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Chapter Title

Once upon a time, in a dimly lit study lined with ancient tomes...

“The past whispers to those who listen.”

Chapter One: The Illusion of Escape

The Velvet Room was a ghost now—burned-out neon, shattered glass, the kind of ruin that warned people away without words. Declan had seen places like it before—places where bodies fell and secrets stayed buried. But this time, it wasn’t someone else’s grave he was standing in. Milinah sat on the floor, pressing a rag to the wound at her side. The Seraphim’s bullet had grazed her, but the damage went deeper than skin. She wasn’t trembling—not yet—but her breathing was clipped, controlled. Declan had seen her fight through worse. He wasn’t stupid enough to remind her. "You gonna just stand there, Cross?" she muttered, glancing up at him through the dim light. "Or are you gonna fix the mess you got me into?" Declan exhaled, running a hand over his face. The ledger lay open on the crate beside him, its pages smudged with damp and blood. He hadn’t cracked it yet—not really. He knew the truth inside would bite, and his ribs already ached from Viktor’s last game of cat-and-mouse. Viktor Drachensturm. Always watching. Always waiting. The thing that ate at him wasn’t the chase. It was the silence. Viktor wasn’t pursuing them. No bullets, no breaking down doors, no Seraphim tightening the noose. Nothing. And that meant the real game hadn’t even started. Declan grabbed the threadbare medical kit from the shelf, kneeling beside Milinah. "Mess you into?" he echoed, tossing her a smirk. "Thought you were the one who said she could handle herself." She scoffed, taking the bottle of liquor from his hands and pouring it straight over the gash. She didn’t wince—not visibly. "Handling myself ain’t the problem. The problem is when you start thinking." Declan let that one slide. He focused on her wound instead, tightening the makeshift bandage. His hands were steady, but his mind was elsewhere—on the ledger, on Viktor, on the sudden quiet that felt more like a warning than a victory. "You notice something?" Milinah asked after a beat, voice lower now. Declan glanced at her. "Yeah." She shifted, adjusting her coat over her shoulders. "Then say it." He didn’t have to. They both knew. Viktor wasn’t chasing them. Viktor was guiding them. The thought landed heavier than the bruises across Declan’s ribs. Whatever was inside the ledger, whatever truth Celeste had left behind, Viktor wanted them to find it. He wasn’t stopping them. He was letting them think they were ahead, letting them believe they’d escaped. Milinah exhaled, shaking her head as she leaned back against the wall. "That bastard’s got a plan," she murmured. "And we’re walking right into it." Declan picked up the ledger, turning the page with careful fingers. The ink was smudged, the names blurred—but one detail stood out. A location. Not Blackwater Lagoon. Not the Velvet Room. A place neither of them had considered before. The Grand Marionette Theatre. Milinah let out a dry laugh, throwing an arm over her eyes. "You ever get tired of playing his damn games, Cross?" Declan closed the ledger, jaw tightening. "No." Because that was the thing with Viktor Drachensturm. His games only ended when he wanted them to. And this one? They had already lost.

The Grand Marionette Theatre: A Monument to Lies

The Grand Marionette Theatre was never meant to last.

