Chapter 25 — No Way Out
Matthew stood outside the old steel-paneled warehouse, its looming figure casting shadows under the moonlight. The message from Tom had been vague, but deliberate. "Meet me at 2nd and Grayson. Alone. We need to talk."
The irony wasn't lost on him. Tom, wanting to talk? After weeks of venom-laced glances and a cold war waged through half-truths and manipulations, suddenly deciding to meet up? Still, Matthew showed. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was rage that hadn't found an outlet. Or maybe, deep down, he already knew this wasn't about words.
His boots echoed over the cracked pavement as he pushed the side door open. Darkness welcomed him like an old friend. Inside, the air smelled like rust and dust, the silence thick enough to choke on.
"Tom?" he called, voice low but sharp.
Nothing.
He took a few steps in, eyes scanning the rows of empty crates and rusted steel beams. The place felt dead. Until it didn't.
The clang of a footstep. Then another. Then many.
Shadows stirred. From behind the crates. From the rafters. From every direction.
Five. No—seven men.
They stepped into the dim overhead light one by one, eyes cold, weapons in hand—pipes, bats, chains. Hired muscle. Not Tom's friends. Just brutes for hire.
And then, a voice from above.
"Still playing the hero, huh?" Tom's voice dripped like venom. He stood on the mezzanine, leaning over the railing with arms crossed and a smile too wide to be sane. "You should've stayed away, Matthew."
Matthew didn't answer. He didn't look up. He didn't even blink.
One of the men lunged.
The first blow came fast—a chain swung toward his head—but Matthew ducked, grabbing the attacker's wrist mid-air and slamming him face-first into a metal crate. Bone crunched. The guy crumpled without a sound.
The others moved in.
A pipe swung. Matthew sidestepped, fists landing hard against ribs. He spun, using the momentum to elbow another in the jaw. Blood splattered. A bat hit his back—he stumbled, gritted his teeth, turned and landed a brutal kick to the attacker's knee. The crack was loud.
Another came from behind. Matthew turned too slow—pain burst in his side as the chain coiled around his torso and yanked him back. Another punch caught him in the stomach. He gasped, coughing blood.
They circled him now. Like wolves.
Tom was laughing above, shouting something, but Matthew didn't hear him. All he saw was red.
He surged up, chain still wrapped around him, and headbutted the nearest man. Blood sprayed. He ripped the chain free, twisted it around his arm, and used it like a whip—slashing across the air, slicing skin.
One went down. Then another.
His knuckles split. His side ached. His nose bled.
But he didn't stop.
A scream. A bat clattered to the ground.
Another guy ran—coward. The others tried to follow, but Matthew caught one by the collar and drove his knee into his gut. Again. Again. Until he dropped.
Just one left now.
The biggest of them. Heavy. Fast. And smart enough to wait until Matthew was already bleeding.
He charged.
Matthew sidestepped just in time, but not fully—the man's shoulder slammed into him, throwing him into a stack of crates. Wood cracked. Pain exploded in his spine.
He rolled just before a pipe slammed where his head had been.
No time.
He grabbed a jagged piece of wood from the shattered crate and drove it into the attacker's thigh. A howl echoed through the warehouse. The man went down.
Matthew didn't hesitate—he pounced, landing blow after blow until his fists were slick with blood and his breathing came in ragged gasps.
Then—silence.
He stood alone.
Bodies around him groaned or didn't move at all. His vision swam, blood pouring from a cut above his eye. He turned slowly to look at the mezzanine.
Empty.
Tom was gone.
Coward.
Matthew staggered backward, breath catching in his throat. His shirt was torn, blood-soaked. His jaw throbbed. His body screamed.
But he was still standing.
And that was more than any of them could say.
He stumbled outside, hands shaking, blood dripping from his fingers as he gripped his phone. He didn't text. He didn't call. He just walked. Half-limping, half-dragging himself across empty streets, toward the only place that made any sense.
Vinny.
—
The knock at the door startled Vinny awake.
It was nearly 3AM. He stumbled out of bed, shirt hanging off one shoulder, annoyed and groggy—until he opened the door.
"Matthe—what the—?"
Matthew stood in front of him, bruised, bleeding, wild-eyed and silent.
His lip was busted. One eye was beginning to swell. Blood clung to his jaw, his hands, his clothes.
"Jesus Christ," Vinny whispered, stepping aside as Matthew all but collapsed into the doorway.
Matthew didn't say a word.
He didn't need to.
Vinny reached for him, touched his face gently—but Matthew flinched.
Still silent, he looked at Vinny. Not with fear. Not with pain. But something far worse.
He was holding something back. Holding it all in.
Vinny knew better than to ask.
So he just whispered, "Come in," and helped him inside.
Matthew didn't ask for help undressing, but Vinny helped anyway. Every bruise, every gash, every wince—it told a story that Matthew wouldn't. Not yet.
Blood stained Vinny's sheets as Matthew sat on the bed, shirtless and shaking.
"I'm gonna clean you up," Vinny said quietly, brushing a hand through Matthew's messy hair. "Okay?"
Matthew didn't answer. He just leaned forward slowly, forehead pressing against Vinny's stomach, eyes closed. Arms wrapped loosely around Vinny's waist.
The silence between them stretched. Heavy. Real.
Vinny didn't ask what happened. He didn't need to know—yet.
All that mattered now was that Matthew was here.
And still breathing.
And still his.