Chapter 5: Scars and Spectacle

Stepping outside, I found Mason kneeling shirtless in the patchy grass. The morning sun painted every scar on his back, old and new, a map of every fight and deployment. Mason’s scars stood out in the sunlight, each one a pale story against the red stripes—living proof that he’d survived more than just bad decisions. It was impossible not to notice—the guy looked carved out of stone, battered but unbowed. Red welts crisscrossed his skin, the blood not yet dried from fresh punishment.

It was a clever play. By making a spectacle of himself, Mason forced my hand; no way I could punish him further without looking cruel. He'd gamed the system, just like every survivor does.

Lewis, sensing my anger, bellowed at Mason: "You punk! The officer’s being generous and won’t hold it against you. Hurry up and apologize!"

Mason hadn’t looked up since I came out, his forehead pressed to the ground, silent as a stone. At Lewis’s command, he raised his head slowly. There was something in his eyes—defiance, maybe, or stubborn pride—that made my lips twitch despite myself.

He wasn’t like the Carter boys from the Gold Coast—those guys wore their privilege like cologne. Mason looked like he’d fought for every breath. His skin was tanned, not dark, and the scars added to his presence, like stories he carried for everyone to see.

But the more handsome he was, the more he pissed me off.

"Next time I’ll use more force, so you can sleep a few more days." Mason’s grin was all teeth, cocky as hell.

"You’re unbelievable." I tightened my grip on the sword hilt, the urge to wipe the smirk off his face nearly overwhelming.

Lewis moved fast, whipping his belt and snapping it against Mason’s shoulder with a curse. It sounded dramatic, but it barely left a mark.

I almost laughed. If this was frontier justice, it was half theater, half threat.

Me: "..."