Page 23 of Nocturne
EMMA:
One day I will get the chance to slap that bitch Grace across the face. Who the fuck does she think she is?
ME:
Good thing it didn’t go further, ‘cause I swear I would’ve killed someone
I let out a soft laugh, more from relief than anything else. Just glad there’s no one talking in my ear. Just reading. Just being. Away from the rest of it.
I open the camera, snap a pic of my breakfast, and send it to the group.
ME:
Takin’ some me time, losers
EMMA:
Ugh, not fair! I want that too wtf
VINCENT:
Alone, huh? Want some company, bro?
When I step into the café to pay for my breakfast, some dude in a blue Sox cap and a polo shirt bumps into me—looks accidental, but it’s not. He shoves an orange folder into my hands, the kind with an official-ass stamp onit.
“This is everything he had. I’m only doin’ this ’cause he was my boy. He got killed last night.”
My whole body tenses up.
I know exactly who he’s talking about.
Brian Kennedy.
My contact. The guy I was supposed to meet tonight. He had dirt—real shit—on what went down the night Noah was killed. And now he’s dead. I didn’t even get the chance to talk to him in person.
Brian and I met on the street. He was a police informant, but never tied to any crew. If the cops had some raid planned on Nocturne turf or something shady going down, he’d give me the heads-up. We had a fair deal—info for cash.
When I told him what I needed, he said it wasn’t really his thing, but he’d try. And I guess that got him killed.
The guy in the cap walks out of the café and disappears into the Boston streets like a damn ghost.
When I open the folder, all I see are photos. My brother, Noah, with a man I don’t recognize. They look like they’re arguing in some dark alley, the walls covered in old, faded graffiti, colors bleeding from time and weather. What the hell was Noah doing with this guy?
And worse, what the hell was he involved in that he never told me about? Anger tightens in my chest as I dig through every photo in that folder, my hands shaking now.
The memories hit like a runaway car, speeding outta control, impossible to stop without causing a massivewreck. Can’t dodge it, just feel the impact burning on my skin and chest. I remember my brother’s death, that day that straight-up fucked everything. Iron Requiem rolled heavy through the neighborhood, a wild-ass shootout that turned into a ruthless war. Bullets sliced through the air, chaos everywhere, and I’m stuck in the middle of that crossfire, just trying to survive.
That same night, my parents and grandparents were at a restaurant nearby, and a stray bullet took them away. Outta nowhere, I lost everything that mattered. Since then, all I carry is anger, bitterness, and a thirst for revenge against anyone involved in this whole fucked-up mess. Innocent people died, and what did the city do? Swept it all under the rug. No one got blamed, nothing hit the news, nothing changed.
That’s why I got this bitter taste in my mouth, this raw hate for Iron Requiem. That truce Carter’s pushing? Doesn’t make any damn sense to me. Can’t fake like everything’s cool when what I feel is a fire burning deep in my chest. I don’t know how to move on like this, but I can’t let it go either. This shit’s my reality, my daily curse.
I try not to think about it too much, but the fear’s always there, lurking in the corner of my chest, pounding hard. Knowing Noah was mixed up in some heavy shit pisses me off and at the same time fucks me up with fear.
Because if I start digging deep, I don’t know what I’ll find. Maybe it’s worse than I imagine, maybe I’m poking a venom that could kill me. The worst part is that doubt eats away at me, trapping me in a tension that won’t let go. It’s like walking a tightrope, staring down into the abysswaiting for me.
I get that maybe Noah got caught in a game with no way back, shit way beyond anything I’ve seen. It scares the hell outta me, ’cause the more I uncover, the more I realize dangerous people are involved — people who won’t think twice about taking out anyone who crosses them. And deep down, I’m scared of what this truth might do to me. But at the same time, I know ignoring it won’t help, ’cause this shit will eat me alive until I face it head-on — even if I know it could be the beginning of the end.
All this rage I carry against Iron Requiem is what makes me hate Hunter the way I do. He moves like this whole place already belongs to him — every word, every move packed with a sharp certainty that cuts and presses.
