Chapter 49: Sparring Session
The "what comes next" arrived not with a bang, but with the familiar, grim scent of the basement gym. It had been weeks since the light sparring began, a gradual escalation from pad work to controlled, brutal exchanges. Leo and Maksim were gone for this. It was just the two of them now, under the flickering eye of a single camera.
The air was a solid thing, hot and damp with recycled breath and old sweat. Reese danced on the balls of his feet, his hands taped, his focus narrowed to the man circling him. Roman moved with a predatory economy, his own gloves looking like blackened anvils. The only sounds were the scuff of their shoes on the stained concrete and the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of the heavy bag Roman had been punishing earlier.
“You’re thinking,” Roman said, his voice a flat calm in the humid space. “Stop thinking. React.”
Reese feinted a jab. Roman didn’t bite. He just kept circling, a shark in shallow water. Reese’s right leg hummed a constant, low-grade complaint, a reminder he tried to breathe past. He’d gotten better. He could move, pivot, even take a shot on it. But the ghost of the injury was always there, a silent partner in the dance.
He saw an opening—a slight drop of Roman’s right shoulder. It was probably a trap. He took it anyway.
He launched a combination, a one-two followed by a sharp hook. Roman slipped the first two, his head moving an inch, no more. The hook caught him on the high part of the guard. A solid connection. A flicker of something—approval?—passed over Roman’s face.
Then Roman exploded forward.
Reese dodges a brutal hook from Roman, his footwork sharper but still favoring his left leg—he swayed back, the glove whistling past his jaw. The momentum took him to his stronger side, a natural retreat. It was the instinct Roman had been waiting for.
Roman feinted low, a drop of his shoulder that made Reese dip to protect his ribs. It was a fraction of a second, a bait taken.
Roman drove forward, not with a punch, but with a piston-like knee straight into the meat of Reese’s right thigh.
The impact was deafening in the quiet room. A bright, shocking star of pain burst from the old wound, radiating up his leg and locking his spine. His breath left him in a violent rush. His leg buckled, pure physics taking over.
Reese’s gasp echoes off the mats as he goes down hard. He hit the canvas back-first, the wind knocked out of him, his vision swimming with white static. The pain in his leg was a deep, nauseating throb.
Roman loomed over him, blotting out the harsh light. He wasn’t breathing hard. He placed a gloved hand on Reese’s heaving chest, not to help him up, but to pin him there. The weight of it was immense.
‘Better,’ Roman murmured, the word soft, almost intimate. He leaned down, the cold mask of his business face gone, replaced by a satisfied, primal smirk. ‘But still mine.’
He didn’t offer a hand. He simply grabbed Reese by the wrist and hauled him upright in one brutal motion. Reese’s leg almost gave way again, a firework of agony in his thigh, but Roman’s grip on his wrist was an iron tether, holding him suspended in a world of hurt.
Reese stood there, gulping air, sweat stinging his eyes. The taste of copper was in his mouth—he’d bitten his tongue. He looked at Roman, at the cool, assessing gaze studying him. The words ‘still mine’ hung in the air between them, not a romantic claim, but a statement of fact as cold and hard as the concrete floor.
Roman released his wrist. Reese swayed but kept his feet.
“Why?” Reese finally ground out, the word raw.
“Because you favored the left,” Roman said, turning away to peel off his gloves. “You’ve been compensating for weeks. Building a tell. An enemy would see it. I saw it.” He tossed the gloves onto a metal stool. They landed with a heavy thud. “You don’t get to have a weak side anymore. Not if you want to walk back into the world I’m going to give you.”
Reese stared at the dark, circular sweat mark Roman’s knee had left on his compression shorts, right over the furious, blooming ache in his muscle. It wasn’t malice. It was calibration. A ruthless, painful upgrade.
“So you re-injure it to prove a point?”
“I reminded it who it belongs to,” Roman corrected, picking up a towel. He threw it at Reese. It hit him in the chest. “Ice it. Twenty minutes. Then hit the bag for ten. Left side only.”
He left then, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving Reese alone in the buzzing silence. Reese lowered himself carefully onto the stool, every movement sending fresh spikes of pain through his leg. He pressed the cool towel against his thigh, his mind replaying the moment of impact over and over. The feint. The shift. The knee.
Still mine.
