Page 119 of Nocturne

Still, stepping out isn’t the worst idea. My head feels tangled lately. It’s like I’ve grown too comfortable—fearing less and hoping more. I don’t glance over my shoulder as much when I walk down the street, and those anxious, disjointed moments where I lose myself seem fewer and farther between.

Most people would call this progress. Psychologists would probably call it ‘healing.’ Me? I call it a red flag. Comfort is a luxury I cannot afford. The moment I let my guard down, I might make a mistake—one that could cost me the people I care about.

And then there’s Zagan. I can’t quite place him in the ever-spinning chaos of my life, but I know he’s more than just a passing storm. He’s an anomaly—a man who slithered into my world without warning and declared—not so subtly—that he wasn’t leaving anytime soon. I can’t stay blind to who heis. Not when he already knows too much about me. I can’t justify...whatever it is we’ve been doing or accept being labelled as‘his’without understanding the man behind the curtain.

The streets grow quieter as we veer into the neighbourhood’s less-crowded corners. Yuri, walking beside me like the silent sentinel he is, tosses his empty coffee cup into a passing bin without breaking stride. His eyes are everywhere, sharp and unrelenting, even if he plays it subtle. He doesn’t let anyone so much as brush against me, even in a crowd.

“Yuri, can I ask you something, and you promise to give me an answer?”

He gives me a side-eyed look, suspicious but not outright dismissive.

“I’ll try my best,” he replies cautiously.

Fair enough.

“How did Zagan become part ofThe Dark Accord?”

I watch his face closely. There’s a flicker of shock—quick and sharp—before he locks it down. He takes a moment, likely debating how much to tell me, while I sip my butterscotch latte and keep my expression neutral. Reading people is half about paying attention and half about staying quiet long enough to let them trip over their thoughts.

“He killed the presiding asshole and took the seat,” Yuri finally says, his voice laced with disdain.

Whoever this ‘asshole’ was, he clearly wasn’t on Yuri’s Christmas card list.

I tuck that nugget away for later and tilt my head thoughtfully. “I knew that. What I meant was, aren’t the members supposed to protect each other? Help when someone’s under attack?”

In Ivy's words, I knew shit. But I pieced together a pretty logical guess after Yuri let it slip that Zagan was, without a doubt, part of this mysterious group. An alliance that has survived for decades—especially those involving powerful crime lords—must come with perks. It's not rocket science to figure out that protecting each other when things go south would be high on the list of rules. Right up there with the no-double-crossing clause.

Here’s the thing about fishing for information: it’s all about framing. You can’t come off as clueless. You have to sound like you already know things—dangerous, half-truthful things. Enough to make the other person think you’re in the loop. It makes them more likely to fill in the gaps.

From the way Yuri’s expression shifted—like he’d bought into the idea that I already knew more than I was letting on—it was clear my little act had paid off. Bluff successful.

“Not when the party refuses the help.”

“Who refuses help when they’re losing?” I frown, unable to mask my disbelief.

“Pietro was given a choice right before the war broke out. One can only accept or refuse before any disruption starts. After you make your choice, you cannot take it back. That’s an absolute rule.”

It sounds absurdly rigid, but what do I know about the unwritten codes of this world? We’re talking about war, violence, death, and the destruction of properties worth millions—all of it happening right under our noses while we remain blissfullyunaware. We tell ourselves we live in a democratic world, that we have rights, choices, and power as a collective mob. We’re allowed to believe that becausetheylet us. This isn’t a democracy.

It never has been. It’s a plutocracy, and most of us are just happy enough not to ask the hard questions.

And honestly, it’s a good thing we don’t. I did. I poked and prodded, asked question after question, made myself a thorn in the side of every authority figure I could find, and even went so far as to investigate the root of the problem myself. How did that turn out?

Months of torture. Witnessing unspeakable horrors. Losing myself piece by piece until I became someone unrecognisable.

A murderer.

Now? I barely flinch at the prospect of death or violence. Yes, the sight of gore still turns my stomach, but I’ve stopped rejecting violence. That part of me has long since been eroded. I condone it. In fact, I’ve come to believe it’s an efficient tool. It sends a clear message. If I have to hurt someone—or worse—to protect myself or the people I care about, so be it. I carry a gun everywhere I go, for crying out loud.

Fat a lot of good that did the last time.

I ignore the voice. It’s turning out to sound more and more like Iblis’s jeering insolence, and it is only spurring to vex me further.

A burst of laughter from a group of kids nearby snaps me out of my spiralling thoughts. The sound is so innocent, so oblivious to the kind of world we’re discussing, that it feels almost surreal. I shake it off and return to the conversation at hand.

“So, the moment someone overthrows the presiding person in power, they automatically get to occupy the seat he or she vacated?” I muse aloud, testing the waters.

“No,” Yuri answers smoothly. “One must be worthy enough. Crescenzo had to wait years, forge countless deals, and handle a lot of their dirty work before he was accepted into it.”

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