled her from sleep. “Jayden,” she breathed, her voice husky with dreams.
I didn’t answer with words. My mouth trailed down the flat plane of her stomach, my hands sliding under her hips to lift her slightly. The scent of her skin, sleep-warm and sweet, filled my senses. I kissed the inside of her thigh, feeling the muscle tense under my lips.
“Wait,” she murmured, her fingers threading into my hair. Not to push me away, but to hold me there.
I looked up, meeting her heavy-lidded gaze. The amber lamp light caught the gold in her eyes. “You tell me to stop, I stop.” My voice was rough.
She shook her head, a slow, deliberate motion. “Don’t you dare.”
A smile tugged at my lips. I bowed my head again, my breath hot against her. She was already wet, the scent of her arousal sharp and intoxicating. I dragged my tongue through her slowly, savoring the taste, the soft, shuddering cry it drew from her. Her hips rolled instinctively, seeking more pressure.
I gave it to her. My mouth found her clit, and I suckled gently, then harder, following the rhythm of her breathing as it grew ragged. One of my hands remained firm on her hip, holding her still, while the other moved between her legs, fingers slipping inside her. She was tight, clenching around me immediately.
“God, J,” she choked out, her back arching off the sheets.
I fucked her with my fingers, slow and deep, my mouth never leaving her. Her thighs trembled against my ears. I could feel the tension coiling in her, a spring wound tight. Her pleas became a broken stream of my name, curses, half-formed words. I pushed her, relentless, until her whole body stiffened and a sharp, keening sound tore from her throat as she came, pulsing around my fingers.
I didn’t let up, licking her through the aftershocks until her hands pushed weakly at my shoulders, overstimulated and sensitive.
Before she could come down completely, I moved over her, lining myself up. I pushed inside her in one smooth, deep stroke. She gasped, her nails digging into my shoulders, her legs wrapping around my waist to pull me deeper still.
I set a punishing pace from the start, each thrust hitting a spot that made her eyes roll back. The headboard knocked a dull rhythm against the wall, matching the slap of skin on skin. Sweat slicked our bodies, the air thick with the sounds of us.
Her cries were muffled against my shoulder, then my mouth when I crushed my lips to hers. I could taste myself on her tongue. The control I wielded all day, in every other part of my life, was gone here. It was just this: heat, friction, the desperate need to be so deep inside her I’d never find my way out.
Her heels pressed into the small of my back, urging me on. “More,” she demanded, her voice fractured.
I obliged, driving into her harder, faster. The world narrowed to the place where we were joined, to the flushed skin of her throat under my lips, to the animal sounds we were both making. My own release built, a white-hot pressure at the base of my spine. I reached between us, my thumb finding her clit again, circling roughly.
She came a second time with a shattered scream, her body seizing around me so tightly it ripped my own orgasm from me. I buried my face in the crook of her neck, groaning as I spilled into her, my thrusts turning erratic and then slow, until I finally stilled, spent and breathing like I’d just run for miles.
We lay there, tangled and damp, the only sound our ragged breaths slowly returning to normal. The vinyl had finished; the room was silent except for the hum of the city outside. I rolled onto my side, pulling her with me, her back to my chest. My lips brushed the inked butterfly on her neck.
Her hand found mine, our fingers lacing together over her stomach. No words. None were needed. The chaos outside, the weight of the dagger on my skin, the pending meeting with a marked man—it all receded, leaving only the peace of this room, this woman, this fragile, temporary silence.