The words weren’t a cage. They were a brand. A receipt for the pain, the training, the reshaping. He had asked Roman who decided the shape. This was the answer. Every time Reese got back up, every time he threw another punch, he was deciding. But the mold—the anvil on which he was being hammered—that was Roman.
He sat until the sharpest edge of the pain dulled to a deep, hot ache. Then, gritting his teeth, he stood. He limped to the heavy bag, its leather scarred and dark. He set his feet, favouring his left, just as instructed.
He began to punch. Left jab. Left cross. Left hook. Each impact travelled up his arm, jolting his body, making his right leg scream in protest. He didn’t stop. The rhythm was terrible, lopsided, but it was his. Sweat dripped into his eyes. His breath sawed in his throat.
He wasn’t just hitting the bag. He was hitting the feint, the knee, the smirk, the words. He was hitting the phantom pain and the very real one. He was hitting the feeling of the canvas against his back. He was hitting the shape he was being forced into, and the shape he was choosing, blow by agonizing blow.
His knuckles were raw and singing by the time the ten minutes were up. He slumped against the bag, his forehead resting on the cool leather, his whole body trembling from the uneven strain. The door clicked open. Leo stood there with a bag of ice and a silent, appraising look.
“He told me to bring this,” Leo said, holding out the ice. “He also said to tell you ‘good.’ So. Good.”
Reese took the ice, pressing it to his throbbing thigh. The cold was a sharp, immediate relief that quickly morphed into its own kind of ache. He didn’t thank Leo. The man just nodded and left, his footsteps echoing in the stairwell.
Upstairs, the penthouse was quiet. Roman was in his study, the door slightly ajar. Reese stood under a scalding shower until his skin was pink and the water ran clear of sweat. He dressed in dark, soft clothes, his movements stiff. The bruise on his thigh was already a spectacular bloom of purple and red, a perfect imprint of Roman’s knee. He studied it in the mirror, tracing the edges with his fingers.
It was a receipt. A mark of belonging. He hated how something twisted inside him warmed at the sight.
The next afternoon, Roman tossed a black jacket at him. “We’re going out.”
No explanation. Reese caught the jacket, shrugged it on. It was tailored, expensive, and hid the holster under his arm perfectly. His hip ached as he moved, a fresh reminder of the gym floor. They descended to the garage where a nondescript sedan idled, a driver already behind the wheel. Reese slid into the back beside Roman.
REESE RESTARTS SHADOWING ROMAN WHILE ROMAN GOES ABOUT HIS BUSINESS, WHISPERING SNARKY REMARKS TO ONLY BE HEARD BY ROMAN, ENCOURAGING HIM IN PRIVATE, AND CALMING HIM WITH SOFT HANDS AND A SATISFIED SMILE AFTER HE ESCALATES TO TERRIFYING VIOLENCE.
The first stop was a garment district warehouse that smelled of damp wool and anxiety. A middle-aged man with sweating palms and a bad tie was explaining a discrepancy in a shipping ledger. Roman listened, his posture relaxed in a folding chair, his fingers steepled. The man’s voice grew higher, more desperate.
“He’s about to piss himself,” Reese murmured, his lips barely moving, the words only for Roman’s ear. “Might simplify the bookkeeping if he does.”
A muscle twitched near Roman’s jaw. He didn’t look at Reese. “The math is simple, Viktor. You are short. My product is gone. This is a subtraction problem.” His voice was calm, logical, and utterly devoid of mercy. “Where is the remainder?”
The man’s answer was a stammering mess of excuses about customs delays and unreliable crews. Roman let him talk himself into a corner. Then he stood, the chair scraping loudly on the concrete.
What happened next was methodical. It was not the explosive rage Reese had seen glimpses of. This was colder, a clinical release of pressure. Roman backhanded the man once, a sharp crack that dropped him to his knees. He didn’t shout. He just asked the same question again, quieter.
Reese watched from the shadows by the door, his body loose but ready. He saw the other two guards in the room tense, their hands hovering near their weapons. He shook his head once, a minute gesture. They stayed still.
When Roman finished, the man was sobbing, words tumbling out between broken teeth and blood. The missing product, a partner skimming, a debt to a rival outfit. Roman listened, then nodded to one of his men. “Clean it up. Find the partner.”
