Page 50 of When 're Silent

“You’re cornered, Hastings,” Ameliachimed in, her voice betraying none of the tension that Finn knew she felt.“Downstairs, the coast is swarming with constables. You’re going to prison.This isn’t a stage—you don’t get to bow out after the final act.”

“Life is a stage, my deardetective,” Hastings said, his gaze sharp as flint. “And I am merely playing mypart, a part to rid our society of this royal scum, to offer her up to thegreat elder one. He will be pleased.”

“Problem is,” Finn said, shiftinghis weight slightly, ready for any sudden moves, “the audience didn’t much carefor your performance. Reviews are in, and it turns out, you shouldn’t have quityour day job.”

“Bravo,” Hastings said mockingly.“Always time for one last joke, right?”

“Jesus, you are melodramatic,” Finnsaid. “I hope you’re a better librarian than you are an actor.”

That last quip seemed to stingHastings.

Finn kept his gaze locked onVictor, reading the micro-expressions that flitted across his face, the slighttwitch of muscle that betrayed his calm demeanor. This was a man who hadsteeped himself in history, who had let the bitterness of the past ferment intoa toxic resolve.

“Let her go, Victor,” Finn saidfirmly, his fingers itching for action but his mind acutely aware of thedelicacy of the situation. “This ends now.”

Victor’s eyes, darkened by morethan just the shadowed room, fixed on Finn with an intensity that spoke ofdeep-seated rage, a fire that had been smoldering for years, waiting for theperfect moment to burst forth.

“Ends?” Victor’s tone was mocking.“Oh, detective, you must realize by now—this is merely the opening act.”

Victor shifted his weight, apredator adjusting for a better vantage. The dim light glinted off the signetring in his hand, casting elongated shadows that danced across the crackedwalls of the lighthouse. Amelia’s hand rested by her sides, her eyes dartingbetween Sarah and our quarry.

“You wear a royal ring?” Finnasked.

“It is not a royal ring, but theinsignia of The Temple of the Silver Sun,” he sniped.

“I hate all of this animosity.Let’s talk, Victor,” Finn said, keeping his tone steady. “We both know how thisgoes. Hostages, demands... But what is it you’re really after?”

His eyes narrowed, flickeringmomentarily with something that might have been amusement—or madness. “Youthink you understand, Detective Wright? You think you can psychoanalyze me? Iam the last of a line going back a thousand years. Why should this royal poisoncontinue while my line ends?”

“Retribution against the crown?You’re aware they won’t even notice your little crusade,” Finn prodded, carefulto keep his voice calm, despite the pulse pounding in his ears. “But innocentlives, Victor? That’s a heavy price to pay for a personal vendetta. And you’veonly targeted distant royals. Ones you could get close to. Not much of anassassin, are you?”

He paused then, and in thathesitation, Finn saw an opportunity. He continued, weaving a web of words meantto ensnare his attention. “The royals, they live in their palaces, insulatedfrom the likes of us. But people like Sarah,” Finn nodded toward the unconsciouswoman, “they’re just trying to make their way in the world, same as you oncedid, despite their relations.”

Victor’s gaze wavered, darting toSarah before snapping back to Finn. His jaw clenched, the muscles workingbeneath the skin. “She represents everything I despise—privilege, power, anunearned place in this world...”

“Yet here we are, giving her thestage,” Finn added quickly, seizing the momentary crack in his composure. “Thequestion is, Victor, do you want to be the villain of this piece, or is theremore to your story? An anti-hero perhaps?”

Behind Victor, Amelia had beguninching closer to Sarah, her movements deliberate and silent. Finn knew she wascounting on him to keep Victor’s focus locked onto our verbal duel, which hadbecome as palpable as the salt-laden breeze that slipped through the gaps inthe aged wood.

“More to my story?” he echoed, thecorner of his mouth twitching upwards. “Detective Wright, you have no idea. Butperhaps you’re right about one thing...”

As he trailed off, Finn sensed theshift in his attention—the internal struggle between his desire to explainhimself and his need to maintain control. It was the distraction Amelia needed.

“Perhaps,” Finn pushed, holding hisgaze, “it’s time to turn the page, Victor. Time to decide how history willremember you.”

Amelia was almost at Sarah’s sidenow, her fingers deftly working at the knots that held her captive. Finn kepttalking, kept his focus on Victor, knowing that every second mattered, thatevery word could tip the balance.

The air in the lighthouse was thickwith tension, a stifling cloak that seemed to muffle even the sound of thewaves crashing against the rocks far below. Victor’s silhouette loomed in thedim light, his shadow merging with the rusted gears and crumbling brick like aspecter from the past.

“This is revolution, and I am thetip of the spear!” Victor shouted dramatically.

“Revolutionary hero?” Finn scoffed,his words calculated to provoke. “Seems to me you’re nothing but a poor actoron a stage too grand for your talents.”

Victor’s eyes darkened, the musclesin his jaw twitching with a cocktail of anger and hurt pride. For a moment, hefaltered, the facade of the cold, calculating assassin slipping to reveal thewounded man underneath.

“An actor?” His voice was a hiss, aleaking tire before the blowout. “I am the hand of retribution, the—”

"Hand of retribution?"Finn interrupted, allowing a smirk to play on my lips despite the danger."More like a puppet, dancing on strings of misguided vengeance. Vanity.Melodramatics. Just plain maniac who will leave nothing behind but a footnotein a newspaper. I’ll be the one giving the interviews while you rot in prison,anonymous, having achieved nothing, spending your days as a hack.”

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