Page 41 of Nocturne
The box is still heavy in my hand when I shove the door open with my shoulder. The wood thuds shut behind me, echoing through the dead silence. No music, no voices, not even the hum of the fan. Just sickening quiet and this heavy weight crushing my chest. My footsteps barely make a sound as I cross to the living room. I toss my keys on the counter without looking. The box drops onto the couch like it’s been part of the furniture forever. I stand frozen, just staring. The black ribbon’s still intact. The tag with my name, ink sharp and elegant, almost an invitation to something I don’t wanna accept. But my gut twists.
I sit on the edge of the couch and slowly slide the ribbon loose. The satin slips between my fingers, mocking my hesitation. I lift the lid slow, and the sight that greets me punches me in the gut.
Inside the box, a severed head. Sean’s hair, wild and soaked in a sea of fresh blood that’s overflowing, dripping down the edges, staining the black fabric inside the box a vivid, almost pulsing red. His face frozen in asilent scream, eyes wide open, glazed over, pupils blown wide in a horror frozen in time. The skin slashed, full of marks, with chunks of flesh and brain exposed—the grotesque, slick texture makes me swallow hard. His jaw hangs loose, showing normal teeth—none of that yellow rot—he died that same day, too fresh for the body to rot. Fresh blood runs down his cheeks, dripping into the box bottom. The sharp smell of iron floods my nostrils, cold and thick, but no rot—just raw death, fresh, not yet claimed by time.
Amid all that carnage, a chain — the one he always wore, now stained with blood. My hands shake so badly I almost drop the box. I pull out the folded piece of paper, thick like a gift card, black ink etched in cold, calculated strokes. The message echoes in my head, impossible to forget:
Heard you been askin’ around. Thought I’d make it easy for you. Here’s a little somethin’.
— Aiden.
He’s playing with blood, with fear, with power.
And me? I’m gonna play back — with everything I’ve got.
CHAPTER 6
HUNTER
I stare down my reflection in the mirror and lift the mask, letting my fingers roam every inch like it’s the last flicker of whatever’s left alive in me. The metal surface gleams under the low light, shades shifting between aged silver and raw steel, stained like it’s been burnt from the inside out. It’s beautiful and brutal. The scars etched on top of the head look like old claw scratches, symbols worn down by time, marks of war, pain, shit never forgotten. On the left side, a deep crack cuts through the eye and trails down the cheek, like a fossilized tear. The mouth, or what’s left of it, looks corroded by rust or acid, deep grooves twisting like busted teeth, like something tried to scream and never got the chance.
When I snap the mask onto my face, it melts into me like it knows me. The cold metal pierces my skin, and the weight anchors me to some shit with no name. My eyes get lost behind dark sockets, empty caves that belong to no one anymore. I become something else, something that never asked for permission to exist. This mask doesn't hide shit. It reveals. It shows the truth I try to bury every damn day. The version of me that doesn't shake, doesn't hesitate, doesn’t say sorry. The ghost born the day I killed my name and embraced silence. And now, again, it breathes.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s a messagefrom O’Connor.
98 Maverick Square, East Boston, MA 02128.
That’s the address where my next target’s hiding. I don’t need much info, just what O’Connor fed me: the snitch who’s been fucking with Iron Requiem’s hiding out in this shit spot. I feel the silence weigh heavy as I get closer, the air thick with danger, adrenaline climbing with every step. It ain’t just blood I’m spilling — it’s justice, my way — no mercy, no second chances. I’m heading straight to him to end this threat for good. Nothing’s gonna stop me, ‘cause when the hunt starts, only one walks out alive.
?????
The air is sharp, thick, and every breath I take comes out like vapor in the dark. We’re at the edge of the lawn, crouched behind the dry trees, where the shadows are thick enough to hide even the worst sins. My eyes are fixed on that house — a two-story white mansion, with an L-shaped porch and a steep, aggressive roof, like even the architecture’s ready to attack. The indoor lights warm the windowpanes with a yellowish glow, but out here everything’s freezing. The porch wood creaks now and then in the wind, and the worn railing out front looks more like a line drawn in the dirt than an invitation.
The yard’s open, wide, almost tree-less — a strategic mistake if you ask me. Too easy to be seen if we take a wrong step. The ground’s covered with a thin layer of dead leaves, dry and brittle, and the damp grass reflects the porch light with a weird, almost oily shine. The frontsteps are way too clean, like someone’s been walking there regularly, and there are symmetrical pots on each side, the kind nobody waters but still alive. It’s the kind of detail that screams disorder disguised as order. The second-floor balcony is empty, but my skin still crawls. I feel like someone’s up there, watching back.
Grace lets out a bored sigh and leans against the trunk beside me, arms crossed, impatient. Zion’s on the other side, crouched, eyes locked on the house like he wants to burn through the walls with his stare. The three of us are dressed in infiltration gear — reinforced black fabric, with flexible armor on shoulders, forearms, and back. Gloves glued to skin, boots light and silent. The material sucks up the light like the night itself is part of the uniform. No reflections, no colors, just darkness stitched into flesh.
The adrenaline pulses low, like a muffled beat deep in the chest. We’re waiting for the right moment. And when it comes, nobody in that house will have time to turn off the lights.
“Any sign of O’Connor?” Emma asks, her voice cut by boredom, eyes fixed on nothing, like time had stopped just for her.
Zion lets out a heavy sigh, the air leaving his lungs like a silent warning. “I can’t stand this wait anymore...” His impatience seems to pulse in the air, almost suffocating, carrying a raw energy that makes the silence between them feel even heavier.
“He still hasn’t...” The sentence dies in my mouth when the phone vibrates. The short, dry sound slices through the air like a verdict.
I look at the screen.
It’s O’Connor.
Make the decision on your own.
That’s it. No explanation, no context.
And suddenly, the weight of the choice crashes down on my shoulders, like he’d just washed his hands and let the world collapse in my lap.
The house in front of us ain’t just a building, it’s a home full of people who got nothing to do with all this shit, a whole family, dad, mom, and kids. I see their faces in the dark, real fear burning in their eyes. But what holds me tight is the fact that, in the middle of all that damn mess, a fucking snitch from the enemy gang is hiding, trying to run from the justice he knows is coming. No talk, no choice — the call was mine. The house gotta fall, and everything inside with it.
I press the tip of the bottle, feeling the solid weight of the glass in my hand. Grace and Zion pull more bottles from the backpack, all loaded — gasoline-soaked rags stuffed inside, ready to ignite.