It was built in 1926, a fever-dream project funded by men who never wanted their names attached to it. Designed as a decadent sanctuary for the city’s elite, the theatre catered to Sugar Bay’s most corrupt—politicians, industrialists, the kind of people who wore their vices in tailored suits. Behind the velvet curtain, deals were made, fortunes stolen, and lives bargained away under the guise of entertainment. By 1953, the place had rotted from the inside. Official records claimed it shuttered due to financial strain, but Sugar Bay knew the truth—someone got too greedy, someone promised too much, and the theatre became a graveyard for broken promises. It wasn’t abandoned. It was sealed. No one questioned why. The Grand Marionette still stood, looming on the edge of the city, untouched by time and yet crumbling in ways no one could explain. But Viktor Drachensturm? He knows exactly why it still exists. Viktor’s Design—The Strings No One Sees For Viktor, the theatre isn’t just a relic—it’s a stage, a place built for deception, where the walls themselves are steeped in manipulation. He lets Declan and Milinah find it, lets them believe they’ve stumbled onto something important. And maybe they have. Or maybe that’s exactly what Viktor wants them to believe. His manipulation here is surgical—there are whispers, old records that don’t add up, hints in the ledger that suggest the theatre holds something buried. But nothing definitive, nothing that outright says what. It’s just enough to draw them in. The Seraphim never owned the Grand Marionette. They inherited it. And Viktor? He knows how to make use of inheritance. Chapter Two: The Theatre of Doubt The Grand Marionette Theatre loomed ahead, drowning in layers of dust and forgotten stories. Declan took a slow breath, watching the fractured marquee letters tremble against the wind. The city had swallowed this place whole, erasing it from memory—but Viktor hadn’t forgotten. Milinah tightened her coat, stepping beside him. “I hate places like this.” Declan smirked, glancing at her. “Thought you liked ghosts.” She rolled her eyes. “Ghosts don’t lie. People do.” The doors were unlocked. Of course, they were. The moment they stepped inside, the scent hit—old velvet, whiskey, something faintly sweet, like the remnants of perfume that shouldn’t have lasted decades. The lobby stretched into darkness, chandeliers sagging overhead like bones stripped of their gold. Declan exhaled. “It’s been waiting.” Milinah shot him a look. “Don’t get poetic on me now.” They walked deeper, their footsteps swallowed by silence. The trap wasn’t physical. Not yet. It was in the way the air felt—thick with expectation, as if someone had been waiting for them to say the right words before pulling the strings. The stage was untouched, the red curtain hanging stiff with age. Rows of seats stretched ahead, empty except for the dust that had made its own audience over the years. At the center, a single chair stood beneath the glow of a chandelier that shouldn’t have been working. Declan knew better than to sit. Milinah crossed her arms, watching the setup like it was some elaborate joke only Viktor was laughing at. “He wants us to think this means something.” Declan walked toward the stage, running his fingers over the curtain’s edge. “It probably does.” She scoffed. “Don’t humor him.” A voice—a whisper against the back of his mind. “It’s not about humoring him. It’s about knowing the story before it’s told.” Viktor’s words. He had said them before. Declan clenched his jaw. The theatre wasn’t a clue. It was a mirror. Every step forward reflected something back at them—choices, consequences, moments they had tried to forget. Viktor had built the stage, but Declan and Milinah were the ones performing. Milinah’s voice softened. “You feel that?” Declan looked at her, watching the way she shifted, fingers twitching against her coat’s lining. She had felt it, too—the weight of something unseen, waiting, adjusting the scene around them. Milinah wasn’t afraid of the dark, but Viktor wasn’t just darkness. He was calculated silence. Declan stepped closer, pressing a hand to her arm—brief, grounding. She didn’t pull away. That was the problem. Strength or weakness? Viktor had to be laughing somewhere. Milinah inhaled, leveling her gaze. “He wants us to think we’re losing control.” Declan nodded. “Because we are.” The chair creaked—no wind, no movement. Just pressure shifting, unseen hands pulling invisible strings. Milinah swallowed. “You ever feel like we’re not supposed to win?” Declan let his fingers drift over hers, gripping just enough to remind her they hadn’t lost yet. Her voice was quieter now. “You think he knows?” He did. Viktor knew. Not just about Sugar Bay. Not just about the Seraphim. But about them. About the way Declan watched her like she was the only thing keeping him standing. About the way Milinah leaned into his presence, steady even when the ground wasn’t. Viktor knew exactly how deep that connection ran. And he was about to use it against them. Chapter Three: The Marionette’s Last Dance The chandelier flickered. Not from the wind—there was no wind here. Just silence, stretching between red velvet curtains and dust-heavy seats. The Grand Marionette Theatre didn’t belong to Sugar Bay. It belonged to whoever had the strongest grip on its strings. Tonight, that was Viktor Drachensturm. Declan knew before he saw him. The tension in Milinah’s shoulders, the sharpness in the air, the way the theatre itself seemed to breathe—it all pointed to a presence that had been waiting. Then came the voice. "You wear love like armor, Cross." Declan didn’t turn. He felt Viktor’s presence before the words even settled. Milinah was still. Not frozen, not afraid—just ready. "I wear it better than you," Declan shot back, keeping his stance loose, dangerous. A chuckle, smooth as whiskey poured slow. "You sure?" Viktor stepped into view like he had all the time in the world. He wore the theatre like a tailored suit, as if every inch of dust and forgotten echoes belonged to him. His smile was sharp. "See, love makes men reckless. Makes them stupid. Tell me, Cross, how stupid did it make you?" Declan exhaled slow, rolling his shoulders. “Depends. Did you plan this whole monologue, or are we doing improv?” Milinah smirked despite herself. Viktor’s gaze flicked to her, all calculated interest. “And you—such sharp wit, Milinah. You keep him standing. You make him whole." His voice dipped, dangerously smooth. “Did it ever occur to you that’s exactly why I let you think you were ahead?" She didn't flinch. "Oh, don't flatter yourself, sweetheart. I was ahead before you even started playing." Viktor laughed—an easy thing, like they were all friends playing cards. Then his hand twitched. The chandeliers shattered. Bullets screamed through the air—tight, precise, aimed to corner, not kill. Declan grabbed Milinah, dragging her behind the overturned row of seats. Gunfire followed. Controlled chaos. Not a massacre. A game. Declan fired twice, hitting the dark behind Viktor. No impact—just echoes, swallowed by velvet and dust. Viktor kept talking—because he could. Because he didn’t need a gun to win. “You think surviving this means you beat me,” Viktor mused, stepping slowly forward, the barrel of his pistol barely raised. "No, Cross. This isn’t survival. This is a stage, and you and Milinah? You’re performing just like I planned." Declan gritted his teeth. "That right?" "You love her." Viktor’s voice never rose—it didn’t have to. It pressed against Declan’s mind like something inevitable. "And that’s the easiest way to break a man. Because now, for the first time in your life, your survival isn't enough.” A second set of bullets slammed into the seats behind them. Milinah pulled a knife, eyes sharp. “We still standing, Cross?” Declan exhaled tight. “Just barely, sweetheart.” They moved—fast, cutting through the dark, ducking behind fallen set pieces and broken chandeliers. Viktor let them. Let them run. Because he knew where they’d go. The theatre had no exits. Not tonight. Milinah hissed between breaths. "He's winding us down. Wearing us thin before the real hit." Declan reloaded, jaw tight. "Then let's not make it easy." They twisted behind the stage, past decayed ropes and fallen props. The back wall was sealed, iron bolts rusted over. Viktor’s voice was closer now. "You think love makes you stronger, Cross?" Footsteps echoed between them, slow, deliberate. "No. It makes you predictable." Declan clenched his jaw. Viktor wasn’t killing them. He was holding them here. For what? The curtain fell—not by wind, not by accident. By design. Behind it? A door. A choice. A consequence. Milinah’s breathing slowed. “You feel that?” Declan nodded. It wasn’t over. It had just begun. Viktor wasn’t shooting to kill. He was inviting them deeper. And that was more terrifying than bullets. Chapter Four: The Devil’s Masquerade The door stood before them—a silent promise wrapped in shadow, framed by the crumbling elegance of forgotten history. It wasn’t just an exit. It was an invitation. Declan inhaled, watching the way Milinah shifted, her fingers grazing the handle without pulling it. They both knew better. Nothing in Viktor Drachensturm’s world opened by accident. Milinah kept her voice low. “This is too easy.” Declan tilted his head. “You afraid?” She smirked, eyes dark. “Of him? No. Of what’s on the other side?” Her fingers tightened around her knife. “Maybe.” The Grand Marionette Theatre wasn’t just a location. It was a performance—a stage designed for deception, where the walls held memories and the air whispered promises that couldn’t be trusted. And Viktor? He was the director. Declan pushed open the door. A Room That Shouldn’t Exist Inside, the world shifted. The air was wrong—thick, electric, humming with something unseen but undeniable. A single table sat in the center of the room. Atop it? A reel-to-reel player. Declan knew before even stepping forward. This wasn’t a recording. This was a confession. Milinah exhaled slow. “He wants us to listen.” Declan pressed play. The static hissed—sharp, swallowing the silence like something alive. Then came the voice. Viktor’s. Smooth. Controlled. Dangerous. "You think you know me, Cross. You don’t. You know the myth. The fear. The silence that keeps men awake at night, wondering when I will make my move." The theatre shifted—the lights dimmed, the shadows deepened. "But love? Love is the easiest thing to break. Love makes strong men weak. Love makes the brilliant blind. And you?" Declan clenched his jaw. "You’ve already lost. Because you think this game is about survival. It isn’t. It’s about control.” The tape clicked—a change in sound, a second voice. Milinah’s. But not her—not now. A recording. "Declan—" Her voice was raw. Shaken. Declan felt his pulse hammer. Milinah froze, the color draining from her face. "I don’t—God, I don’t know if you’re alive right now. If you ever hear this, know that I tried." Declan whipped toward her. “You recognize this?” She didn’t answer. "He said it was about you. That if I fought, if I ran, if I tried—" Static spiked, warping the words. Milinah stepped back, breath sharp. “This is wrong.” Declan wasn’t breathing. “He’s already been ahead. For longer than we thought.” The tape continued. "Declan, I don’t know how much time we have. But Viktor—he’s not chasing you. He’s tearing you apart piece by piece." The recording cut—abrupt, jagged, unnatural. Declan turned to Milinah, his voice edged with urgency. “When did he record this?” Milinah didn’t know. That was the problem. Viktor had already written the ending. This wasn’t a warning. It was a promise. Chapter Five: Splintered Trust Milinah smashed the tape. Not just broke it. Destroyed it—her hand shaking as she ground the reels beneath her boot, crushing Viktor’s voice into silence. But silence wasn’t enough. The damage was already done. Declan stood stiff, pulse hammering, his grip on his gun tightening though there was nothing left to shoot. The air in the Grand Marionette Theatre had changed—a wound left gaping, deep enough that the city itself seemed to breathe different. Declan’s mind raced. Had Viktor turned her? Was she part of this? Had she ever been? She looked at him, searching his face for something—trust, reassurance, forgiveness—but Declan had nothing to give. And Viktor? He was still watching, somewhere in the dark. This was psychological warfare. The kind that tore at the bone, not the skin. Milinah pressed a hand to her temple, exhaling sharp, unsteady. "Declan, I—" He moved fast, grabbing her wrist before she could take a step toward him. His voice was low, cutting. "Tell me the truth." She flinched—not from pain, but from the weight of the question. "What are you saying?" Declan’s jaw tightened. "Did he use you?" The words hung, lethal as gunfire. Milinah’s eyes sharpened—hurt beneath fury. "You think I’d betray you?" Declan didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He didn’t know. That was Viktor’s trick, wasn’t it? Make them doubt. Make them hesitate. Make them destroy each other before he ever lifts a finger. The theatre creaked—a whisper of movement, a shift in the air. And Viktor spoke, voice silk over steel. "I don’t need her to betray you, Cross. I just needed you to ask the question." Declan snapped, firing blindly into the shadows, rage coating his instincts. The bullet hit nothing. Nothing real. Laughter, smooth and unhurried. “So predictable.” Declan needed control. He needed to cut Viktor’s game into pieces, make him question himself, make him lose his advantage. He turned hard to Milinah, voice a sharp whisper. "You trust me?" Her breath hitched. "I—" "Do you?" Her fingers twitched, as if grasping something unseen. “Yes.” Declan didn’t hesitate. He grabbed her tight, pulling her close—too close, pressing his forehead against hers, forcing their breathing to align, their pulses to sync. "You trust me?" This time, no hesitation. "Yes." Viktor’s presence shifted—a crack, doubt. Declan turned, voice cutting through the dark. "Then watch, Drachensturm." He kissed her. Not desperate. Deliberate. A message. A weapon. He kissed her, not as a victim, but as a warrior—as someone who refused to let Viktor take anything from him. Not his life, not his mind, not her. And for the first time, Viktor hesitated. Just for a second. A second was all Declan needed. Viktor had been controlling the board. But now? Declan had just made his first move. Final Chapter: A Marionette Without Strings Viktor was unraveling. Declan saw it the second the rage flickered in his eyes—not cold calculation, not controlled dominance, but something raw. Something human. Something that wasn’t supposed to exist anymore. Declan pushed deeper, voice steady, sharp. "You know what this is, don’t you? This feeling clawing at your throat, the burn in your lungs?" He stepped closer, keeping Milinah just behind him. “It’s fear, Viktor.” Viktor stilled, jaw tight, but Declan could see it—a moment of hesitation, a crack in the armor of a man who was supposed to be untouchable. Declan pressed on. "You had control once. Before you became whatever this is. You were a man, not a myth, not a shadow.” He exhaled, deliberate. "And now? You’re nothing." The room shifted, tension pressing heavy, wrapping itself around Viktor like a noose. Declan’s voice cut sharper. "Milinah and I—we have something you can’t touch. Something you can’t break." The words landed like a bullet, but it wasn’t lead that made Viktor tremble. It was truth. Milinah stiffened beside Declan, breathing sharp. He felt her presence—alive, real, something Viktor could never reclaim. And for the first time, Viktor felt it too. Loss. Not just of control. Loss of what he used to be. His fingers twitched. His breath hitched—barely, but enough. Then came the rage. A snarl, raw and visceral, as he lunged. Declan fired, no hesitation. The bullet snapped through the air. It hit clean—dead center, forehead. Viktor froze. But he didn’t fall. Not yet. His grip tightened, his body trembling—but he was still standing. Slowly, methodically, he pulled his knife. Took one step forward. Then another. Declan gritted his teeth, pulling Milinah back, steadying his aim, but Viktor wasn’t dying fast enough. He was refusing to fall. Until— The wobble. Just barely. Then his knees buckled. The knife slipped from his fingers. One last step. Then Viktor Drachensturm—the myth, the shadow, the invincible force—fell. Onto the stage. A marionette with cut strings. Declan stared, gun still raised, as Viktor’s body stilled—not just dead, but defeated. Milinah exhaled hard, pressing a hand to her chest, eyes locked on Declan. "Is it over?" Declan’s grip on his gun tightened, pulse steady but not relaxed. "It has to be." But deep in the shadows of Sugar Bay, something shifted. Maybe the real battle hadn’t even begun. Epilogue: Ghosts Never Die The streets of Sugar Bay whispered. Not loud, not urgent—just enough to remind them that even in silence, the city still watched. Still waited. Declan and Milinah stood at the edge of the bay, the water shifting, dark under the faint glow of streetlights that flickered like a dying heartbeat. She was beside him, her fingers brushing his, steady despite everything. Despite Viktor. Despite the blood. Despite the weight they carried. Declan exhaled, slow, controlled. “You still trust me?” Milinah looked at him, eyes sharp but soft in the ways only he ever saw. “Yeah,” she murmured. “Even after all of this.” Declan let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Good.” Milinah smiled—just barely. Then she grabbed his collar, yanking him forward, kissing him like she meant it. Like she was still alive, and so was he. She tasted like adrenaline and victory, like wild roses and fire, and Declan kissed her back, not out of desperation, but out of understanding. This—this—was the thing Viktor had tried to break. And he had failed. Sugar Bay was still theirs. For now. Then the radio crackled. Not theirs. Not from the Seraphim. From nowhere. A whisper. Soft. Wrong. Familiar. "Declan." Cold rushed down his spine. Milinah froze beside him. The voice was Viktor’s. Declan turned fast, scanning the empty docks, but nothing was there. No movement. No shadow. Just the radio, hissing, distorting. "You think it’s over. You think this city is yours now." Declan gritted his teeth. Milinah whispered, barely breathing, "He’s dead." The voice laughed—low, knowing, waiting. "And yet," Viktor murmured through the static, "I’m still here, aren’t I?" The radio cut out, snapping into silence. Declan and Milinah stared at each other. Sugar Bay never let go. And Viktor? Dead men didn’t speak. Unless they weren’t truly gone.

