Page 40 of Nocturne
My whole body’s a living wound, a silent scream echoing inside me. I let out a trapped, muffled moan, almost desperate. Fuck, I shouldn’t have faced those Midnight Echoes bastards. Hunter warned me, but I refused to run—stubborn and stupid. Now I’m here, fucked up, broken, carrying every cut, every pain, every shattered piece of my pride.
The worst wasn’t just the knife tearing my flesh,nor the cuts burning like fire—it was being there, in that cabin lost deep in the woods, with Hunter by my side after the fight, surrounded by a blizzard that seemed to want to freeze my soul. The crushing silence was broken only by the biting wind outside, while I tried to swallow the pain burning in every inch of my body.
His scent filled the air—a woody, clean perfume, unexpectedly good, sticking to my skin like a forbidden secret. And I remember his touch, involuntary, in the dead of night when we had to share that tiny bed—a brief contact, almost unintentional, that left a strange mark, hard to figure out.
He tended my wound like it was nothing, a disguised act of indifference, even with the hate boiling inside me, burning for his gang, burning for Hunter.
Something about Hunter intrigues me, but I still can’t say what it is.
“Hurry up, Damon!” Emma’s voice calls from the living room, a little impatient.
“Just a sec.” I take a deep breath and start walking again, slow, feeling every step weigh down in my bones.
“What a shitshow of a mission, huh.” Vincent gives me a once-over, face like stone, voice dripping with sarcasm. “And you still went with that son of a bitch.”
“How was it?” Emma grabs a handful of popcorn from the bowl on Vincent’s lap. She’s wearing a loose white hoodie, the hood down and the sleeves swallowing half her hands. The fabric looks way too soft for someone who lives surrounded by smoke, tension, and bullshit.
“Are you not seeing the fucking state he’s in?”Vincent lets out a dry laugh. Emma rolls her eyes.
Yeah... well... I didn’t even debrief you two yet, did I? Just gave the lowdown to Carter. But the fuckin’ ride we took? Shit straight-up blew the fuck up. Outta nowhere. Like some motherfucker rigged that shit with a bomb.”
“What the fuck…?” Emma straightens up, alarmed. “Wait, are you serious?”
The movie starts on the TV. Emma gave in to Vincent’s suggestion and put onLoganfor us to watch.
“So you’re saying it was sabotage?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“What did Carter say?” she asks, already in that mode she gets into when shit’s about to go down.
“Told us to keep our eyes open. And warned: some meetings from now on won’t include the Iron Requiem guys. I’ve said it from the start—this truce was bound to blow up in our faces.”
“Got anyone on your radar?” Emma asks, biting her lip, trying to read something off my face. She fidgets with the hoodie fabric, nervous, like it’s some kinda way to calm the tension hanging heavy between us.
“Not yet. And it ain’t that simple.” I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of doubt drag me down. My hand taps lightly on the arm of the couch, like I’m trying to find some damn stability in this chaos.
Vincent clicks his tongue, eyes sharp as knives. “Gotta be someone from Iron Requiem.” His voice cuts like a verdict.
“There’s one more thing…” My voice drops almost lost under the movie noise in the background. “Those assholes from Midnight are after a secret government shipment—automatic rifles, grenades, top-tier body armor.” I make a gesture with my hand, trying to measure just how deep the shit really is. “They’re runnin’ a snitch cop to flip the convoy onto some backwoods trap.”
Emma swallows hard, eyes wide. “If they pull that off, there’s some heavy hitters involved.”
“No doubt.” I lean back into the couch, the cold fabric against my skin slapping me back to the harsh reality we live in. “But we still don’t know shit.”
Vincent shakes his head, pissed off. “Carter’s snitches are drying up. And Sean? Ain’t bringing anything either. Midnight’s been recruiting mad on the streets—people we don’t even suspect.”
“And O’Connor?” Emma asks, suspicious.
“Brings nothing useful, and I don’t trust a word that motherfucker says.” I clench my fists, remembering empty talks and lies dressed up like truth.
The silence drops heavy, each of us stuck in our own heads, like the weight of the shit we’re dealing with is almost physical, impossible to ignore.
We stop talking and try to focus on the movie, but it’s impossible. Reality haunts our minds like a ghost that won’t let us be. The silence in the room weighs heavier than any damn dialogue on the screen, and I know—deep down, way deep—that the bloodshed is coming. And it won’t take long.
?????
The building hallway is so quiet it feels like the air’s weighing me down. Every step I take slams hard against the cold floor, echoing like a warning. When I glance at the delivery locker, there’s a black box sitting there. Satin ribbon tied up tight, like some birthday gift. But the tag hanging off it’s got my name, written in a clean-ass cursive too neat to be innocent. I don’t remember buying shit. I’m not expecting shit. And that says it all. I grip the box, feeling a strange weight, and head upstairs, eyes glued to it—as if it’s a trap.
