Bishop watched the city from the rooftop of a shuttered hotel, wind raking across his suit. Below, Chicago flickered in dying streetlights and distant sirens—a chessboard soaked in grime.
He liked the view from up here. It gave him perspective.
In his hand, he turned a single piece over and over between his fingers: a white king.
"They're moving," Sienna said behind him. Her voice was calm, like it always was. Efficient. Unafraid.
"I know," Bishop said. "Leon's already passed the message. Aaron's awake. And Matt… poor Matt."
He smiled.
"You think they'll come at you all at once?" Sienna asked.
"They'll have no choice. They're connected—pain does that to people. Trauma. It makes them loyal to the wrong things. Each other. Their guilt."
Sienna shifted beside him, brushing ash from her coat.
"You could've killed Matt," she said. "Instead, you let him crawl back broken."
Bishop's eyes gleamed. "I don't need them dead, Sienna. Not yet. I need them shattered. I want Aaron doubting himself. Matt thinking he's already lost. And Leon? I want him angry. Angry men make mistakes."
"And when they stop making mistakes?"
Bishop turned.
"Then I burn them," he said.
He held up the white king and let it fall.
It tumbled from the rooftop, lost in the dark.
Just like the rest of them soon would be.