The motel room smells like tomato soup and tension. Three hours since we took down the trafficker, and the kid—Jay—has barely spoken three words. Eliot's at the counter, stirring something in a crockpot that smells amazing despite the questionable kitchen setup. Parker's curled in the armchair like a cat, watching Jay with predatory intensity.

I shift awkwardly between them, the new member trying not to overstep. The official briefing said "routine extraction," not "acquire mysterious teenage torture apprentice with League of Assassins connections."

Jay sits rigidly in the wooden chair, bandaged hands resting on his knees. Those green-blue eyes track every movement, calculating, assessing. He's barely touched the grilled cheese Eliot made—probably the best meal he's had in weeks—but he won't let his guard down long enough to eat properly.

The silence stretches to five minutes and forty seconds before I realize he's counting it, just like he counted the seconds when we first brought him here. The bandages on his fingers shift slightly as he flexes his hands.

"So," I say, breaking the tension. Probably a mistake, but someone has to make the first move besides Parker, who's now started quietly listing random facts about safe-cracking.

Jay's eyes lock onto mine, immediately suspicious. "So what?" His voice is neutral, but there's a current beneath it—anger, maybe, or just exhaustion.

"Just making conversation," I say, keeping my voice casual. "You don't seem like the type who hangs out with torturers for fun."

His expression hardens. "You don't know what type I am."

"Then enlighten me," I challenge, matching his intensity. Eliot shoots me a warning look from the counter, but it's too late to back down now.

Jay stands suddenly, chair scraping against the floor. "I'm the type who doesn't need babysitters," he says, voice cold. "The type who knows how to survive when everyone else is either dead or trying to manipulate him."

Parker's out of her chair in a heartbeat, moving with that inhuman speed of hers. "We're not manipulating you," she says, blunt as always. "We're providing leverage."

"Leverage," Jay scoffs. "Right. And what's my leverage here? You've got me trapped in a motel room with three criminals and a newbie who thinks they can figure me out."

His gaze lands on me again, sharp and evaluating. "So what's your specialty, new kid? The muscle? The tech guy? Or are you here to be the good cop?"

Before I can respond, Eliot steps between us, soup spoon still in hand. "Enough. Sit down before I make you sit down."

Jay's jaw tightens, but he complies, slowly lowering himself back into the chair. His eyes never leave mine, though—a challenge, clear as day.

The question hangs in the air: whose side are you on, really?