He turned and walked out, brushing invisible dust from his sleeves. Reese fell into step beside him, a half-pace behind. As they walked into the cooler air of the loading bay, Reese leaned in. “Efficient. Saved us all a boring afternoon of forensic accounting.”
Roman breathed out, a short, sharp sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Sentimentality is a tax on profits.”
The next stop was a club, all flashing lights and throbbing bass. They sat in a velvet-roped mezzanine overlooking a dance floor seething with bodies. A man with augmented cheeks and a too-tight suit brought a problem: a new distributor was cutting product, stirring unrest.
Roman swirled amber liquid in his glass, his eyes scanning the crowd below like he was watching bacteria multiply. “He thinks dilution is a business strategy,” Roman said, more to himself than to the man. “It’s a confession of weakness.”
“So show him the cost of weakness,” Reese said, low enough that only Roman could hear over the music. “Paint him a picture. In red.”
Roman glanced at him, his blue eyes reflecting the club’s neon. He didn’t smile. But something in his posture shifted, solidified. He gave a short, almost imperceptible nod to the man with the augmented cheeks. The man paled, then scurried away.
The final meeting was in a desolate parking garage by the docks. The smell of saltwater and rot hung heavy in the cold air. This was the big one. A supposed ally, a man named Dragovich, had made a play for a dockyard shipment. He stood flanked by four solid-looking guys, all trying to project calm.
Roman didn’t have many men with him. Just Reese and two others. It was a calculated show of confidence, or insanity.
Dragovich talked. He talked about shared history, market fluctuations, a simple misunderstanding. Roman let him talk. The more Dragovich spoke, the quieter the garage seemed to become, until his voice was the only sound, bouncing off the concrete pillars.
Then Roman moved.
It was fast. Brutal. A glass bottle shattered against Dragovich’s temple. One of Dragovich’s men went for a weapon; Roman’s man broke his arm with a sickening crunch. Reese watched, his hand resting lightly on the grip of his own gun, his eyes scanning the other three. He saw the moment their will broke. It was in the eyes, a flicker of animal fear.
Roman had Dragovich on the ground, a knee on his chest, a jagged shard of glass pressed to the soft pouch under his eye. “Misunderstanding?” Roman’s voice was a velvet-wrapped stone. “I understand perfectly. You thought I was soft. You thought the warehouse incident left me brittle.”
He pressed down. A trickle of blood welled up, vivid against pale skin. Dragovich whimpered, a high, pathetic sound.
Reese stepped forward then. Not to intervene, but to loom. He stood over Roman’s shoulder, his presence an additional weight. He looked down at Dragovich’s terrified face, then at Roman’s coiled, wrathful form. He placed a hand on Roman’s back, right between his shoulder blades. The muscles there were like steel cables.
“He gets it now,” Reese said, his voice calm, conversational, only for Roman. “Look at his eyes. He’s recalculating his entire life.”
Roman’s breathing was harsh, his focus absolute on the man beneath him. But he felt the touch. He felt the steady pressure of Reese’s hand, a tether to a different kind of control.
Slowly, the pressure of the glass shard lessened. Roman leaned down, his mouth close to Dragovich’s ear. He whispered something. Reese couldn’t hear it, but he saw Dragovich’s whole body go limp with terrified relief.
Roman stood up. He dropped the bloody glass. It clattered on the cement. He didn’t look at his men or at Dragovich’s terrified crew. He looked at his own hand, slick and red, then at Reese.
Reese met his gaze. He didn’t flinch from the violence shimmering there. Instead, a slow, satisfied smile touched his own lips. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a clean handkerchief, and offered it.
Roman took it, wiping his hand methodically. The handkerchief came away stained a deep, imperfect crimson. “The car,” he said, his voice now flat, drained of its killing heat.
The ride back was conducted in silence. The city lights streamed by, meaningless streaks of color. Roman stared out the window, his clean hand flexing on his knee. The other hand, the one he’d wiped, rested palm-up on his thigh. In the dim light, Reese could still see the dark flecks caught in the cuticles, under the nails.
Back in the penthouse, Roman went straight to the bar. He poured two fingers of whiskey, swallowed it in one go, and poured another. He stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back to the room, a silhouette against Gotham’s electric grid.