Written by JP McCullough | Spartan Writing Co MMXXIV

THE VELVET ROOM PART 1

 The Velvet Room: A Crime Noir Short Story

The Velvet Room stood on the edge of Sugar Bay like a ghost refusing to fade—a relic of jazz’s golden years, now long dead. Declan Cross crouched under the rafters, the stale air pressing down like a weight as his hands worked at the hidden compartment in the spotlight. Milinah leaned lazily against the stage below him, arms crossed and smirking like she knew just how much his patience was fraying.

“You always take this long to crack a code, or is it your way of keeping me here for company?” she teased, her voice sharp enough to draw blood if he wasn’t careful.

Declan didn’t look down, prying at the panel with his knife. “You got somewhere better to be, sweetheart?”

Milinah tilted her head, her earrings catching the faint glint of the streetlamp outside the boarded-up window. “If you keep calling me ‘sweetheart,’ I’m gonna start thinking you don’t know my name.”

Declan gave the panel one final shove, the wood creaking in protest as the latch gave way. His voice was low, steady. “Oh, I know your name, Milinah. I just figure ‘sweetheart’ suits you better.”

She straightened, smirking up at him. “Careful, Cross. Keep that up, and I might start thinking you like me.”

“Wouldn’t go that far.” He reached inside the compartment, pulling free a battered notebook. Dust spilled around his fingers, thick like the secrets inside. “Bingo.”

Milinah stepped closer, heels clicking softly against the warped floorboards. She took in the notebook with narrowed eyes, the faint Seraphim emblem etched onto the leather cover. “Someone’s been keeping secrets in all the wrong places.”

Declan hopped down from the rafters, landing just close enough for her perfume to catch in the air between them—a mix of wild roses and trouble.

“You ever think,” he murmured, flipping through the pages, “that secrets are just truths too ugly for daylight?”

Her smile faded, just enough to soften the sharp edge of her expression. “You mean like this one?”

Declan stopped, his hand resting on a page filled with cryptic symbols. “This one’s not ugly, Milinah. This one’s dangerous.”

They moved fast after that. The clues in the notebook were scattered like breadcrumbs across Sugar Bay, and the trail got darker with every step.

The stained-glass window at the old pier church cast a crimson shadow over the stone floor—a shadow Milinah swore she could feel in her chest as Declan brushed dust away from the hidden engraving.

“You sure about this?” Milinah asked, watching him from the edge of the light.

Declan didn’t pause. “You wanna walk away, no one’s stopping you.”

She didn’t move. “And miss the fun? Not a chance.”

His fingers traced the symbols, stopping on an etching that matched the emblem in Celeste’s notebook. He glanced back at her, his voice quieter now. “I don’t think this ends clean.”

Milinah stepped closer, her gaze locked on his. “It never does. You know that.”

By the time they reached the docks, the air reeked of saltwater and decay. Declan lit a cigarette, the flame catching briefly before fading against the darkness. Milinah flipped through Celeste’s notebook beside him, her brows furrowed in thought.

“These clues are insane,” she muttered. “They barely connect, and the ones that do feel like they’re leading us off a cliff.”

Declan took a drag, smoke curling around his words. “Celeste wasn’t writing for amateurs. She knew her audience. Someone who could think like her.”

Milinah looked up, her frustration softening just slightly. “Someone like you?”

He smirked faintly, exhaling smoke into the night. “Maybe. But it takes two to figure out what she left behind.”

She turned back to the notebook, flipping pages with steadier hands. “Fine. Just don’t expect me to let you take the credit.”

Declan’s voice was almost too low to hear. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The Shipyard at Dawn

The warehouse loomed ahead, its rusted doors hanging crooked like the grin of a man who already knows your hand’s a losing one. Fog curled up from the bay, thick enough to smother the faint orange glow of the rising sun. Declan flicked his cigarette into the water, watching the ripples vanish like promises never kept.

“You always this dramatic at sunrise, or is it just for me?” Milinah asked, adjusting her coat against the damp air.

Declan smirked, keeping his voice low. “Sunrises are for suckers. Night’s honest. Sunrise just makes everything look prettier than it is.”

She arched a brow, stepping closer as her boots crunched on gravel. “Does that line work on everyone, or do I get the VIP treatment?”

“VIP,” he said. “But don’t let it go to your head. That coat’s trying hard enough already.”

Milinah snorted, but the sharp edge in her laugh softened when her eyes drifted to the warehouse. “This the part where we knock on the devil’s door and hope he’s out for a coffee break?”

Declan slid his revolver from its holster, testing the weight in his hand. His tone was quieter now, the tension building in his voice. “No knocking. Whatever’s inside, it doesn’t care for invitations.”

She reached into her pocket, pulling out her knife—a blade sharp enough to cut silk but used for things far meaner. Her voice was softer too, barely above a whisper. “Think it’s worth it? What we’ll find in there?”

He glanced at her, the revolver steady in his hand. “If it’s not, this’ll be a short story.”

Milinah sighed, nodding toward the warehouse. “You lead. I’ll make sure nobody takes a shot at that charming back of yours.”

Inside the Warehouse

The air inside was colder, thicker. The kind of heavy that clings to your lungs and makes every breath feel like it belongs to someone else. The faint light from the shattered windows above cast jagged shadows on the floor—shadows that moved even when Declan and Milinah didn’t.

“What’s that smell?” Milinah asked, her nose scrunching.

“Decay,” Declan muttered, stepping over a broken crate. “Or bad memories.”

Milinah stayed close, her blade glinting in the faint light as her eyes scanned the dark corners. “You always this fun in the morning?”

“Only when I haven’t had breakfast,” he said, his voice low enough to feel like part of the shadows. “Keep your eyes open.”

They found it in the center of the warehouse—a single crate, untouched by the rot and ruin around it. The Seraphim’s emblem was stamped into the wood, its grooves painted with something too dark to be rust.

Declan’s grip on the revolver tightened. “They didn’t leave this behind by accident.”

Milinah knelt beside the crate, her fingers trailing over the emblem. Her voice carried a thread of something softer, something almost hesitant. “Celeste wasn’t just leaving clues. She wanted us to see this. She knew we’d follow.”

Declan crouched beside her, his eyes scanning the room for movement. “You think she knew what was waiting for us?”

Milinah’s gaze flicked to his, her knife resting lightly in her grip. “If she did, she didn’t leave us much of a warning.”

Declan leaned in, pressing his fingers against the edge of the crate. “Then maybe we stop waiting for warnings.” With one swift motion, he pried it open, the wood splintering under his grip.

Inside were records—old reels, thick with dust but intact. Each labeled with dates, locations, and names written in a tight, deliberate hand.

Milinah reached for one, brushing off the dust to reveal the title: End of the Line. Her voice was barely a whisper. “Her final song.”

Declan’s jaw tightened as he lifted another reel, the name scrawled across it making his gut turn cold: Sugar Bay Terminal - 3 AM.

Milinah met his gaze, the color drained from her face. “She wasn’t just singing about shadows, Declan. She was naming them. Calling them out.”

He nodded, slipping the reels into his bag with a grim resolve. “Then we’re not done. Not yet.”

Her hand touched his briefly—unexpected, fleeting, but grounding. “Whatever’s in these,” she said softly, “it’s bigger than us.”

“Doesn’t mean it gets to win,” Declan muttered, pulling her to her feet.

And as they moved toward the exit, the warehouse seemed to breathe behind them—silent, waiting, as if the secrets inside weren’t done with them yet.

The Hidden Reels

Declan and Milinah didn’t waste time. They drove straight to a small recording studio tucked behind a laundromat on Sycamore Street—a place that didn’t ask questions and ran on favors instead of cash.

Inside, the reel-to-reel player sat on a wooden desk, the dust barely disturbed since the last time anyone had used it. Declan threaded the first reel, Sugar Bay Terminal - 3 AM, into the machine, pressing play with a quiet determination.

The room filled with static—then footsteps. Heavy breathing. A voice, hushed, tense.

Celeste.

"They know. They know I’ve been watching. God help me, they know."

Milinah stiffened, her fingers curling against the edge of the desk. Declan remained silent, eyes locked on the machine.

The sound of train whistles cut through the background, the distant murmur of Sugar Bay’s underbelly in motion.

"The Seraphim think they own the dark, but they forget—I learned how to listen. And I’ve heard things they don’t want getting out."

Declan exhaled slowly, lighting a cigarette with a flick of his wrist. “She was playing a dangerous hand.”

Milinah’s voice was barely above a whisper. “She lost.”

The tape crackled as Celeste’s breath hitched.

"They move at night. They meet at the water’s edge. They carry something with them. Something old. Something they stole."

Declan and Milinah exchanged a glance.

"I saw them leave it at the terminal. Locked behind steel, hidden like it never should’ve existed. It’s not just knowledge—it’s power. I think… I think they’re scared of it."

Milinah leaned in, voice tight. “What kind of power?”

The tape hissed, her last words barely legible beneath the static.

"If someone finds this… don’t let them bury it again."

The recording cut off. The room was silent except for the faint hum of the reel spinning empty.

