Page 3 of Nocturne
Behind the fury, a darker hunger claws at me, pulling at my gut like a beast starving in the shadows. My fingers tremble with adrenaline, anger, and a gnawinghunger I can’t name, but that devours me from the inside out.
I reach for my pistol, the cold metal steady in my palm. One shot to the head, clean and merciless, while he still hangs there, a broken monument to what happens when you cross the wrong line. Then I turn, boots scraping softly against the floor, and walk away — leaving the silence and the blood behind me.
PROLOGUE III
DAMON
Three Years Ago
I wasn’t supposed to be doing this.
But the rage eats at me in a way I’ve never felt before — it’s more than just heat in my chest. It’s a fucking wildfire. A choked-up scream, sharp as hell, ripping through the walls of my body until there’s nothing left but fury.
I can’t stay still. I can’t sit around waiting for justice to magically show up, ’cause justice doesn’t exist. Not in this world. Here, you’re either the hunter… or the hunted. And I’ve already made my choice.
“This is suicide, kid.”Vincent’s voice comes from behind, deep and steady, like he already knows how this shit’s gonna end.
We’re sitting at the table, playing cards in the suffocating backroom of the Nocturne Pact. The weak lights hang from the ceiling like they’re just as tired as we are. The smell of stale smoke, sweat, and dried blood is soaked into the damn walls.
Vincent’s always been more than just another gang member. Since the day I joined, he’s been a brother. A counselor. One of the few who actually give a shit, even when he doesn’t say it out loud.
And Emma… Well, she surprised me too. Loyal. Steady. Someone I can trust, even when every part of me is screaming not to trust anyone.
But the rest? The rest still feel like shadows in the room. I respect them, sure. But opening my chest, showing them the shit I carry inside? Nah. Not yet. Maybe never.
"Suicide?" I repeat, eyes locked on the cards like the answer to all this mess is hiding right there. "I’m ready to pay the price."
I get up slowly, my heart pounding too hard, too loud, like it’s trying to break the fuck out of my chest.
“Carter promised me this,” I go on, my voice low, swallowing down the poison of frustration. “But it’s like he forgot, or time swallowed him whole — 'cause so far… nothing’s fucking happened.”
“Revenge takes patience,” Vincent says, calm as ever, and that calm pisses me off. He talks like a monk. Like some old-ass professor sick of watching his students drown in their own bad decisions.
"I’ve waited long enough." The jacket slides over my arms as I push back from the table. The cold leather against my burning skin sends a chill through me, like the world out there’s calling my name.
I don’t look back. I can’t. If I hesitate now, I fall apart.
The night air hits dry and hard as I step outside. My blood’s pounding like a war drum. My hands are shaking — not from fear, but from anticipation. I know exactly what I have to do.
When everything you love gets ripped away fromyou, someone’s gotta pay.
And the only question that really matters is: How far would you go for revenge?
?????
The reflection stares back at me through the filthy car window, distorted but still fierce as hell. The mask covers my whole face like a second skin — smooth, metallic, cold as freshly sharpened steel.
It glints under the shaky light of the nearest streetlamp, throwing back the broken city behind me like a shattered mirror. The curves are sharp, jagged, carved with almost cruel precision. Short horns jut from the top, their points sharp like a damn challenge. The brow is creased, marked by grooves that run down to the nose sculpted with ruthless perfection. No expression. Or maybe all of them. Depends on who’s looking.
The eyes are hollow. Two dark holes hiding everything — anger, guilt, a thirst for blood. Yet my own gaze comes back fiercer than ever. It’s fucked up seeing myself like this. Almost inhuman. Almost a monster. The polished silver of the mask shines with arrogance, like it’s alive, pulsing with the fury I carry inside. This isn’t fantasy. It’s a choice. A warning. Anyone who finds me tonight won’t see Damon. They’ll see this — this cruel, gleaming face made so no one ever forgets what I did. And why I did it.
The wet stones of the alley reflect the yellow glow of the single burning streetlamp like the ground’s soakedin blood. I walk slow, steps silent, the mask covering my entire face. Walls on both sides covered in graffiti — scribbles, threats, marks of ownership. "IR," "Requiem," "Blood for blood." I shouldn’t be here. This street’s Iron Requiem territory, and any idiot knows stepping here without permission is asking to vanish. But Carter didn’t do shit. Promised retaliation. Promised justice. All lies. So now it’s just me, my hands, and the stone-cold rage in my chest.
There’s no one around. Not a single living soul besides me, just the dull presence of graffiti staring back like eyes. The air reeks of piss, rust, and stale cigarettes. A crooked, narrow, suffocating alley — the kind of place where screams don’t echo, they just die. I pass a power box tagged with a scratched-out symbol, like someone tried to wipe away a gang’s mark. At the end, a half-open door. That’s it. The shitty hideout of those bastards. Carter can keep sitting on his throne, pretending he’s in charge. I came to collect what’s owed.
“Who the fuck are you?” The voice comes from the shadows behind me, low and heavy with threat.
I turn slow. A man leaning against the graffiti-covered wall, a cigarette hanging from his mouth, the tip glowing bright in the dark.
