Page 21 of Nocturne
“This isn’t just any gang, Carter. It’s Iron Requiem. You know what they did. How many of ours died because of them? How many loads we lost? How many spots now bear their fucking mark, like they ripped off our skin and dressed the carcass?”
My voice cracks at the end, choked with raw rage and bitter impotence. The name Iron Requiem is an open wound inside me. And now they’re reaching out to those bastards like it’s normal?
“And who the hell are you to question my methods?” His voice snaps, hard, non-negotiable. “You got privileges most here would give their souls to have. But don’t forget, Damon: I’m the one running this shit. I’m the one calling the shots.”
His words hit like punches, and for a second everything in me wants to strike back. But I can’t. Not yet. The silence that falls is crueler than any threat. He doesn’t need to raise his voice. His authority’s carved in blood, built on the bones of those who dared challenge him.
“I didn’t say that.”
The words slip out dry, stuck in my throat. I swallow hard, the bitter taste of powerlessness burning my tongue. I don’t know what to say — and Carter knows it immediately.
He leans in, his eyes sharp like a blade ready to open another wound.
“You’d rather throw away everything we built in Boston? Die now, like some impulsive martyr, then make the hard call to face a bigger enemy?”
His voice doesn’t waver. Don't yell. But it weighs down like lead on my chest. “You’re not stupid, Damon. But you gotta learn to think before you strike.”
My fists clench, nails digging into my palms, and fury surges like gasoline catching fire. “Since when do we solve shit by sitting down and talking, Carter?”
I take another step forward, my whole body tense.
“I grew up watching this city bleed. Losing people. Losing blocks. Losing respect. And now you want me to shut my eyes and swallow this truce like it’s some fine wine?” My voice tears through the air. Raw. Unfiltered. “I’m not made to swallow shit quietly.”
The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s thick, suffocating. A minefield between us, waiting for the next step to set it off.
“He who kills without thought is merely hastening his own downfall.” Carter leans back in his leather chair, eyes half-lidded, carrying a calm that threatens more than any scream. He spins the silver ring on his finger—an elegant, old piece with subtle details glinting under the weak office light—as if every turn is part of some calculation only he understands. “We don’t need rage, Damon. We need vision. Too much blood just clouds the path to victory.”
I push up from the chair with a sharp jolt, body burning, every step heavy like I’m stomping straight through my own frustration. I storm out of the room, blood pounding in my temples, pissed — even more so because I know Carter’s right.
In the hallway, Quinn Bishop’s mocking voice cutsthrough like a calculated jab. “You look like shit. Take a fuckin’ break or drop dead, your choice.”
She’s leaning against the back wall when I walk in. Like she was already waiting for me.
That purple hair falls messily over her eyes, but it doesn’t hide the way she looks at me — direct, cold, not a hint of fear. The open leather jacket shows the lace of her top underneath and a black tattoo on her shoulder that looks like it was inked in anger. The kind of girl who doesn’t need to say she can handle herself.
There’s something in the way she breathes, too slow, like she’s sizing me up, testing my rhythm.
The silence between us weighs more than it should.
?????
If I knew this alliance was gonna fuck up my plans this bad, I would've dipped a long time ago. Maybe hit another city, somewhere the Nocturne Pact still has allies, pull, chances to dig deeper without all this bullshit in my way. Places where I could keep hunting for answers without everything collapsing around me.
But I stayed. And now, with shit slowly falling apart, all I want is silence.
That’s why I’m up here. Alone on the roof. Wind sliding through my hoodie while Boston glows beneath me under the morning sun, like the city isn’t hiding bodies behind every sunlit corner. Watching from up here is still one of the only things I can do in peace.
No one interrupting. No one asking questions. Nothing but me, the skyline, and the thoughts screaming in my head.
I catch myself wondering how it would’ve been if Noah was still alive. Maybe we’d be living together in some tiny-ass apartment, working two jobs each just to make rent. No gang shit. No blood. No easy money. Just us. The kind of life I was supposed to have.
But instead… I’m here. Trying to piece together a fucked-up puzzle I never asked for. Still trying to make sense of what went down that night.
Because I was with him. That fucking night. I saw when he got the message. I watched him shove those papers into his backpack and mumble something about needing to drop it off real quick. I didn’t ask. I just went with him.
We drove in silence. Parked near some alley I’d never seen before. He told me to stay in the car. I didn’t.
And I wish I had.