Declan tapped ash into the tray beside him, his expression unreadable. “Whatever she saw, whatever the Seraphim locked away—it scared them enough to kill her.”

Milinah stared at the machine, then reached for the second reel: End of the Line. She swallowed hard before pressing play.

This time, music filled the room—Celeste’s voice, smooth, aching, dripping with warning.

"Darlin', don't go chasin' shadows in the tide...

 You know the night don’t play fair, it keeps secrets out of sight..."

Declan listened, his jaw tightening as realization crept in.

"Follow the tracks, but don't look back...

 Find the lock before the clock runs out of time..."

Milinah whispered, almost to herself, “She left instructions. In the song.”

Declan killed his cigarette, his pulse steady despite the weight in his gut. “Sugar Bay Terminal. Something locked away behind steel.”

Milinah looked at him, something sparking behind her eyes. “Whatever scared the Seraphim, it’s still there.”

Declan stood, rolling the tapes back into their cases. “Then we’re going hunting.”

Sugar Bay Terminal – The Final Discovery

The train yard stretched out before them, soaked in the damp haze of pre-dawn. Steel tracks gleamed under flickering overhead lights, casting long shadows against the loading docks. Declan parked three blocks away—close enough to move fast, far enough to stay off anyone’s radar.

Milinah pulled her coat tighter, scanning the deserted platforms. “Celeste wasn’t vague. She said steel. Whatever the Seraphim locked away, it’s underground.”

Declan eyed the restricted section ahead, where thick iron doors were bolted into the concrete. “They didn’t just hide it. They sealed it.”

Milinah smirked, flipping open her knife. “No seal stays locked forever.”

They moved quickly, slipping past silent train cars, stepping into the shadows where the Seraphim wouldn’t think to look. Declan stopped near a rusted vent—a grate that looked useless but whispered of hidden passageways below.

Milinah knelt, running her fingers along the base. “This was pried open before.” She looked up at him, her voice hushed. “Someone else tried to get in.”

Declan crouched beside her, tracing the bent metal. “Or get out.”

A shift in the air. A distant sound—a hiss, metallic and wrong.

They didn’t hesitate. Milinah wrenched the grate free, exposing the tunnel below. They slid in fast, dropping into the concrete pit beneath the terminal.

The smell hit them first—old earth, machine oil, something stale with time.

Declan flicked on his lighter, the small flame illuminating the underground chamber. Locked behind steel bars stood a vault, untouched by the outside world. And there, branded deep into the metal, sat the Seraphim’s emblem.

Milinah ran her fingers along the lock. “This is it. This is what Celeste saw.”

Declan exhaled, pressing his palm against the cold metal. “Whatever’s behind here—”

The door shuddered open on its own.

Milinah stepped back, pulse kicking up. “That’s not normal.”

Declan tightened his grip on his revolver. “None of this is normal.”

Inside, the room was lined with old archives, stacks of sealed documents, forgotten recordings—an entire history buried beneath Sugar Bay. But in the center of it all…

A glass case, untouched, housing a single artifact.

A black ledger.

Milinah’s voice was barely a breath. “That’s not just records.” She turned to him, her expression sharp. “That’s who they are.”

Declan’s grip tightened. “And if we take it, we take their power.”

For the first time, the Seraphim’s secrets sat within reach. But the shadows were already moving—the real question wasn’t what they’d found.

It was who was coming to make sure they never left with it.

The Reckoning at Sugar Bay Terminal

Declan barely had time to lift the ledger before the shadows surged forward. A flicker of movement—silent, controlled—the Seraphim were already here.

“Move!” Milinah hissed, drawing her knife as she whirled toward the entrance.

Declan didn’t hesitate. He stuffed the ledger into his coat, gripping his revolver tight. The first figure lunged—fast, too fast—but Milinah met him with steel, twisting as the blade caught the man’s wrist.

The vault became a war zone.

The second figure swung at Declan, a blade glinting in the dim light. Declan fired—one shot, then another—but the Seraphim didn’t fall easily.

“We’re boxed in!” Milinah growled, shoving back another attacker, breath sharp.

Declan scanned the chamber, calculating. Only one way out. He grabbed Milinah’s wrist and yanked her toward the nearest exit—a ladder leading back to the main platform.

“Go!”

They climbed fast. The Seraphim weren’t far behind.

Milinah reached the top first, kicking free of the tunnel just as the first gunshot screamed past her. Declan pulled himself up, gun raised, firing back without hesitation.

They ran.

Across the loading docks, weaving through silent train cars, dodging bullets that bit into metal just inches from their heads.

Declan’s breath came rough, adrenaline fueling every movement. “We get out of here, we make this count.”

Milinah smirked, ducking behind cover, eyes burning with defiance. “That ledger? It’s gonna burn them alive.”

Another shot. Another shout. The Seraphim weren’t slowing. They weren’t giving up.

Declan took Milinah’s hand, pulling her toward the back fence—toward the only chance they had to make it out of Sugar Bay Terminal alive.

And behind them?

The truth—their victory—and the Seraphim’s wrath.

The Narrow Escape

Declan felt Milinah’s hand slip just slightly as they reached the back fence. Blood.

“Damn it,” he muttered, catching her weight as she pressed a hand to her side. The bullet had grazed her—not deep, but enough to slow her down.

Milinah gritted her teeth, shaking him off. “I’m fine, Cross. Move.”

The fence loomed ahead, rusted but climbable. Declan fired another shot behind them, buying seconds, not safety. The Seraphim were closing in.

Milinah didn’t hesitate. She climbed, fast, ignoring the pain.

Declan followed, boots scraping metal, lungs burning. Below, the shadows surged forward—too damn close.

Milinah reached the top first, twisting her body over before dropping to the other side. Declan wasn’t far behind, landing rough, but still standing.

No time to breathe. They ran.

Through alleyways, past shuttered storefronts, deeper into the maze of Sugar Bay’s underbelly.

Milinah stumbled once—just for a second—but Declan caught her arm before she could hit the ground.

Her breath was ragged, pain in her eyes, but she still smirked. “You’re—” She sucked in air. “—not gonna start worrying about me now, are you?”

Declan shook his head, gripping her tighter. “You got shot. I get to worry for five minutes.”

She chuckled, weak but sharp. “Three.”

Declan exhaled, scanning the street ahead. No sign of pursuit. For now.

They stopped beneath a broken neon sign, the hum of electricity barely audible in the quiet.

Milinah pressed a hand to her wound, muttering. “Could’ve been worse.”

Declan pulled the ledger from his coat, flipping through the pages, eyes narrowing.

“It almost was.”

Because what was inside was bigger than anything they imagined.

And now?

The Seraphim weren’t just hunting them.

They were hunting their own secrets.

The Fallout Begins

Declan didn’t waste time. They needed a safehouse, somewhere off the grid—somewhere the Seraphim wouldn’t find them before they cracked the ledger.

The Salty Seamen was out. The Velvet Room was a coffin waiting to be filled. That left one option.

A warehouse by the docks—abandoned, but not forgotten. Just like them.

Milinah slid onto a crate, her breath uneven as she pressed a rag against her side, red seeping through the fabric. “Tell me you got something good in that damn book, Cross.”

Declan flipped through the pages, scanning rows of names, transactions, coded entries that read like the spine of Sugar Bay itself.

The Seraphim weren’t just pulling strings. They owned the city.

Milinah let out a dry laugh, weak but sharp. “Looks like we stole the keys to the kingdom.”

Declan glanced at her, his jaw tight. “Yeah. Only problem is, the kingdom wants us dead.”

The warehouse door rattled—the wind, or something worse.

Declan stood fast, gun in hand, moving toward the window. Shadows.

Milinah’s fingers twitched toward her knife. “Tell me you got a plan.”

Declan exhaled, steadying his grip on the revolver. “I got two.”

She smirked, wincing slightly as she adjusted her position. “Let me guess. One of them gets us killed.”

Declan’s eyes flicked to the ledger, his mind racing. “Yeah. The other just pisses them off.”

Outside, the Seraphim were watching.

They weren’t running this time.

They were ready.

And Declan & Milinah?

They were about to set Sugar Bay on fire.

The Razor-Sharp Escape

The second Declan saw movement in the shadows, he knew they were out of time. The Seraphim weren’t hesitating—they were closing in fast, and the warehouse had just turned into a death trap.

Milinah pushed herself upright, pain flashing in her eyes, but she was still steady. “We staying or running, Cross?”

Declan shoved the ledger into his coat, eyes scanning the room. “We don’t have the firepower to stay.”

Milinah let out a ragged breath, tightening her grip on her knife. “Then let’s make them regret chasing us.”

The first gunshot shattered the window.

They moved.

Declan kicked over a crate, sending tools clattering across the concrete as he grabbed Milinah’s arm, hauling her toward the back exit. The Seraphim were fast, cutting off the main doors, but they weren’t expecting desperation.

Milinah vaulted over a rusted railing, landing rough but moving forward. Declan wasn’t far behind, his revolver snapping off three sharp shots—not to kill, just to make them flinch.

The alley was tight, tangled with crates and forgotten scraps from the docks. Footsteps echoed behind them, but Declan knew these streets better than they did.

“This way!” he barked, dragging Milinah toward an old fishery, slipping through a narrow passage only a local would know.

Milinah bit back the pain in her side, keeping pace. “How much longer do we have to keep pissing them off?”

Declan smirked, firing one last shot toward the docks. “As long as it keeps us breathing.”

They cut through the fishery, slipped between half-rotted walls, and sprinted toward an abandoned lift shaft leading straight to the bay.

Milinah skidded to a stop, looking over the edge. “This your genius plan?”

Declan gave her a sharp look. “You want to fight them instead?”

She exhaled. “Hell no.”

