Page 29 of Nocturne
He’ll never know the collapse came from inside. While he bleeds on the inside, I’m the one holding the invisible gun, the one who set fire to the little that was left of him. But it’s not guilt I feel. It’s something raw, hot, and dirty. Knowing I marked him in a way time can’t erase. He carries the grief, and I carry the secret, like an inverted scar that doesn’t hurt but reminds me of the power I hold.
Maybe the obsession I have with Damon is what keeps me tethered to this chaos. No matter how far I move, that pull never lets go. There’s something about him, a twisted magnet dragging me in, even if I’m just a shadow watching from afar. As long as I’m breathing, no one’s laying a finger on him. Even if he hates me, and yeah, he has every damn reason to, I can’t stop watching, tracking every move like it’s the only thing that keeps me tethered to what’s left.
Damon carries a hate so deep that I can feel it in my fucking bones. He hates the Nocturne Pact with a rage that’s almost unhinged, conflicted, raw, bleeding. It’s hate, yeah, but underneath it all, there’s this wild need to protect what’s left. He hates me too, and I get it. Deep down, I know he’s trapped in this fucked-up storm between fear and the need to destroy everything to save what matters. Scorches every damn thing in its path. But in the middle of that fire, all I want is to be the shadow that holds his hand, even if he never lets me.
Thinking about it fucks with my head. Makes me feel filthy, like I’m betraying my own crew, everything Ibuilt, everything I swore I’d protect. But I can’t help it. It’s stronger than me. The more I try to make sense of what’s between us, the more Damon slips through my hands like smoke—pulling away, stepping closer to the edge of something I can’t pull him back from
I’ve been watching him long before he even thought about stepping into this world of blood, wreckage, and death. I saw him before all of it, back when there was still light in his eyes. Noah’s death ain’t no accident. It’s a job. Straight up. He’s about to fuck up the Nocturne Pact’s plans, snitching a list of witnesses who’d put the Midnight Echoes’ kingpin behind bars. I kill him. End of story. That’s how it goes. People who fuck others over end up dead. And me? I’m the one who does the dirty work.
But I know this: Damon’s gonna be mine someday, no matter what the fcuk it takes. And when that day comes, nothing’s gonna get between us.
Not the past. Not the hate. Not this fuckin’ war.
The black van’s a few meters ahead, rolling slow with four dumbasses from Midnight Echoes guarding it like they’re in some low-budget action movie. The road’s not packed, but a couple cars are dragging between me and the target, like the universe’s got nothing better to do than fuck with me tonight. Boston’s sky is clear, stars scattered like dust, and the moon’s throwing down a cold light on the asphalt.
The wind cuts through the collar of my jacket, brushing the back of my neck like a warning. I’m geared up in my usual armor, thermal pants, ripped black jeans over them, tight long-sleeve shirt, gray hoodie, and myleather jacket. The mirrored helmet hides my face and turns me into something darker. A ghost riding through the night, ready to do whatever the fuck it takes to get the answers I need.
This is the kind of shit I live for ever since O’Connor gave me free rein inside Iron Requiem. Hunting down bastards that won’t be missed by a single soul became my favorite kinda pastime. With every job, I get colder. Sharper. There’s no small talk. No hesitation. Just me, my bike, and the instinct to rip truth outta the chest of anyone dumb enough to stand in my way.
Watching a soul slip outta a body in the most fucked-up, painful way possible? That’s art to me. A twisted show I always catch from the front row, heart steady, mind numb. Because in this filthy, goddamn world, pain’s just part of the process. And me? I’m the fucking artist.
?????
They turn right, heading toward some abandoned-ass bridge. The night breeze slaps my face while I move quiet on the wet sidewalk. City lights flicker way off, cutting the skyline like neon ghosts. The bridge looms ahead, almost sinister, cracks slash through the concrete like fresh scars, rust drips off the rusty railings, and the silence here weighs heavier than the damn concrete itself. The smell of old damp, grime, and smoke mixes in the air, choking everything like it’s about to rot. Street lamps flicker lazy, like they’re about to die for good, and everything feelsstuck in time, on the edge of collapse.
