Page 114 of Serpent King's Revenge

Our happy ending started in the same place as our dark beginning.

An empty apartment building in South Beach.

A prison.

Our safe place to land.

We’d brought Lily and Knuckles back to the teahouse an hour ago, the mood in the car bloodsoaked and somber. They took one look at them, beaten but breathing, and nodded like it was just another Tuesday. "We'll handle it," Xinyi had said before sending us off. “Get some sleep.”

Home wasn't an option; cops would be crawling all over South Beach by now.

So here we were, back to square one.

We hit the button for the elevator from the parking garage, its metal doors grinding open like it had been waiting just for us. The ride up felt like a lifetime, each floor passing slower than the last. Inside the apartment, that damn side table lay on its side where I'd kicked it in a rage earlier. It screamed disorder in a space that used to be all about control, my control.

But now, none of that mattered.

We were alive.

"Shower," Abby muttered, her voice barely there, and I could only nod as we stumbled toward the bathroom together. The cold tiles under our feet were a stark reminder of the night's chaos.i really just

I turned on the water, watching it cascade from the showerhead, a temporary waterfall in a world gone dry. We stepped in without a word, letting the stream wash over us. It wasn't until I looked down and saw the red swirling around the drain that it really hit me. Blood, so much of it—ours, Diane’s, Ba’s, Knuckles’—mixing with the water, painting a grim picture of the night's cost.

"Fucking hell," I whispered, more to myself than to her, as I noticed the extent of our cuts and bruises, souvenirs from hell.

"Almost missed a spot," she said, her attempt at lightness falling flat against the exhaustion lining her face. It must've been three A.M., and every part of me ached. Abby leaned into me, her body speaking volumes of the pain she carried.

"Let's just get through this," I said, feeling her nod against my chest. We cleaned ourselves in silence, the water slowly running clear again, washing away the evidence but not the memory.

Not yet.

We turned off the water, and I grabbed a couple of towels, tossing one to Abby. We dried off in silence. The cuts stung as the rough fabric passed over them, but neither of us complained.

"Bed," I grumbled, my voice hoarse from exhaustion.

"Bed," she agreed, just as worn out.

We left damp footprints on the wood floor as we made our way to the bedroom, then crawled beneath the sheets. We were still soaking, but neither of us cared enough to do anything about it. We fell onto the bed, our bodies heavy with more than just tiredness. She was close, her breath even and slow, signaling the edge of sleep.

I closed my eyes, letting the darkness take me too.

Then I opened them—or at least it felt that way—to dawn light creeping through the blinds.

I took a deep breath, then exhaled. My muscles felt loose for the first time in months, years…maybe a lifetime. The usual pressing dread that knotted my stomach each morning was gone.

I sat up, careful not to wake Abby. I looked around at the room where I’d once kept her prisoner, where I’d grappled with who I was and who I wanted to be. No ghosts haunted the corners or whispered old family sins. The angry spirit of my mother that had always seemed to lurk just out of sight was absent.

"Free," I whispered to the empty air, testing the word. It fit, settling into the space where fear and obligation used to live.

My hand reached out for the phone, fingers brushing against the cool surface before I picked it up.

Light from the screen hit my eyes like a punch, but I blinked through it to see a string of notifications. A text from Lily first, three simple words that meant the world: "I love you." Next, Alex's message, a virtual pat on the back: "Proud of you, man." Then Justin's stream of gratitude, his words piling on each other: "Thank you thank you thank you."

Owen's text came next, straight to the point. "You guys good?" followed by, "Just talked to Knuckles at the hospital. He's holding up." Another message from him waited, cementing our safety: "Got to the scene first. Your prints are gone."

I let out a breath long held—not because of fear, but relief. The last message sealed everything. "Kenny Zhou's dead. Laundering places burned. Serpents done."

That was it.

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