Without another word, she jumped.

Declan followed, hitting the cold water just as shouts erupted above them.

They vanished into the tide—gone before the Seraphim could land a second shot.

The Bigger Reveal

The night air hit like a brick when they finally hauled themselves onto the edge of a forgotten dock. Safe—for now.

Milinah coughed, pressing a hand to her wound. “You owe me a damn drink after that, Cross.”

Declan sat beside her, dripping water, revolver still in his grip. “You didn’t have to jump first.”

She smirked, shoving wet hair from her face. “Wanted to make sure you’d follow.”

Declan pulled the ledger free from his coat—soaked, but intact.

Milinah eyed it, the exhaustion in her voice laced with intrigue. “You think whatever’s in that book is worth almost dying for?”

Declan didn’t answer at first. He flipped the ledger open, scanning pages, stopping cold when he saw it.

One entry.

One name.

Celeste Vale.

Milinah stiffened beside him. “She was—”

Declan’s voice was quiet. “Alive.”

The last recorded transaction. Made two days ago.

Milinah stared at the page, breath shallow. “Celeste should be dead.”

Declan exhaled, feeling the weight of it settle in his chest. “Then someone’s lying.”

They weren’t chasing a ghost.

They were chasing someone who wasn’t supposed to exist anymore.

And that meant the Seraphim weren’t just hunting them.

They were burying the truth.

Full Throttle: The Storm Breaks

Celeste Vale was never supposed to be found.

Declan and Milinah stood in the shadows of the forgotten depot, guns drawn, hearts hammering. Celeste sat on the edge of an old bench, wrists bruised, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion woven into her skin.

“I don’t have time to explain it all,” she rasped, voice hoarse, heavy with urgency. “But you need to listen. The Seraphim—they’re not just running Sugar Bay. They’re covering something up. Something old.”

Declan stepped closer, the weight of her words sinking deep. “We already know they’ve been erasing history. But what’s worth keeping you locked up for this long?”

Celeste exhaled sharply, gripping the back of the bench. “There’s something beneath Sugar Bay. Something buried. The Seraphim weren’t always in charge—they took power from the people who built this city.”

Milinah tightened her grip on her knife. “Who built it?”

Celeste’s voice dropped to barely a whisper. “Not men.”

Declan froze.

Celeste swallowed hard, glancing toward the vault door. “There’s a chamber—a sealed site beneath the lagoon. Older than anything anyone’s ever documented. And the Seraphim have been guarding it for centuries. But not because it’s theirs.”

Milinah’s breath caught. “Because it belongs to something else?”

Celeste’s expression darkened. “Because if the seal is broken, they lose everything.”

The depot shook.

The first gunshot tore through the iron walls.

The Seraphim were here.

Declan threw himself against Celeste, knocking her to the ground as the next bullet splintered the bench. Milinah fired back, her breath sharp and focused, eyes locked on the shadows moving in fast.

“This ends here!” a voice called through the depot. “Hand her over, Cross!”

Declan rolled behind a crate, gripping his revolver tight. “Yeah? Then come and take her!”

The next wave hit hard—three, maybe four Seraphim agents, trained, relentless. Milinah dove toward the old steel beams, using the structure as cover while she sent two quick shots into the dark.

Celeste was pinned, terrified, but still fighting to speak.

“You have to listen!” she shouted over the chaos. “If they’re willing to kill for it, then you know it’s real! The seal beneath the lagoon—it's cracking!”

Declan’s blood ran cold.

Milinah snapped her gun closed, firing again. “What happens if it breaks?”

Celeste’s voice rang sharp, her words the only warning they’d ever get.

“Then Sugar Bay isn’t theirs anymore.”

Declan fired the last shot in his revolver, landing a hit that sent one of the Seraphim collapsing against the iron beams. He grabbed Celeste’s wrist and hauled her up.

“We’re leaving,” he growled.

Milinah didn’t argue.

They moved—fast, cutting through the depot, gunfire snapping at their heels.

The Seraphim had finally shown their true desperation.

And outside the depot, beneath the surface of Blackwater Lagoon, something was waking up.

THE VELVET ROOM PART 2

Safe House Shadows

The dim glow from a single desk lamp cast long shadows against the peeling wallpaper. The safe house smelled of dust, old whiskey, and the faint iron tang of blood.

Declan Cross leaned over Milinah, his hands steady despite the circumstances. A needle glinted between his fingers, threading through her skin with quiet precision. The bullet had only grazed her, but it had torn deep enough to warrant stitches.

Milinah’s breath hitched as he tightened the first loop. “Make them small,” she murmured, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “Don’t need an ugly scar ruining my good looks.”

Declan didn’t glance up, but his voice carried a smirk of its own. “Sweetheart, a scar like this? Might make you look dangerous. Could be an upgrade.”

Milinah scoffed. “And what, be mistaken for one of the thugs we keep dodging? I’d rather stick to charming people before pulling a gun on ‘em.”

Declan tied off another stitch, flicking her a glance. “Pretty sure you did both tonight.”

She chuckled, then winced as his needle moved again. “Damn it, Cross.”

“Keep talking, keeps your mind off it.”

Milinah exhaled slowly, her posture shifting just enough to ease the tension. “Fine. What’s the worst injury you ever patched up?”

Declan paused, considering. “Had a knife run across my ribs once. Some punk thought he could scare me into handing over evidence.”

She arched a brow. “And?”

“Scared him worse when I shoved his own blade through his sleeve and pinned him to the bar counter.”

Milinah laughed, eyes glinting in the low light. “Classic.”

Declan tied off the final stitch and leaned back, biting the suture clean before grabbing the bandage. He pressed it over her wound, firm but careful. “All done.”

Her fingers brushed over the fresh dressing, her smirk softer now. “Don’t let it go to your head, but… not bad, Cross.”

Declan leaned back against the creaky desk, rubbing his thumb over the edge of the whiskey glass beside him. “Would’ve been easier if you sat still.”

Milinah tilted her head, eyes flickering with something unspoken. “Would’ve been easier if we weren’t running for our lives.”

The silence between them stretched, thick with everything left unsaid.

Outside, the city murmured—sirens in the distance, the hum of neon signs flickering against the night. The world was still hunting them.

But for now, in the quiet of the safe house, they had a moment.

They let the moment sit between them—close, quiet, something dangerously familiar in the way their eyes lingered a second too long.

Then, the bedroom door creaked open.

Celeste, hair mussed, eyes sharp despite the drowsiness, stepped into the room. Her gaze flicked between them, registering the silence, the way Milinah’s hand still rested lightly over her bandage, the way Declan hadn’t moved away.

She exhaled, barely amused, then said, “I need to tell you something.”

The warmth between Declan and Milinah cooled instantly.

Because the way Celeste said it—the way her voice carried the weight of everything left unsaid—meant trouble was knocking again.

The Secret Beneath Blackwater Lagoon

Celeste leaned against the kitchen counter, her fingers wrapped around a chipped coffee mug, steam curling into the dim safe house light. Declan watched her carefully—her expression was tense, distant, like she was holding onto a story too heavy to tell outright.

Milinah, still wincing slightly as she adjusted her bandage, crossed her arms. "Well? You dragged yourself out of bed to tell us something important. Spill."

Celeste exhaled sharply, setting the mug down with a dull clink. "You ever wonder why the Seraphim are so damn desperate to erase history? Why they bury things instead of just wiping them clean?"

Declan leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "Because some secrets can’t just disappear. They have to be locked up."

Celeste nodded, her gaze flicking between them. "That’s exactly what they did. Beneath Blackwater Lagoon, there's something the world wasn’t supposed to find.

The Plan to Infiltrate Blackwater Lagoon

Declan Cross poured a stiff drink, his hand steady despite the weight of Celeste’s revelation. The ice clinked in the glass—a rare sound of calm in a night thick with trouble. Across the safe house, Milinah sat on the edge of the desk, adjusting the fresh bandage over her stitched wound, her gaze locked on Celeste like she was still trying to believe the words that had left her mouth.

Declan downed half his whiskey, setting the glass aside before leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “Alright,” he said, his voice low, measured. “Say we believe all this—and for the record, I damn well do—how do we get inside before the Seraphim seal it again?”

Celeste sighed, rubbing at her temples. “The entrance is submerged. Deep enough that normal diving gear won’t cut it.”

Milinah raised a brow. “Lucky us—we know a guy.”

Declan tilted his head, catching where she was going. “Garnett.”

Celeste frowned. “Who’s Garnett?”

“Ex-Navy diver,” Milinah said, stretching out her leg to prop her boot against the desk. “Drinks at The Salty Seamen. Likes his whiskey neat and his stories half-truth. Used to run dives off Sugar Bay before he got spooked.”

Celeste arched a brow. “Spooked?”

Declan smirked faintly, rolling his glass in his palm. “Claims he saw something in the water. Something that wasn’t supposed to be there.”

Milinah leaned forward, tapping the desk for emphasis. “We buy him a drink, we get his version of the story. If he’s seen the bunker, he’s got what we need.”

Celeste sighed, glancing between them. “And if he won’t talk?”

Declan set his glass down, standing smoothly. “Sweetheart, everyone talks if you ask right.”

The Diver Who Knew Too Much

The Salty Seamen smelled like old rum, fried food, and the kind of salt air that never quite left the floorboards. Garnett sat at the far end of the bar, nursing a drink like he was hoping it would start answering his problems for him. His beard had gone rough with age, but his eyes—sharp, wary, keen—still held the weight of someone who’d seen too much.

Declan slid into the stool beside him, Milinah taking the one on the other side. Celeste hovered near the jukebox, staying just close enough to keep an eye out.

Garnett didn’t look at Declan when he spoke. “If you’re here for a dive, I’m retired.”