Under the bridge, I spot shadows moving quick. Three guys, maybe four, jittery as hell, leaning on some car that doesn't belong here. The black van slides its back door open, and the dudes from the other car start loading the back like they’re packing dope, that shit reeks of trouble. Those motherfuckers are about to make a drug run. I hang back, a ghost in the dark, watching, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. My breath is steady, muscles tight. Every second stretches out, and I let the darkness swallow me whole. Ain’t nobody gonna hear what’s about to go down here. This bridge’s gonna swallow another fucked-up story, and no one’ll ever know shit.
The motherfuckers are strapped to the teeth, that’s why I brought a sniper. Modular, lethal, silent. Easy to take apart, easy to hide. I pop open the compartment on my bike and start pulling the pieces — the barrel, the stock, the thermal scope, the mag. My fingers move with an almost ritual precision, like assembling this weapon is an old dance my body knows by heart. Every click is a death sentence, and I do it cold, like I already decided nobody’s walking outta here alive.
While I put the gun together, I watch through the scope the movement under the bridge, where the guys keep unloading the drugs, laughing, smoking, thinking they’re on top. Their ignorance is almost poetic. They don’t know the last thing they’ll see is hot blood splattering on the asphalt.
“The fun’s about to start,” I murmur to myself, a crooked smile tugging at my lips, almost nostalgic, like I’mmeeting an old pleasure again.
I lie down on the cold concrete, sniper resting on the ground, a pillar as cover. The gun’s matte black, long barrel, thermal sight attached, effective range close to two clicks. This bitch is so precise that, if I wanted, I’d take out some bastard at a thousand six hundred meters with a single shot — without him even knowing he got hit. The recoil’s next to nothing, thanks to the tuned muzzle brake. .408 CheyTac rounds, piercing metal, concrete, bone. Cold. Dead-on. Silent. Ruthless. Just like me.
Most people think killing’s just pulling the trigger, but it ain’t. It’s strategy. Patience. Control. If you act on impulse, you turn everything into a suicide mission, which means wasted cash, ammo, and time. I learned that early, when I joined Iron Requiem, and since then, I became a ghost, no face, no name, working in the shadows, always one step ahead.
I put on my headphones, grab my phone, and hit play on my best playlist. The instrumental ofLivin’ On A Prayerkicks off with synths, guitar, bass, and drums. The perfect soundtrack for a bloodbath. I get in position, line up my eye on the scope, and in seconds, pull the first shot.
I take my eyes off the lens for a sec and see the body drop like a puppet with no strings, quick, dry, brutal. The accuracy’s absolute. The impact, silent. A ghost pulling souls.
Tommy used to work on the docks, union's been on strike... He's down on his luck, it's tough, so tough...
The song plays, almost mocking, and I keep going, calm, focused, enjoying the view of bodies falling like dominoes. I adjust the scope again and wipe out two more — the ones in the back seat of a car. The shots go through the glass like it’s paper, shattering in slow motion, a violent, beautiful spectacle to watch.
We've gotta hold on to what we've got... It doesn't make a difference if we make it or not...
Reloading with an almost poetic delicacy, another body drops. Then another. And another. Those still breathing start to realize something’s wrong, not from the sound, since everything’s silent, but from the bodies scattered around, wide eyes, blood staining the ground. Panic sets in. Guns are grabbed. They scramble, trying to figure out where the shots came from. Poor bastards. A short, almost affectionate laugh escapes me. Naivety kills too.
The count dwindles to five. Rising up, black helmet snapped on, the bike is mounted and floored. The concrete canal blurs beneath—a wild shadow tearing through the night. A smaller gun rests in my hand, adrenaline boiling in my chest. The bike and my body move as one, built for this moment. Speed. Noise. Rage. All fused together.
Close enough, I grab the knife from my waist, spinning it between my fingers, sharp in the move, ready to fly. The throw cuts through the air, sinking straight into the skull of the first motherfucker in front of me. To make sure, three shots pump into his chest, one right after theother. No time to waste.
The others open fire, but my movement’s already fluid, dodging with the bike, firing back with precise shots that smash their hands one by one, dropping guns like useless toys. They scream; I stay silent. The night’s mine, and they’re just reminders that you don’t fuck with a ghost.
"You don’t know who the fuck you’re messing with!" one of the last guys yells, voice trembling. His shaved head shines under the busted streetlight, and his face... is pure fear.
"And I don’t give a fuck." I shoot without hesitation.
