Page 47 of For Silence

"Rumors die hard, don't they, Gavin?" Morgan said, her voice steady but her muscles tight, ready for anything.

He didn't answer; instead, his gaze flicked to a side table, to a ceramic vase atop it. In an instant, his hand shot out, seizing the vase and hurling it towards Morgan's head with unexpected force. She ducked, the vase shattering against the wall where her head had been seconds before.

"Derik!" she shouted, even as Gavin bolted, his footsteps pounding against the worn carpet.

The chase was on, chaotic and violent as Gavin threw obstacles in their path—overturning furniture, ripping down curtains. Morgan and Derik pursued, adrenaline fueling their steps as they navigated the narrow hallways of the dilapidated house. Picture frames crashed to the ground from the walls, the smiling faces of a family long gone splintering beneath their feet.

"Left!" Derik called out as Gavin disappeared around a corner, his breaths coming in harsh pants. Morgan followed, her dark hair whipping behind her as she moved with the practiced ease of someone who knows their body is a weapon.

They plunged through cluttered rooms, dodging decayed toys and stacks of newspapers that spoke of a life stuck in the past. Dust motes danced in the beams of their flashlights, creating a surreal backdrop to the violence unfolding.

"Split up," Morgan commanded as they entered a wider space, a living room that smelled of mildew and regret. She veered right, Derik left, both seeking to cut off Gavin's escape routes.

Through a kitchen littered with dirty dishes and expired dreams, Morgan advanced. A knife clattered to the floor as Gavin swept an arm across a countertop, buying himself precious seconds. Morgan didn't flinch, her focus razor-sharp as she cleared the distance between them.

"Stop, Gavin! It's over!" Her voice was authoritative, commanding, but the young journalist was beyond reason, propelled by a grief-twisted logic only he understood.

A fist collided with Derik's jaw in the semi-darkness, a crunch of bone and sinew that echoed through the narrow corridor. Morgan's head whipped around just in time to see her partner's tall frame crumple to the ground, his eyes rolling back as he collapsed into unconsciousness.

"Derik!" she cried out, her voice a mix of anger and concern. She dropped beside him, her trained fingers quickly checking for a pulse. It was strong, steady—thank God—but there was no time to spare.

"Agent down!" Morgan barked into her radio, the device crackling with her urgency. "I need backup at 5472 Willow Lane. Suspect is on foot, inside the house. Surround the premises!"

With one last glance at Derik's still form, she forced herself up and dashed in the direction Gavin had fled—up the stairs. Adrenaline surged through her veins, sharpening her senses, focusing her mind with the clarity of a predator closing in on its prey.

The chase led her to a door slightly ajar, light spilling onto the hallway's carpet. Morgan nudged it open with the barrel of her gun, peering into a room frozen in another era. Toys lay scattered across the floor, a model airplane hung from the ceiling, and posters of long-forgotten cartoons adorned the walls. This was Frankie's sanctuary, untouched by time or grief.

"Gavin! Come out," Morgan commanded, her tone even but authoritative.

Her eyes darted across the room, searching for any sign of movement, any hint of where he might be hiding. But silence greeted her, the heavy kind that pressed down on the chest and filled the air with unspoken dread.

"Think about what you're doing," she continued, taking measured steps into the room, her weapon leading the way. "This isn't what Frankie would've wanted."

No response came, only the quiet mocking her. The atmosphere felt charged, every corner of the childhood haven now a potential cover for a desperate man with nothing left to lose. Morgan knew the stakes; she had been at this deadly game long enough to understand its cruel twists.

She moved further in, her senses on high alert, knowing full well that Gavin could emerge at any moment, ready to fight with the ferocity of a cornered animal. Each step was calculated, each breath controlled—the hunter's dance performed with lethal grace.

"Come out, Gavin," Morgan repeated, this time her voice softer—a plea wrapped in the guise of an order. "Let's end this without any more bloodshed."

Still, the room remained silent, save for the distant sound of sirens growing ever closer. Backup was on its way, but in this moment, it was just Morgan and the ghost of the boy who once played here, the innocence lost forever in the shadow of tragedy.

Morgan scanned the room, her eyes halting on a ripped teddy bear lying under a dusty dresser. The gash across its stomach spilled synthetic fluff onto the wooden floor—a stark contrast to the violence that had just unfolded. She felt the weight of every child's smile that room once hosted, now tainted by the horrors of adulthood.

"Frankie deserved better than this," she said, her voice tinged with empathy and steel as she took another cautious step forward. "You think you're avenging him, Gavin, but revenge is a dark path that only leads to more pain."

Her words seemed to dissolve into the silence that cloaked the room, heavy with the ghosts of innocence lost. Somewhere in the shadows, she knew Gavin was listening, his breaths likely shallow with anxiety and fear.

"Your brother's memory doesn't have to be stained with blood," Morgan continued, her gaze never leaving the corners where darkness lingered. "It's not too late to stop this."

As if summoned by her call to conscience, Gavin erupted from the shadows behind the closet door, his face twisted with desperation and anger. With a guttural cry, he lunged at Morgan, his hands aiming for her throat. Instinctively, she sidestepped, barely avoiding his grasp as adrenaline surged through her veins.

"Damn you, Gavin!" Morgan grunted, as they crashed into a small table, sending childhood trophies clattering to the ground.

Gavin's rage was palpable, his fists swinging wildly, each blow carrying the weight of his anguish. Morgan deflected his attacks with precision, her training taking over, but she could feel the raw emotional energy fueling his assault.

"Stop!" she yelled, dodging a particularly vicious strike. "I understand your pain, but this isn't justice!"

Their struggle was a dance of survival, desperation meeting determination, each move a test of wills. Gavin's eyes burned with undiluted fear, a mirror to the terror his brother must have felt in his final moments. Morgan knew she couldn't let that fear overpower her own resolve; she had to end this before it ended her.

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