Declan signaled to the bartender, nodding toward Garnett’s near-empty glass. “Good thing we’re not hiring. Just interested in your last dive.”

Garnett exhaled through his nose, taking a slow sip of the fresh whiskey poured in front of him. “Sugar Bay ain’t a place you go poking at history, son.”

Milinah leaned in, voice smooth. “Thing is, history started poking back.”

That got him. His fingers tightened just slightly around the glass, his posture stiffening. A tell.

Declan pressed forward. “Blackwater Lagoon. Depth of roughly 80 feet before you hit the hard floor. And yet, you found something that wasn’t sand. Didn’t you?”

Garnett’s throat worked as he swallowed. “I didn’t find it.” He set the glass down, finally looking at Declan. “It found me.”

Declan and Milinah exchanged a glance.

Celeste, still at the jukebox, pretended to be focused on an old blues record, but she was listening now.

Garnett lowered his voice. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Milinah smirked, resting her elbow against the counter. “Try us.”

The Warning

Garnett stared into his drink, swirling the liquid like it held the truth he wasn’t sure he wanted to say. Then, finally, he spoke.

“I used to run military recovery ops,” he said, voice quieter now. “Salvage, mostly. That was before I lost my nerve. Before I went down there and saw what wasn’t supposed to be in those waters.”

Declan waited, letting the silence sit long enough for Garnett to fill it himself.

He did.

“A structure,” he murmured. “Not coral. Not wreckage. Steel. A bunker. Sealed so damn tight I thought it was a hallucination, but I touched it. Felt it.”

Milinah’s smirk faded. “And then?"

The Diver’s Warning

The ice in Garnett’s drink clinked softly as he took another sip, his fingers tightening around the glass like it was the only thing keeping him steady. The Salty Seamen buzzed with distant chatter, but at the far end of the bar, near the dim glow of a flickering neon sign, everything between Garnett, Declan, Milinah, and Celeste hung in a thick, charged silence.

Declan leaned in, his voice steady but sharp enough to cut through the tension. “What do you mean, it knocked back?”

Garnett’s gaze flicked between them, as if he was trying to decide whether to tell the truth or cut his losses. He exhaled, rubbed his jaw, then let out a humorless chuckle. “Y’know, back in the service, we had a saying: You see something you can’t explain, you keep your damn mouth shut.”

Milinah smirked faintly, spinning the rim of her empty glass with her fingertips. “Never been good at that.”

Declan shot her a glance—neither had he.

Garnett sighed, setting his glass down with a heavy clunk. “Fine. You wanna know? I’ll tell you. But you ain’t gonna like it.”

The Incident Beneath Blackwater Lagoon

"Three years ago," Garnett began, his voice lowering, "I ran a dive off the lagoon—not for treasure, not for work. Curiosity. I’d heard stories. Rumors of something big beneath the water, buried deep enough that even the Seraphim wouldn’t touch it. Figured it was an old wreck, maybe an old smuggler’s stash. Thought I’d go down, have a look."

He took another sip of his drink, shaking his head. “But I saw steel. Not coral, not wreckage. A bunker. A door. And a mark that I sure as hell recognized.”

Celeste narrowed her eyes. “The Nazi insignia.”

Garnett nodded once. “Faded. But still there.”

Declan’s pulse ticked up. “And then?”

Garnett ran a hand through his beard. "I knocked. Yeah, I know—real dumb. But I knocked. Maybe I thought I’d hear an echo. Maybe I was just testing the metal."

Milinah leaned forward slightly. "And it knocked back."

Garnett’s expression darkened. "Not like a tap. Like a response. A deep, slow, deliberate pound against the steel from the inside."

Declan and Milinah exchanged a glance.

Celeste was watching now, her fingers gripping the edge of the bar.

"It wasn’t debris shifting, wasn’t water pressure," Garnett muttered. "It was intentional. Like whatever was in there wasn’t supposed to wake up. Like whatever was in there was waiting."

The Danger Ahead

Declan let the silence stretch, then finally spoke. "Did you go back?"

Garnett snorted. "Hell no. Swore off deep dives after that. You wanna go looking for something that should’ve been buried forever? Be my guest. But I’m telling you—something’s still in that bunker. And if you open it, you better be damn sure you’re ready for whatever comes out."

Celeste inhaled sharply, murmuring under her breath, “It’s already waking up.”

Declan exhaled, rubbing his temple. Milinah tossed back the last of her drink, setting her glass down with finality.

The clock was running out.

And whatever was knocking inside that bunker?

It wasn’t going to wait much longer.

The Darkest Secret of Blackwater Lagoon

The Salty Seamen felt smaller now, as if the weight of the conversation had pressed against the walls, making the room shrink with every word. Garnett’s whiskey sat untouched in front of him, his fingers drumming against the wood like he was counting down the seconds until regret kicked in.

Declan leaned forward. “You said something knocked back.”

Garnett swallowed hard, nodding. “I did.”

Celeste, who had been silent since the initial revelation, finally stepped into the conversation, crossing her arms as she studied Garnett with sharp, knowing eyes. “I think I know why.”

Declan glanced at her. Milinah arched a brow.

Celeste exhaled slowly, like she was digging up something she wasn’t supposed to know. “You ever hear whispers about Projekt Verdammnis?”

Garnett stiffened. The reaction was immediate.

Declan and Milinah exchanged a glance.

Celeste continued, her voice quieter now. “Before the war ended, Germany was running biological experiments, not just weapons. Soldiers—perfected ones. No weaknesses. No fear. No mortality. The kind that could fight beyond human limitations. The kind that didn’t break.”

Milinah scoffed, but there was no humor in it. “Sounds like a horror story.”

Celeste nodded once. “It was.”

Declan’s jaw tightened. “And you’re saying one of them is in that bunker?”

Celeste’s expression darkened. “Not just one. The first. The prototype. The only one that survived.”

Garnett ran a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. “Damn fools kept it in suspended animation. Didn’t kill it. Didn’t destroy the bunker. Just locked the bastard in, sealed it beneath the water, and prayed to whatever gods they still believed in that it never woke up.”

Declan leaned back, rubbing his temple. “And now it’s waking up.”

Celeste’s voice was eerily calm. “And it wants out.”

The Descent into Blackwater Lagoon

The waters were black, thick with silt and secrecy, the weight of history pressing down on the lagoon like a grave that refused to stay sealed. The dive was set, and time was against them—if the Seraphim moved first, Sugar Bay would never know what truly lurked beneath.

Declan Cross checked his gear, his fingers steady despite the tension coiling in his chest. Milinah adjusted the straps on her oxygen tank, eyes sharp with determination. Garnett, grizzled and quiet, stood beside them, his worn diving suit telling stories he had long refused to speak aloud.

Celeste stood near the dock, hands stuffed into her coat pockets as she stared at the water. She didn’t need to say a word—they all knew what was down there. They just didn’t know if they’d live to tell about it.

Declan locked eyes with Garnett. “You ever breach a bunker before?”

Garnett grunted, securing his mask. “Son, I’ve broken into places people pretend don’t exist.”

Milinah smirked. “We countin’ this one?”

Garnett exhaled, stepping forward. “I will when it kills me.”

Declan clipped his regulator in place. “Let’s hope you save that for another job.”

Silent Entry

The lagoon swallowed them whole.

The pressure beneath the surface was immense, a slow, crushing force that wrapped around their bodies like a warning. The deeper they descended, the darker the water became—until the shadow of steel emerged from the abyss.

There it was. The bunker.

Sealed, rusted, forgotten.

Except it wasn’t forgotten.

Declan motioned for Garnett to move forward. Milinah followed closely, her gloved hand trailing along the bunker’s surface, brushing away decades of sediment. The markings were still there. The Nazi insignia, the reinforced plating, the evidence of something buried too deep to be found.

Until now.

Garnett pulled a magnetic pulse cutter from his suit—an ingenious little piece of military tech, designed to trigger locks without causing blast vibrations. A quiet way in. A way to slip past whatever was waiting inside.

Declan gave the signal.

Garnett pressed the device against the hatch. The pulse whined, the steel shuddered, and then—the lock disengaged.

The door drifted open.

And then…

The Super Soldier Awakens

The bunker was not empty.

A whisper of movement—fast, precise, planned.

Declan turned first, his hand instinctively grabbing for his knife even though he knew it wouldn’t be enough.

A shadow moved in the water, controlled despite the weightlessness of the depths. It knew they were coming. It had prepared.

Before Declan could signal a retreat, the soldier attacked.

Milinah barely had time to react before a hand—bare, impossibly strong—wrapped around her wrist, twisting with a grip meant to break bone. She yanked free, bubbles erupting around her as she kicked back, heart hammering.

Garnett turned, reaching for his blade, but the soldier was already on him. A single, brutal strike knocked the weapon from his grasp, sending it spiraling into the abyss.

Declan moved next—a calculated move, a split-second decision.

He lunged, grabbing the soldier’s breathing line, yanking hard.

The figure didn’t flinch.

Instead, it turned—and its eyes burned through the darkness.

Cold.

Unyielding.

Aware.

This was not a mindless brute.

This was a predator.

And it was escaping.

With a powerful kick, the soldier propelled itself upward, shooting toward the surface with terrifying speed.

Declan pushed after it—too late.

The vault door slammed back into place, the current shifting violently around them.

They had lost it.

Whatever had been trapped inside that bunker for decades—

Was now free.

The Surface Break

Declan and Milinah broke the surface seconds later, gasping for air as Garnett emerged behind them, his breathing ragged.

Celeste stood at the dock, eyes wide, fists clenched. “Where is it?”

Declan pulled off his mask, chest heaving. “Gone.”

Milinah shook water from her face, her voice barely a whisper. “It was waiting for us.”