Reese shed his jacket, toeing off his shoes. He walked to the bar, poured a glass of water, and took it over. He stood beside Roman, not speaking, just offering the water. Roman glanced at it, then at him. He took the glass, set it on the sill untouched.
He held out his stained hand instead.
Reese took it. He turned it over in his own, examining the knuckles, the drying blood. He led Roman to the kitchen, to the sink. He turned on the warm water, held Roman’s hand under the stream. He used a soft cloth and unscented soap, working the lather over each finger, into the spaces between, under the nails. His touches were firm, deliberate, unhurried.
Roman watched him, his expression unreadable, the storm of his violence having passed, leaving a strange, electric calm.
“Dragovich will be loyal to the point of stupidity now,” Reese said, not looking up from his task. He rinsed the soap away, the water running pink then clear. “You didn’t just scare him. You reordered his universe. Made yourself the central god.”
He picked up a dry towel. He patted Roman’s hand dry, then lifted it. He pressed his lips, briefly, to the clean knuckles. A simple, possessive gesture. A closing of the circle.
Roman’s hand flexed in his grasp. His other hand came up, fingers threading into Reese’s short, choppy hair. He didn’t pull, just held him there for a moment, his thumb stroking the shaved side of Reese’s head.
“You,” Roman said, the single word heavy with something Reese couldn’t name, “are becoming invaluable.”
It wasn’t praise. It was a diagnosis. A categorization. Reese felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cool air of the penthouse. He looked up, meeting Roman’s piercing blue eyes. The satisfaction of the night, the rightness of his place at Roman’s side, curdled slightly in his gut.
Invaluable things were kept. They were also used, until they broke.
He didn’t let his smile falter. He leaned into the hand in his hair, his own satisfaction, his own complicity, a mirrored echo of Roman’s. “I know,” Reese said, his voice quiet in the vast, dark room.
He turned off the faucet. The silence that followed was complete, broken only by the distant sigh of the city below. Roman’s hand slid from his hair to cup his jaw, his thumb brushing the line of Reese’s cheekbone. It was a gesture of ownership so intimate it stole Reese’s breath.
“Tomorrow,” Roman said, his voice low, “you come with me to see about a new shipment. No gloves.”
Reese held his gaze, the unspoken meaning settling between them. The warehouse had been the taking away. This would be the bringing back in. He nodded once.
Later, in the dark of the bedroom, Reese lay staring at the ceiling. The phantom ache in his leg was gone, replaced by the deeper, more cellular memory of Roman’s hand in his hair, the feel of blood under his nails being washed away. He had soothed a monster, and the monster had called him invaluable. He touched the cool platinum of his collar, a habit now. The city’s lights painted faint, moving shadows across the walls.
Outside, a siren wailed, climbing then falling into the night. He listened until it faded into the general hum. His own breathing slowly matched the rhythm of Roman’s beside him. Sleep didn't come. He replayed the touch, the whisper, the smile he had given in that garage. He saw his own reflection in the dark window, a ghostly outline beside Roman's solid form. The shape he was choosing was becoming terrifyingly, irrevocably clear. It fit him perfectly.
The shape fit him perfectly, like a knife sliding into a well-worn sheath. He woke before dawn, the memory of Roman’s hand in his hair a phantom weight. The city outside the window was a silent, gray-scale study, holding its breath.
Roman was already in his study, the room lit by a single green-glass lamp. Maps and surveillance photos were spread across the dark wood, held down by an ashtray and a heavy, ivory-handled knife. He didn’t look up as Reese entered, padding barefoot across the cold floor.
“Sit,” Roman said, his finger tracing a line on a blueprint. It was City Hall.
Reese slid into the leather chair opposite the desk. He watched Roman work, the sharp focus in his eyes, the slight tension in his jaw. This wasn't a dockside beatdown or a warehouse shake. This was architecture.
“The Falcone family,” Roman began, still not looking up, “believes it owns the machinery of this city.” He tapped a photo of Mayor Aaron Hemming, a man with a photogenic smile and hollow eyes. “This is their prime lever. Their public face.”
He finally lifted his gaze. The green lamp light carved deep shadows under his cheekbones, making him look carved from stone. “I don’t want to break the lever. I want my hand on it.”
Reese leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “So we pry his fingers loose.”
“We replace the need.” Roman pushed a dossier toward him. It was thick, full of financials, schedules, habits. “Hemming is a creature of appetite. Vanity. A certain… aesthetic appreciation.”
