Page 33 of Nocturne
The place feels like a refuge way too expensive for someone like me — a forgotten paradise of dead or missing millionaires. Everything’s pretty and frozen. Cold on the outside, dangerous on the inside.
“We’re starting from the low end,” Damon says, pushing open the door of one of the smaller buildings.
The door creaks open with a dry groan, and a silent hallway swallows us whole. The lighting’s low, but enough to reveal the wide, sterile space. Glass walls show several rooms way too organized — desks lined up, chairs pushed back into place, monitors off. The vibe’s cold, with that stale smell of paint, paper left too long, and something metallic, almost rusty. To the left, gray modern-design chairs clash with the raw concrete floor. Looks like an office, but something’s off. It’s not just a workspace, it’s a front.
In the middle of the main room, a big table holds what matters: three pistols, a submachine gun with a full mag, a knife with a bone handle, and a portable radio still crackling quietly. Damon steps in behind me, alert, eyes scanning every corner like he’s waiting for someone to jump out of the shadows. At the far end, a black screen mounted on the wall, flanked by two transparent chairs. No papers, no cups, nothing personal. Everything’s clean and impersonal, like nobody lives here — just passes through.
I look at the weapons, then back at him. “They’re not amateurs,” I say, voice low. “This is an ops base.”
“What the fuck is this shit, leaving a flash drive with the coords right in our hands?” Damon grumbles, his eyes slicing through the room like he’s tryin’ to yank answersoutta thin air. “This ain’t adding up. Doesn’t make a damn bit of sense.”
“All this shit goin’ down... feels like it was planned way back. And we’re just gettin’ started,” I reply, my voice low, heavy with thought. “It ain’t just what’s happenin’ now... it’s shit that went down before, too.”
“What the fuck you mean?” Damon asks, his eyes rifling through papers scattered on the table.
I ignore the question ’cause, without meaning to, I just touched the one thing he dodges at all costs, Noah’s death, his brother. And the worst part? He still barely knows shit about what really went down that night.
I’m at the back of the room when my eyes lock onto something that grabs me right away. A corkboard covers almost the entire right wall — plastered with yellowed papers, old newspaper clippings, police reports, and a tight web of red strings connecting it all. I start walking toward the board, slow steps, barely breathing. The threads form a sharp, cruel web, each knot a direct link to some real fucked-up shit. Post-its stick between the papers, some with numbers, others with names scribbled in a rush. A crumpled sheet, handwritten, shows coordinates; another lists specific dates from ’91, ’98, 2000. The sound of my own breath feels way too loud right now.
As I get closer, the details hit me like knives. I see a photo of Carter — the Nocturne Pact OG — stuck right in the center of the board, with four red lines pulling in different directions. Below, there’s Thomas O’Connor, my boss at Iron Requiem. There are pics of members fromboth gangs, grouped: each face with a note beside it — “dead,” “missing,” “last seen.” Addresses, hideout maps, outside shots of houses I recognize. But what really twists my stomach is lower down, almost hidden under a folded sheet: a photo of me, one of Damon — clearly taken without us knowing. And then... there. In the bottom right corner. A kinda crumpled photo, taped with old tape. Noah. Damon’s brother. Older, face closed off, eyes that aren’t there anymore. Seeing him there, on that board, in the middle of that web... He’s been dead for three years. And still, someone keeps him as a piece in a game we clearly don’t fully get.
“Fuckin’ hell!” I blurt out, loud, a sudden snap that makes Damon spin around instantly, on high alert.
“What the fuck happened?”
“It’s… it’s your brother. Noah. There’s a picture of him here.”
His eyes narrow. “If you’re fuckin’ with me, I swear to God I’ll kill you.”
“Here.” I point to the board on the wall, my stomach twisting. “Did you know about this?”
Damon steps up beside me. His eyes freeze. “I… I didn’t know. I found a guy… got some photos… Damon was with…”
He locks up. Breathing hard. “Fuck, why the fuck am I tellin’ you this?” He pulls back, voice cracking. “Fuck you, Hunter.”
"I'm trying to focus on the mission, you son of a bitch." My voice comes out low, sharp. Loaded. A thread of hate scraping down my throat.
He doesn’t answer. Keeps searching the place like my anger doesn’t exist, like the weight in my voice is just another noise in this filthy, cramped space. He snaps photos of the corkboard, where those damned pictures and yellowed documents are pinned. Faces that should’ve rotted underground by now.
It’s unbearable dealing with him. With that forced calm, that fucking silence soaked in judgment.
And this rage, this shit boiling in my chest, it’s not even just about him — but he’s the closest target, so fuck it.
Failure is not an option. Never was. And he knows that.
“We need to search more.” His voice is cold. Robotic.
First you need to calm the fuck down and get your shit together. If they never taught you how to play smart in Nocturne Pact, that’s on you.” I spit.
His reply comes with a breath of disdain that almost makes me want to punch something. “You’re fuckin’ killin’ me.”
Arrogant son of a bitch.
The door creaks loud, a rough, dragging sound like it’s feeling the weight of all the shit between us. Every step out of the building seems to sink deeper into the heavy silence that surrounds us.
The footsteps press into the snow, heavy, thick like the air around us. Everything feels muffled, like the world is holding its breath. And then—
The sound of a siren.