Celeste cursed under her breath, her gaze darting toward the far end of the lagoon—toward the trees where something could be watching.

Garnett wiped his face, voice hoarse. “You don’t understand,” he muttered. “That thing… whatever it is…”

He swallowed hard.

“It was never meant to wake up.”

The Aftermath

The super soldier had escaped. Decades of silence shattered in a single moment.

Now, Viktor Drachensturm was somewhere in Sugar Bay.

And the Seraphim would stop at nothing to contain him.

THE VELVET ROOM PART 3

Chapter 1: Sugar Bay Starts Bleeding

Sugar Bay didn’t hum with the usual static of crime tonight. It whispered, a ragged murmur slipping through the alleys and curling around rusted fire escapes, the kind of silence that carried a warning. The asphalt, slick with last night’s rain, exhaled steam under the flickering neon, a pulse barely holding on. Everything—the streetlights, the stray dogs sniffing for scraps, the drunks slumped against brick walls—seemed to hesitate, as if the whole city was bracing for impact.

Declan Cross could feel it beneath his boots. Not just the uneasy quiet, but something more primal, more raw. The city had shifted, like a predator catching the scent of blood. Normally, the lowlifes stalked these streets with the confidence of kings—dealers leaning against doorways with knowing smirks, pickpockets sweeping through crowds with liquid grace. But tonight, they moved differently. Eyes darting over shoulders, hands twitching near coat pockets.

Something was coming.

He lit a cigarette, inhaling slow. The taste was sharp, acrid, mixing with the salt of the bay and the stink of gasoline from a nearby gutter. He watched as the neon from a battered Delirium Club sign trembled in the wind, turning everything into a fever dream—red, green, a smear of pale blue against damp concrete. Shadows stretched long beneath flickering street lamps, distorting figures that lingered too close to the edge of sight.

A black sedan crept along the curb, tires skimming waterlogged potholes. Declan didn’t turn his head, but his pulse quickened. The headlights sliced through the dark in rhythmic flashes, illuminating sweat-stained doorways and the hollow-eyed figures within. A bum shuffling near the entrance of a pawn shop suddenly stopped, stiffening like prey scenting a predator.

The radio from a diner across the street buzzed through the silence, warped and half-drowned by static. The melody was old, something from another time, crooning about love and loss. It felt wrong against the backdrop of Sugar Bay, where love died young and loss was just another currency.

Declan exhaled, watching the cigarette smoke curl and vanish. He had seen enough nights like this to know when the city was on edge, when its pulse stammered beneath a weight too heavy to name.

Something was moving in the dark.

And every poor bastard in Sugar Bay was waiting for it to bite.

Chapter 2: A Message in Blood

They found the Seraphim compound just after midnight.

The facility was supposed to be impenetrable, a fortress veiled in secrecy, guarded by men who killed without hesitation and vanished just as quickly. But now, it was a mausoleum. The silence was thick—unnatural, suffocating. The scent of copper hung in the air, clinging to the damp concrete like a specter of what had transpired here. The overhead fluorescents flickered, casting uneven pools of light across the blood-slick floor.

Bodies lay in meticulous rows, arms stiff at their sides, eyes staring at nothing. No signs of a struggle. No desperate attempts to flee. They hadn’t had the chance.

Milinah stepped forward, her boots leaving shallow prints in the congealing blood. The hush of the room pressed against her skin, an oppressive weight she refused to acknowledge. She exhaled, the sound barely audible over the quiet hum of dying machinery.

“Not exactly subtle, is he?” Her voice was steady, but there was an edge to it—an awareness of the grotesque precision laid out before them.

Declan crouched beside one of the corpses, tilting the man’s head with a careful hand. A single bullet wound. The skin around it was unbroken, the entry hole no larger than a pinprick—an execution, not a battle. He traced the wound’s clean edges with his gaze, the meticulousness unsettling in its cold efficiency.

“This wasn’t a fight,” he murmured. “It was a purge.”

Behind them, Celeste stood near what remained of a communication terminal, its metal casing warped from heat. Faint wisps of smoke still curled from its edges, the scent acrid, bitter, a testament to the destruction left behind.

She reached for a half-melted scrap of paper wedged between the debris, running her fingers over the indentations where ink had pressed too hard into the surface. Words, carved more than written. She frowned, her throat tightening as she read aloud:

"You buried me. Now I bury you."

The words sank into the air like lead, dragging the silence deeper, pulling the weight of the massacre tighter around them.

Declan inhaled sharply, the edge of his jaw twitching as he pushed himself to his feet.

“Viktor Drachensturm’s making this personal.”

Celeste’s fingers curled around the paper before she tossed it aside like an afterthought. Her voice, when it came, was low, brittle.

“He isn’t making it anything. It’s already personal.”

Chapter 3: The Hunt for the Ghost

Declan didn’t believe in ghosts.

But Viktor Drachensturm wasn’t just a man. He was a specter pulled from the depths of wartime paranoia, stitched together in steel and resurrected in blood. A whisper in classified documents, a nightmare breathed between dying men. And now, he was real.

They moved through the wreckage of Seraphim operations, tracing his destruction like breadcrumbs through the dark. Each facility dismantled with the same meticulous precision—silent, calculated, unavoidable. No alarms. No desperate final stands. Just the eerie aftermath of a presence that had already moved on.

And then, the whispers began.

A shadow, seen lurking beyond the shattered windows of a defunct safe house.

 A transmission severed mid-sentence, replaced by static—and then a single, chilling knock.

 A body, cold, untouched, eyes frozen wide, locked on something only he had seen before death took him.

The city’s undercurrent had shifted. Fear rippled through the underground like electricity licking exposed wire.

Declan leaned against the bar at The Salty Seamen, the scent of spilled whiskey and stale cigarette smoke thick in the air. The low murmur of patrons formed an uneasy backdrop, the kind of hush that followed bad business. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, the motion steady despite the weight of what lay ahead.

Milinah sat beside him, tightening the strap of her shoulder holster with practiced ease, her movements smooth, deliberate. Across from them, Garnett nursed his drink like it was the last lifeline he had left. He was shaking—not enough to be obvious, but just enough for Declan to catch it in the way his fingers curled around the glass.

“You don’t find him,” Garnett murmured, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the bar’s stained countertop. “He finds you.”

Declan studied him, searching the man’s expression for the truth buried beneath fear. Garnett had seen something—felt something—and that alone told him enough. Drachensturm was closer than they wanted to admit.

Milinah sighed, stretching her legs, letting the weight of inevitability settle into her bones. “Not gonna lie,” she muttered, rolling her shoulders, “I was kinda hoping to avoid the ‘unstoppable war machine stalking us’ trope tonight.”

Celeste let out a humorless laugh, tapping her fingers against the scarred wood. The rhythmic sound was almost soothing—almost—but there was an edge to it. “Guess we’re overdue for a little bad luck.”

Declan drained the last of his drink, setting the glass down with finality. His jaw tensed, but his expression was steady, unreadable. He wasn’t waiting for the ghost to make his move.

“Then let’s make the first move.”

Chapter 4: The Alley Trap

Viktor Drachensturm didn’t run.

Which meant that if he moved, it was because he wanted to.

Declan and Milinah cornered him in a dead-end alley off Mercy Row, where the streetlights flickered like dying embers, throwing fractured light across cracked pavement and brick walls soaked in old rain. The air was thick—humid, suffocating—carrying the scent of spilled whiskey from the bar across the street, the distant burn of smoldering tobacco, and beneath it all, the undeniable tang of blood.

Declan leveled his gun, the weight steady in his grip. Cold steel. A familiar comfort. His heartbeat was controlled, measured, but the alley itself pressed against them, breathing in secrets, swallowing hesitation.

“This ends here,” he said, voice even, gaze locked on the figure standing just out of reach.

Viktor didn’t turn.

His stance didn’t shift, didn’t tense—he stood as if they weren’t even worth acknowledging, as if their presence was little more than an afterthought. A shadow, a pause in his stride, nothing more.

Milinah exhaled, adjusting her grip, gun trained steady. “You hearing us, big guy? You’re so done.”

Viktor exhaled.

Not a sigh—nothing resigned. Just a breath, controlled and deliberate, like he was bored.

And then—he moved.

Fast. Too fast.

Declan didn’t register the strike, only the aftermath—the violent percussion of impact reverberating through bone, stealing breath, blurring vision. He hit the brick wall hard, the rough surface scraping against the fabric of his coat, rattling through his ribs. His gun skidded across the pavement, spinning once before coming to a stop near a drainage grate.

Milinah fired. Twice.

The shots carved through the heavy air—but Viktor was already gone.

A hand locked around her wrist, twisting, forcing her fingers to release the weapon before it even had a chance to recoil. The gun clattered to the ground. She kicked, twisting, trying to disrupt his balance, to find an opening.

He didn’t move.

His grip was iron, unyielding.

Then his eyes met hers.

Cold. Calculating. Patient.

Not human.

Declan tried to push himself upright, blood pooling against his teeth, his breath sharp, uneven. The hit had taken more than just speed—it had stolen something vital, left his limbs leaden and his body uncooperative. Useless.

Viktor didn’t acknowledge him.

Instead, he adjusted his grip on Milinah, securing her like cargo, effortless.

Declan barely forced the words out. “Let her go.”

Viktor tilted his head.

And smiled.

It was a small thing—barely there. Not triumphant, not taunting. Just certain.

Then—he was gone.

Disappearing into the twisting streets with Milinah captive, leaving Declan bleeding in the alley, tasting defeat for the first time in a long, long time.

Chapter 5: The Fallout

Declan sat in the alley, the rough pavement digging into his palms as he pressed his hands against the cold ground, steadying himself. The air was thick with the scent of blood, whiskey, and failure.