Reese opened the file. He flipped past bank statements, schedules of fundraisers, property deeds. He stopped on a page detailing the mayor’s patronage of a gallery in the Diamond District. The works listed were bold, modern, violent. There were photos of Hemming at openings, his gaze lingering on young, androgynous artists.
He looked up at Roman. “You want me to be his new favorite work of art.”
A cold, approving smile touched Roman’s lips. “I want you to be the only thing he sees. His other… benefactors will find their operations inconvenient. Their men will become unreliable. Their money will develop a habit of disappearing.” He leaned back, steepling his fingers. “While Hemming is distracted by acquiring you, his old world will quietly crumble.”
Reese felt a strange detachment. He looked down at the photos of Hemming—his capped smile, his perfectly manicured hands. It was a job. A strategic infiltration. The fact that it involved his body was just another tool, like the knife on the desk.
“He likes them pretty and pointed,” Reese said, closing the file. “I can do pointed.”
“You’ll need to be more than pointed,” Roman said, his voice dropping. “You’ll need to be fascinating. A puzzle he believes only he can solve.”
The first encounter was engineered at the gallery opening. Reese wore a suit the color of a bruise, tailored sharp enough to draw blood. His hair was freshly cut, the blonde tips stark against the black. He held a glass of mineral water and stood in front of a painting of spiraling, fractured glass, looking like he belonged to it.
He felt Roman’s eyes on him from across the room, a physical pressure. He didn't acknowledge it.
Mayor Hemming appeared like a scent-driven hound, his security a loose, invisible perimeter. He smelled of citrus cologne and ambition. “A brutalist interpretation of trauma,” Hemming said, appearing at Reese’s shoulder. His voice was a polished murmur. “Or am I projecting?”
Reese took a slow sip of water before turning. He let his gaze travel over Hemming’s face, assessing, unimpressed. “It’s just broken glass,” Reese said, his tone flat. “The trauma is in the viewer. Maybe you see what you’re afraid of.”
Hemming’s smile tightened, then widened. Intrigued. “And what do you see?”
“A reflection,” Reese said, and finally met his eyes. “A fragmented one.”
He excused himself two minutes later, leaving the mayor watching him walk away.
“He’ll call the number I gave him within twenty-four hours,” Reese said later, dropping his keys on the penthouse console. Roman was by the window, a silhouette. “He spent the whole time staring at my collar.”
Roman was silent for a long moment. “What did he talk about?”
“Himself. His curated taste. The burdens of office.” Reese rolled his shoulders, shedding the jacket. “He uses words like ‘juxtaposition’ and ‘zeitgeist.’ It’s exhausting.”
A low sound came from Roman, almost a growl. “He touches you?”
“Not yet. He will.” Reese walked to the bar, poured two fingers of whiskey. He didn’t need to look to feel Roman’s stare burning into his back. “He’s the type who needs to believe it’s his idea. That he’s the seducer.”
He heard Roman move, the quiet sound of his footsteps on the rug. He didn’t turn until Roman was right behind him, his presence a wall of heat. Roman’s hand came up, fingers brushing the platinum collar at Reese’s throat.
“This stays on,” Roman said, his voice a rough gravel. It wasn’t a question.
“Of course it does,” Reese said, leaning back into the touch. He turned within the circle of Roman’s arms, facing him. The jealousy wasn’t loud or violent. It was a cold, hard tension in the air, in the tight line of Roman’s mouth. Reese understood it. This was his domain being scented by another dog.
He reached up, his hands coming to rest on Roman’s chest. “You think I want his boring, soft hands on me?” he murmured, his thumbs tracing the lines of Roman’s pectorals through the fine cloth. “He smells like a fucking department store. He talks about civic duty while his eyes are pricing the silverware.”
Roman’s hand tightened on the collar, a possessive anchor. “It’s necessary.”
“I know it is.” Reese pressed closer, his forehead coming to rest against Roman’s jaw. He could feel the pulse there, fast and strong. “He’s a means to an end. A tool. You’re the one who gets to use me.”
He said it plainly, a truth that lived in his bones. Roman’s care—the brutal retraining, the washing away of blood, the ownership—was the only kind of care that had ever made sense to him. It didn’t bend or break. It reshaped.
