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"Your brother’s memory doesn't deserve this," Morgan continued, her tone softening. "Ending up here, like this... it’s no tribute. It’s just more pain."

But Elliott spun around, his face contorted with a wildness that sent a shiver down Morgan’s spine despite the adrenaline that flooded her system. His eyes, wide and unseeing, were locked into a vision of the world that Morgan knew she couldn't fully grasp—a dark and twisted landscape painted by grief and madness.

"He promised me," Elliott spat out, his voice laced with a manic intensity, "The dark lord, the master of the nether realm. He said Jace will return, that the sacrifices would tip the scales!"

Morgan kept her posture relaxed in contrast to Elliott’s fervor, an island of calm in the eye of his storm. Yet inside, her heart ached for the broken man before her, so lost in his delusions that he clung to them as the last vestiges of hope.

"Blood won't bring him back, Elliott. You know that somewhere deep inside. This... entity, it's preying on your pain, it's—" she tried to reason, but Elliott’s expression twisted further, his belief unshaken.

"Enough blood can change the world," Elliott declared, his voice breaking. "Jace was pure, the perfect offering. I—I just need to finish what he started."

The sincerity in his voice was haunting. This wasn’t mere fanaticism; it was the cry of a soul torn apart by loss, seeking solace in the impossible. Morgan tightened her grip on the gun, knowing that words were failing, that the abyss into which Elliott had fallen was too deep to be bridged by mere sympathy. But still, she had to try—for Elliott, for the victims, for the semblance of peace that seemed so out of reach.

"Let us help you, Elliott," she implored, taking a step forward. "This ends tonight, but how it ends is up to you."

Morgan's voice cut through the howling wind, her words sharp and clear. "Elliott, it doesn't have to end like this," she said, the scaffolding beneath them groaning in protest against the gusts that whipped around the high-rise skeleton of steel and concrete.

Elliott Crane's silhouette hovered at the edge of the structure, his figure stooped and unpredictable. His lips moved in a silent chant, his eyes reflecting the city lights below with a haunted glow. He was a portrait of a man fractured by grief, standing at the precipice of reason and madness.

"Listen to me, Elliott," Morgan continued, her tone steady despite the turmoil inside her. "Your brother wouldn't want this. You can still make things right."

But as she spoke, she saw the resolve in Elliott's posture. He was a man cornered by his own spiraling thoughts, a mind ensnared in a web of sorrow too dense to escape. With a murmur about a final sacrifice, his voice barely audible against the din of the city, he took one faltering step back into the void.

Time seemed to slow as Elliott's foot left the solid beam, his body tilting backward into nothingness. Morgan's arm shot out, fingers grasping for fabric, for flesh, for any piece of him she might save. It was a futile gesture—Elliott's descent had already begun.

The darkness swallowed him whole, and the night echoed with the terrible finality of his impact far below. Morgan stood motionless, her hand still extended into empty space where moments ago there had been a life teetering on the edge.

There was a hush, a stark absence of sound that seemed to press against her ears. The clamor of the city faded into a distant hum, and for an instant, the world held its breath, suspended in the wake of tragedy.

Morgan's throat constricted, and she forced herself to look down from the precarious height, seeking the broken form she knew lay crumpled on the ground. She couldn't see him from here, but the knowledge clawed at her, a visceral understanding of what had transpired—an end that was neither heroic nor just, but simply human.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Morgan stepped into the Federal Building, her boots silent on the polished floor. The place thrummed with energy—agents darting past with stern faces, the punctuated trill of phones, the low drone of voices. Normally, she'd be swept up in the current of urgency, but today, detachment settled over her like a shroud.

She navigated the familiar halls, senses dulled. Her gaze flicked to the corner where she’d last seen Elliott Crane alive. He haunted the peripherals of her vision—a ghost fading with each heartbeat. The case was closed, the killer gone, yet peace eluded her. Morgan swallowed, the taste of victory ash on her tongue.

"Cross," called a voice, jarring her from her reverie. She turned, finding Derik's green eyes shadowed with shared disquiet. He nodded toward Mueller’s office. No words were needed; they moved in tandem, bound by something deeper than duty.

Assistant Director Mueller stood as they entered, his gray hair and mustache lending him an air of gravitas that the room seemed to absorb. "Cross, Greene," he greeted, voice gravelly with authority.

"Sir," they replied in unison.

"Sit down." His command was softened by a dip of his head, an invitation rather than an order.

Mueller's office was sparse, functional, every item a testament to a career built on discipline. He took his seat again, fingers laced on the desk. "The case you two have been working on," he began, "it's made headlines. Not all press is good press, but this..." He paused, assessing them with a practiced eye. "You did well."

"Thank you, sir," Morgan said, her words clipped. Praise felt misplaced when weighed against a life extinguished too soon.

"Crane's death isn't on you," Mueller continued, interpreting her silence accurately. "You prevented more loss, stopped further tragedies. That's commendable."

Derik gave a curt nod. "We appreciate that, sir."

"Good." Mueller leaned back, steeple of fingers breaking apart as he reached for a file, passing it across the desk. "New directives will be coming your way. Take the day, then get back to it. We've got lives to save."

"Understood," Morgan replied, but her thoughts snagged on Elliott's final moments—the fall, the impact, the end. Mueller saw justice served; she saw a cascade of could-have-beens.

"Dismissed." Mueller's voice was final, a period at the end of a long and taxing sentence.

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