The city murmured beyond the brick walls, indifferent to the violence that had just unfolded. A neon sign flickered in the distance, casting erratic bursts of light against the rain-worn concrete, but in the alley itself—nothing. Just silence. Just absence.

Milinah was gone.

The realization came in waves—slow at first, creeping through the spaces between breath, then sudden, crushing, like a weight settling deep in his ribs. He could still feel Viktor’s hit, the phantom ache of bone against brick, the sharp sting of blood on his tongue. But the pain didn’t matter.

Sugar Bay was his hunting ground now.

The city wasn’t just another backdrop, not anymore. It had become something else—something hollow, something waiting. Every alley, every streetlamp, every closed door held a secret, and somewhere among them, Viktor Drachensturm was moving. Not escaping. Not running.

Planning.

Declan exhaled, slow, deliberate, tasting copper on his breath. His fingers curled against the pavement, the tremor slight but telling. He didn’t bother wiping the blood from his split knuckles, didn’t bother steadying the adrenaline threading through his veins.

He would find him.

And this time, Viktor wouldn’t disappear into the darkness.

Chapter 6: Chasing a Phantom

The trail was thin, but Declan wasn’t looking for footprints—he was looking for the absence of them.

Viktor Drachensturm didn’t leave traces. He erased them.

Sugar Bay was shifting, reacting in ways too subtle for most to catch, but Declan knew how to listen. It was in the clipped whispers at The Salty Seamen, in the way dealers and thieves were retreating from their usual haunts, in the way even the streetlights seemed to flicker more often, as if the city itself was holding its breath.

Something unseen had begun weaving through the undercurrent—silent, deliberate, inevitable.

A predator.

Declan leaned against the worn bar top, nursing a drink he hadn’t touched, letting the weight of the room settle around him. The Salty Seamen was louder tonight, but not in the way it should’ve been. The usual banter was strained, laughter clipped at the edges, tension leaking in like smoke through cracked glass.

He caught snippets of conversation—fragments of something forming just beneath the surface:

"Another one gone—just vanished, no word, no mess."

"Safe houses going dark, no sign of struggle. Just… gone."

"Hell, maybe the bastard ain't human after all."

It wasn’t fear of the law keeping criminals restrained tonight. It was something else.

Someone was hunting.

And it wasn’t him.

Declan exhaled, slow, deliberate. He could feel the weight of it in his bones—the way every action felt less like movement and more like a step toward something waiting in the shadows.

Viktor was moving.

Not running. Not hiding.

Planning.

Chapter 7: Viktor’s Message

Declan followed the unease, tracing patterns in the city’s shifting rhythm, listening for movements instead of words. The streets of Sugar Bay had always hummed with their own pulse—illicit deals, whispered betrayals, the occasional scream swallowed by the night—but now, something quieter lurked beneath it all.

Something watching.

The first real clue surfaced at the edge of a burned-out Seraphim drop site, where the air was thick with the scent of scorched metal and old ash. A skeletal radio transmitter sat abandoned in the rubble, its wires frayed, its purpose long extinguished. But there—taped to its rusting frame—a single piece of paper fluttered in the faint evening breeze.

The handwriting was clean. Precise.

"Sie lebt. Du bist zu spät.

She is alive. You are late."

Declan’s jaw tightened, the weight of the words settling into his bones.

Viktor wasn’t just moving through Sugar Bay.

He was watching Declan follow him.

And worse—he was enjoying it.

Chapter 8: Before the Seraphim Arrive

Declan had minutes—maybe seconds—before the Seraphim realized what he’d found.

The message wasn’t just a taunt. It was a warning.

A location, hidden beneath phrasing that looked simple to the untrained eye—but to him, it was something else. Buried between the lines, woven with the precision of old military coding, the coordinates were there.

Declan’s pulse hammered against his ribs as he scanned the message, piecing it together, parsing each symbol, each deliberate phrasing. Not much time. Not enough.

Then—tires screeched down the street.

The low, guttural growl of high-performance engines, wheels biting into asphalt, closing in fast. The Seraphim enforcers had finally caught up.

Declan inhaled, sharp, calculated.

No margin for error.

One shot to get ahead.

He moved.

Chapter 9: Slipping Away

Declan Cross didn’t run.

Not like amateurs—blind, frantic, reckless with desperation.

When Declan moved, he did it like a ghost slipping from the edge of a shadow—quick, precise, leaving nothing behind but silence.

The Seraphim enforcers were close. He could hear them, their boots grinding against pavement, voices sharp, cutting through the night. They were tracking his last known movement, calculating angles, closing gaps.

But he was already gone.

He cut through a narrow side alley, its walls slick with old rain, the scent of damp concrete wrapping around him like fog. Mercy Row wasn’t just a street—it was a pulse, a rhythm, a living artery that fed Sugar Bay’s underbelly. Declan didn’t just move through it. He became part of it.

Shadows swallowed him whole, concealing his presence beneath neon reflections and the murmur of restless city air. He wove through the thrumming night, blending into the quiet spaces between movement and stillness, slipping past alleyway specters who saw everything and said nothing.

And now, he had a location.

Viktor’s next hideout.

The chase had shifted. No longer pursuit—now strategy.

And Declan was ready to make his next move.

Chapter 10: The Lair of a Perfect Soldier

It wasn’t a safe house.

Not in the traditional sense—no clutter of stolen records, no cigarette-stained documents piecing together the fragmented mind of a killer. No frantic scribbles mapping out future moves.

Because Viktor didn’t need to archive his plans.

He was the archive.

Declan adjusted his stance, slowing his approach as he moved through the cavernous warehouse, every footstep deliberately controlled, barely a whisper against the worn concrete floor. The air was thick—clinging to him like dust unsettled from forgotten surfaces. It smelled of rust, of cold metal, of something long abandoned but recently disturbed.

This wasn’t a place of refuge.

It was a hunting ground.

And Declan wasn’t the one stalking.

His pulse was steady, breath measured, but there was an undeniable weight pressing against him—a presence unseen yet suffocating. A shadow just out of reach.

Milinah was somewhere in here.

Viktor was somewhere ahead.

And time was burning fast.

Chapter 11: The Trap

Declan Cross moved through the abandoned warehouse like a man walking into his own grave.

The air was thick—choking on rust, fire, the scent of scorched metal threading through the cracks in the old concrete walls. Heat rose in slow, deliberate waves from burning embers nestled near the rafters, the glow flickering against the steel beams overhead like dying stars.

Something wasn’t right.

Then—he saw her.

Milinah.

Bound to one of the beams, wrists raw and bleeding from restraints that had held far too long. Her breath was measured, controlled, but exhaustion pressed against the sharp edges of her stare. Even now—especially now—her eyes still cut through the smoke like knives.

Declan stepped forward.

A voice sliced through the air.

“Du hast dich immer für sie entschieden. You were always going to choose her.”

Declan froze.

Viktor Drachensturm emerged from the shadows, his movements unhurried, his presence unbothered, unreadable. He stepped through the dim haze as if he owned it, as if every ember, every fractured beam, every moment belonged to him.

Declan raised his gun, his grip solid. Steady.

“Let her go.”

Viktor tilted his head, eyes sharp with something that wasn’t amusement but wasn’t indifference either—something colder. He studied Declan with the patience of a predator sizing up prey, a creature examining a lesser species.

Then, slowly, deliberately—

He smiled.

“Du kennst das Ende schon. You already know how this ends.”

And the flames roared higher.

Chapter 12: The Impossible Choice

The exit route was there—right there—but Viktor stood between it, between freedom, between the war Declan was trying to win.

Declan could take the shot.

Could try.

But Viktor was already moving—like he had seen this fight unfold a thousand times before, like he had memorized the angles, the choices, the inevitability of it all.

Declan lunged—fast, desperate.

Viktor caught him in a practiced motion, twisting his arm just enough for pain to streak white-hot through his shoulder before driving a knee into his ribs. The impact was brutal, precise, knocking the air clean from his lungs. Declan hit the ground hard, vision sparking at the edges, body screaming against the weight of the moment.

Viktor stepped back.

The flames surged higher, licking along rusted beams, smoke curling in thick, suffocating waves.

And then—his voice.

“Entscheide dich. Choose.”

Calm. Steady. Unnervingly certain.

“Ich oder sie. Me or her.”

Declan’s pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out everything except the weight of Milinah’s ragged breath. He could feel her presence like gravity, the unspoken demand of the moment pressing against his chest.

His jaw tightened.

His grip steadied.

And then—

He dropped the gun.

Turned for Milinah.

Cut through the restraints, pulling them loose, feeling them tear as he yanked her free.

She fell against him, coughing, choking on smoke—but she was alive.

Declan’s grip tightened around her, anchoring her against the fire, against the collapsing wreckage of what this moment could have been.

And Viktor?

He was already gone.

Chapter 13: The Aftermath

Milinah dragged Declan from the wreckage, their bodies smudged with soot, muscles aching under the weight of exhaustion. The city stretched before them—charred, broken, still smoldering in places where the fire had yet to surrender.

She pressed a hand against his chest, grounding him in the present, in the undeniable fact that they were still standing.

“You did it.”

Declan laughed—rough, breathless, edged with something that wasn’t quite relief. “You keep saying that. Feels like we just barely made it.”

Milinah shook her head, smirking. “We made it.”

A pause.

The world burned behind them, but here, now, the moment held something softer—unspoken, undeniable, a breath between war and whatever came next.

Milinah leaned in. Declan didn’t pull away.

Their lips met—slow, aching, the kind of touch weighed down with everything unsaid. The bruises, the battle, the war that had changed them. It wasn’t just survival. It was recognition.

And somewhere, in the fading embers of Sugar Bay, Viktor Drachensturm watched.

Waiting.