Page 24 of Nocturne
It’s not just arrogance; it’s a silent dominance that pisses me off and keeps me on edge, like I always gotta be ready to fight back, even if I don’t fully know why. It’s that kind of control that doesn’t ask permission, that invades without warning, and, damn, I don’t know if I want to push him away or challenge him.
He always shows up too close, moves like the space around him is just an extension of my body, a line I never managed — or never wanted — to draw right. And that look he throws — half cocky, half challenging — that says “Now you owe me your life,” it pisses me off hard, a fire burning that I can’t put out. We trade silence and provocations that burn hotter than any punch — and I pretend I don’t feel a thing, even when the air between us weighs heavy.
Maybe it’s fear, maybe it’s pride, or just some mixI don’t fully get. What I do know is he messes with me in a weird way, the kind you can’t put into words, and that pisses me off — admitting it isn’t even on my mind. So I stay in this thin line, half lost, trying to convince myself I feel nothing, while he crosses that invisible boundary every time he’s near, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
?????
I step onto the sidewalk slowly, each step heavier than it should be. The building’s old, but it’s got that smug charm — the kind that outlives time with a quiet kind of arrogance. Pale stone facade, carved details that hint at a classier past — or a dirtier one, depending on how you see it. Black fire escapes twist down the side like scars, and fallen maple leaves cover the pavement in yellow. A black Jeep parked out front. I know that car. Sean’s.
I push the wrought-iron gate open — the kind that squeaks just loud enough to let the whole damn street know someone’s here. Nocturne money pays for places like this: low-key on the outside, spotless on the inside. Guns, intel, security — that shit adds up, and we sell what people can’t get through clean deals. This house? It’s old-school Boston at the core: ornate moldings, stained glass, tight hallways that smell like dust, memory, and quiet decay.
The moment I walk in, I get hit with a thick cloud of weed. Sweet and bitter, clings to your nose like it’s got something to prove. Someone forgot to crack a fucking window. Again.
The living room’s the same as always — part messy, part upscale. A crystal chandelier hangs low from the ceiling, catching dim light from a lamp on the sideboard. There’s a white coral sculpture sitting on two thick books — probably lifted from some overpriced bookstore — and black-and-white framed photos pretending to be tasteful, but screaming stolen. The black panther in the print across the hall stares at me with the same look I see in the mirror: alert, tired, ready to bite. I move past it with steady steps, the old floor groaning under my boots.
They’re in the back room. Emma throws down a card with that wicked smile of hers, Vincent groans loud, and Sean — of course — laughs, wine glass in hand, half full, left eye squinting just enough to show the scar near his brow. He always looks like he’s halfway between a fight and a punchline — sometimes both. The Uno deck’s spread across the low table, next to an overflowing ashtray and a bottle of cheap wine.
Emma lights another joint and looks at me with that wicked gleam in her eyes — the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. Sharp, expressive, like they could drag the truth outta you if you stare too long. Her skin’s got that natural glow, warm, scattered with freckles that soften the firmness in her expression. Angular face, full lips, red without any lipstick, and that long neck framed by hair tied back with scary precision. She’s wearing those big, round gold earrings again. Emma’s the kind of beautiful that doesn’t ask for space, doesn’t explain itself. She walks into a room like it was built for her.
“Well, look who finally showed up,” she says. And for a second, the chaos of the world feels a little less unbearable. Just for a second.
As much as I wanna pull up a chair and sit with them, get caught up in this almost-normal moment, I can’t. Not after getting that damn envelope, those pictures of my brother standing next to some guy I don’t recognize, in places he never mentioned, with looks I don’t know how to read. Since then, something’s been burning at the back of my skull, this pull that won’t let me rest. I need to get to the bottom of it. I need to figure out what the hell’s behind those photos, and I need to do it now.
I watch them laughing, playing like the world outside isn’t on the edge of collapse, and no matter how much I trust Sean, no matter how loyal he’s always been, this goes way beyond that. This is personal. This is dirty. I need to talk to Vincent and Emma. Alone.
“Can we talk?” I ask, arms crossed, the folder with the photos still in my hand.
Vincent and Emma glance at each other. Sean straightens up in his chair.
“No problem,” he says, popping the cork and pouring himself a little more wine. “Go ahead.”
I walk toward a glass door that leads to a more private spot — small, quiet, just far enough from everything so we won’t be overheard or interrupted.
The space is tight, framed by white walls way too clean for the kind of shit weighing on my chest. The plants in the corners look like they’re growing in silence, like they hear it all. Two wooden benches with pale cushions faceeach other across a round table. A white vase sits in the center, flowers next to a lit candle, flame barely flickering. At the back, a small fireplace burns low, giving off soft heat and the faint scent of smoke and scorched wood. It’s peaceful — almost too peaceful. Feels like the kind of calm that doesn’t last.
“It’s about Noah, isn’t it?” Emma says as she drops onto one of the benches.
I nod. Open the envelope. Drop all the photos onto the table. “I need to know who this guy is. Now.”
Vincent stretches his arms up, fingers laced, like he’s trying to breathe through the chaos building in the room.
I clench my jaw, waiting for either of them to say something. Anything.
Emma starts flipping through the pictures scattered across the table. “Holy shit.”
“What is it, Emma?” I ask.
Vincent steps closer, leans over, and picks up one of the photos. “Oh, okay.”
His voice sounds surprised— but not completely caught off guard.
“I don’t know him personally,” Emma mutters, her eyes still locked on the image, “but I know who he is. I’ve seen my brother with some photos of him on his desk before.”
She swallows hard. “Damon... he’s part of the Midnight Echoes.”
“Well… that just made things worse,” Vincent says, sharp. “What the fuck was your brother doing with a member of Midnight before you even got recruited by Nocturne?”
My vision blurs. His words hit me like a punch to the gut— no, like a fucking knife. I shake my head, trying to pull myself together. “What’s his name?”
