Page 32 of Nocturne
"And now?"
"Now I’m sure of it."
The road starts to open up, revealing a flatter stretch. In the distance, I can see the outline of buildings buried under layers and layers of snow. Damon turns left and drives up a small hill, and soon what looks like an old Swiss resort comes into view. The place is big, imposing, with black roofs and deep windows that reflect the pale sky. A bunch of luxury cars are parked out front—Range Rovers, Audis, even a McLaren that looks as out of place in this frozen wasteland as I feel next to him.
From my side of the window, I spot two old cars covered in snow, parked near the trees like they’ve been forgotten for decades. They’re bulky, painted in matte black and faded beige, their tires crusted with mud and ice. They look like war vehicles, built for whatever the fuck comes next.
Damon parks the car without saying a word, his eyes locked on the building ahead. I step out before he even kills the engine, the freezing air slicing across my skin and icing my chest from the inside out. There’s something about this place that fucks with me—like it’s too quiet, too pretty, too clean—ready to hide something I haven’t even figured out how to name yet.
The snow crunches beneath my steps, everycreak muffling the world around us. The resort stands still, wedged between silent trees, frozen in time, like it knows nothing here will ever be normal.
Damon stops suddenly. He throws the bag to the ground with a dry thud, the smoke from the cigarette he lights cutting through the frozen air between us.
“Listen up,” he starts, voice hard, like every word is a warning. “This truce isn’t worth shit. It’s just a fragile-ass pause. A damn coincidence of a deal, not a promise. Don’t expect me to act like this means anything.”
I swallow hard. I know he’s right. This peace that forces us to walk side by side is a tightrope about to snap.
"We’ve always been enemies," he goes on, his eyes locked on the building. "And I’m not gonna forget that. Not for a second. I don’t trust you. I never have. And I’m not about to start just because some signed piece of paper says we need to stop the war."
I want to say something, but the truth shuts me up. I wanted to protect him from a distance—not face this beast so close, feel his dangerous heat brushing up against me. This closeness hurts. It messes with my head. I need to stay in control—but fuck, the urge to step back is overwhelming.
"You know what’s worse?" he says, voice trembling with controlled rage. "This truce isn’t gonna last. No one here actually believes this shit’s gonna hold. It’s gonna end in blood, and it’s gonna end fast. So don’t come at me with this partnership, friendship, trust bullshit."
He blows out a cloud of smoke and stomps hard in the snow.
"You stand there all calm, calculating, but I’m here to remind you—the war ain’t over. It’s just waiting for a goddamn excuse."
My chest tightens, heat rising under my skin. I’m too close to him, and it’s silently tearing me apart. I wish it were different. I wish he didn’t even know I was here. I wish I could take care of him from afar, and keep him safe. But this fucking truce demands I stand beside him.
"So let me make this clear," he steps closer, voice low and sharp, "don’t expect me to drop my guard. Don’t expect me to trust you. I expect nothing but getting this mission done and staying alive. That’s it."
I take a deep breath, feel the cold sweat on my back despite the freezing air.
“Me neither,” I reply, voice rough, almost a whisper. "But we have to do this. Together."
He stares at me, gaze heavy. Way too heavy.
“Together. Just 'cause a bunch of idiots thought they could buy peace with a weak-ass deal. But it means nothing. Nothing more than that."
I lower my eyes, trying to ignore the tightness in my chest he always brings out, the almost-touch we keep avoiding, the thick tension that not even snow can bury.
"We’ll do it our way," I say, trying to sound steady. "No ties. No illusions."
He smirks—a hard smile, full of promises that only remind me how dangerous it is to be this close.
"Exactly," he says. "The way it’s always been."
And we walk into that frozen hell, two enemies forced to move side by side, with a silent promise that thistruce is just the beginning of the war.
Damon walks beside me in silence, his hood thrown back despite the snow already piling up on his hair — that military cut that leaves everything exposed, even his thoughts, dark blonde and full of stubbornness. He doesn’t complain about the cold. Nor the wind. Just watch. His sharp eyes scan every building like they can see beyond the walls.
We start moving in silence, alert for any building worth breaking into. We came to check out one of the Midnight Echoes’ spots, and everything here feels too quiet to be just coincidence. Something’s wrong. The kind of silence that ain’t peace — it’s a trap.
The snow falls slow, lazy, like time here has its own rhythm, slow, heavy, almost suffocating. Every flake touches my skin like a cold whisper, and everything around seems stuck between silence and danger.
Boston’s miles away now, and this remote part feels like a forgotten piece of another era. The buildings are tall, old, imposing. Most in a light shade, somewhere between cream and pale gray, with fancy details on the windows, columns climbing up to roofs covered in white. Some have that yellowed tint of age, and everything contrasts with the dark green trees surrounding the blocks. The place has a fancy vibe, but it’s run down — like it’s seen better days and now it’s just a pretty shell.
Forests surround the land in all directions, with giant trees and frozen oaks creaking like breaking bones. Winding mountains rise far off, cloaked in mist, like they hide ancient secrets — and bodies never found.