Roman’s breath shuddered out, the rigid line of his body softening incrementally. He buried his face in Reese’s hair, his other arm wrapping around his waist, pulling him in tight enough to ache. It was the only apology, the only acknowledgement he would ever give.
They stood like that for a long time, the city’s lights twinking silently below, a kingdom of shadows waiting for its crown.
The dismantling of Falcone’s operations began with a whisper, not a bang. A shipment of imported luxury cars was found submerged in the harbor, salt water corroding the leather interiors. A mid-level bookkeeper, a man with two kids in private school, vanished during his morning commute, leaving behind a briefcase full of doctored ledgers implicating his superiors.
Reese read about it in the paper over breakfast, stirring his coffee. “Creative,” he said, tapping the article about the cars.
Roman, scanning financial reports on a tablet, didn’t look up. “Wasteful. But dramatic. It sends a message about sunk costs.”
Reese’s phone buzzed. A text from a number he’d saved as ‘Gallery.’ The Renwick exhibit opens tonight. I’d value your perspective.
He showed the screen to Roman.
A muscle ticked in Roman’s jaw. He gave a single, curt nod.
The Renwick was all modern steel and glass, the art aggressively conceptual. Hemming found Reese beside a sculpture made of welded-together firearm parts. “It speaks to the inherent violence of our societal structures,” the mayor offered, placing a hand on the small of Reese’s back.
The touch was light, proprietary. Reese didn’t flinch. He let it sit there, a warm, unpleasant brand. “It speaks to a welder with a surplus of decommissioned rifles,” Reese replied, stepping away under the guise of examining another angle. He caught a flicker of frustration in Hemming’s eyes. Good. Frustration bred investment.
Later, in a dim corner of the rooftop bar, Hemming’s hand found his knee under the table. “You’re remarkably opaque, you know,” Hemming said, his thumb moving in a small circle. “Most people in this city are open books of need. You… you’re like a locked chest.”
Reese took a slow sip of his drink, letting the silence stretch. He looked out over the skyline, toward the part of the city where Roman was likely setting another piece of Falcone’s world on fire. He felt the mayor’s touch like a stain. “Maybe you don’t have the key,” Reese said, turning a cool gaze back to him.
Hemming’s smile was all teeth. “I enjoy a challenge.”
That night, Reese scrubbed himself raw in the shower. He stood under the scalding water until his skin was pink and steaming. He came out to find Roman waiting, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand, his eyes like chips of arctic ice.
“He touches you,” Roman stated.
“His hand. On my knee. Over the clothes.” Reese toweled his hair, avoiding the bed where Roman sat. “He talks about me like I’m a piece for his collection. He said I was ‘opaque.’” He spat the word out, a bitter taste.
Roman swirled the whiskey, watching the liquid cling to the glass. “And what did you say?”
“I told him he lacked the key.” Reese dropped the towel, standing naked and unselfconscious in the middle of the room. The bruises from the gym were fading, replaced by the invisible marks of Hemming’s attention. “He’s a child playing with a loaded gun. He thinks it’s a toy.”
Roman set his glass down with a sharp click. He crossed the room in three long strides, his hands coming up to frame Reese’s face. His grip was firm, almost painful. “You are not a toy.”
“I’m your weapon,” Reese corrected, his voice steady. He held Roman’s fierce gaze. “You pointed me at him. I’m just waiting for you to pull the trigger.”
The jealousy in Roman’s eyes didn’t fade, but it mutated, merging with a ferocious pride. He claimed Reese’s mouth in a hard, possessive kiss, a silent reassertion of boundaries. It was nothing like the mayor’s polished overtures. It was a brand.
When they broke apart, Reese was breathless. He rested his forehead against Roman’s, their breath mingling. “He’s invited me to a private dinner at his brownstone. Thursday.”
Roman’s hands slid down to his shoulders, his thumbs digging into the muscle. “Good.”
“I’ll have to wear a wire,” Reese said. It wasn’t a question.
“Of course.” Roman’s voice was dark velvet. “I want to hear every hollow word. Every pathetic attempt.”
Reese nodded, a strange calm settling over him. The path was clear. He would walk into the mayor’s gilded cage, let the door shut behind him, and record the sound of the lock clicking. And Roman would be listening, orchestrating the collapse of everything outside.