Page 42 of Nocturne
“No fuck-ups,” Zion says, voice low and sharp. “Focus. One wrong move and we’re screwed.”
We line up the Molotov cocktails on the grass, side by side — seven, eight bottles, a perfect row of fire ready to go.
That house isn’t just an address. It’s enemy territory, a hideout. There’s a rat hiding inside, and he’s about to pay. Grace flicks the lighter, eyes sharp and steady. No shaking, no doubt. She throws the first bottle toward the porch. Glass shatters, fire bursts out, the drygrass ignites fast.
One after another, we throw the flaming bottles. Every smash spreads the blaze, setting everything on fire. Screams start, muffled and desperate. The sharp smell of gasoline burns the air, thick smoke rises, swallowing everything. Windows break, walls crack under the heat.
I stand still, watching the fire grow. No guilt — just the cold truth of the job done. I stand still, watching all that shit, knowing it’s the price we pay for the game we chose.
The muffled screams, the crashing walls, all blend into a deafening chaos that just makes me colder. I see everything — blood dripping, bodies twisting on the floor, windows blowing out in a thousand pieces. I don’t feel guilt, I don’t allow it. What matters is Iron Requiem’s victory, the survival of our people.
This moment now makes me remember Noah, Damon’s brother. I carried that weight my whole life, and it was the only time my heart actually clenched. I remember Damon on his knees, tears in his eyes over his brother’s broken body. That broke something inside me, not because of the death itself, but because of the pain I caused him. Even today, when I think about that scene, some shit eats me up inside, but that’s it. Because after that, I learned to bury any feeling deep down the pit. That’s the truth of who I am.
All my life in this dirty game — killing on orders, cutting up bodies for info, torturing to the limit, breaking bones, pulling teeth, sleep deprivation, drowning someone a thousand times without letting water touch their lungs — I never hesitated. Never stopped to feel shit. It was amission, it was work. Somebody had to do it. And I was always that somebody.
But then he came. Damon. The only man who made the damn guilt settle in me like a curse. The only one who made me question a choice I made without blinking.
And that’s what fucks everything up. Because I can face any shit in this world, except this feeling that I left him broken. The obsession started small, crawling.
Now it’s stabbed deep in my chest like a knife.
And I ain’t gonna let nobody else do to me what Damon did, make me feel. Make me falter. Make me wanna be someone I can’t be.
CHAPTER 7
DAMON
I look back at the message on my phone. The sender’s unknown, not someone in my contacts.
Noah wasn’t who he said he was. Find me in the bathroom at The Crimson Vault.
Artificial smoke rises slowly under the beams of blue light cutting through a ceiling covered in hanging foliage, like some kind of controlled jungle, as I step into the nightclub. Disco balls spin lazily, flashing bits of light onto sweaty, excited faces around me. The electronic beat pounds in my chest, like the sound is vibrating through my damn bones. Too many people, pressed too close. Bodies bump, touch, tease.
A sea of silk shirts, tight dresses, and designer sneakers—all expensive, all imported. Most of them here carry last names that could probably buy out the whole fucking city. Boston’s little rich kids playing gangsters for a night.
I walk through the crowd with my head up, dodging raised arms holding pricey drinks, dodging eyes too red for it to be just booze. The walls are textured, dark, built to trap both sound and attention. At the end of one hallway, a red neon sign stares me down with a silent dare: “DANCE FIRST, THINK LATER.” Feels like a curse. Maybe it is. I keep moving, ignoring the invite, but the beat still cuts through me like it could rip me off the damnground any second.
The floor vibrates under my boots, carrying the collective weight of the party. Every detail screams sophisticated decay.
I turn right and hit a staircase. Chipped bricks, scribbles on the walls, a cold iron rail. The descent is tight, suffocating, lit only by a strip of neon pink:The Cutting Room. There’s something underground in the air. The smiles down here are crooked, the eyes sharper. A place for dirty business served in crystal glasses. This ain’t just a club—it’s a stage. A fucking theater where everyone plays power, wildness, and charm, even if they’re falling apart on the inside.
Crossing the new room, I spot a group of rich kids raising shots. Hands dripping with rings, Swiss watches, perfect nails, and stares holding more secrets than stories. A blonde chick screams with a drink in one hand and a tiara on her head, her smile a blend of danger and lust. Next to her, a dude in a black blazer whispers something in her ear, holding an unlit cigar. They ain’t innocent. They're the ones who toss around guns and drugs like toys. Elite kids playing gang life while the real world burns outside. But here, they’re gods, untouchable—and me? I’m right in the middle of all this shit.
The tables are covered in glasses and cups that catch the warm lights from the mirrored ceiling, casting golden glows on fancy-ass drinks. Citrus, berries, mint, crystal-clear ice. They’ve got it all: physalis martinis, mojitos with fresh mint, colorful cocktails that look like goddamn liquid art. Some glasses are still dripping withcondensation, others already empty beside overflowing ashtrays and crumpled packs of imported cigarettes. At one table, a waiter drops off a set of glasses with ice and lemon slices—gin and tonic, probably—while the party’s hosts laugh loudly, sinking deep into velvet armchairs. Luxury and filth waltz together here, like old lovers who stopped hiding ages ago.
When I reach the meeting point, it’s straight out of a damn movie. Purple light floods the room, staining the walls, the bodies, the smiles. One girl’s in a tight white dress—too short, too clingy—laughing with her arm outstretched, pouring a whole bottle of champagne into her friend’s mouth. The other, blonde, is on her knees, head tilted back, catching the stream with her mouth open, eyes closed like it’s some kind of sacred ritual.
They scream, laugh, stumble into each other, hair sticking to their sweaty cheeks. Everything shines—the floor, their skin, the jewelry. A group around them claps and records, like it’s a private show. And maybe it is. In this place, everything feels like it’s meant to be watched.
Meant to be remembered… or completely fucking forgotten.
I step into the nightclub bathroom and freeze, surprised by the figure standing in front of me.
“Holy shit… you’re the guy from the café. The one who handed me the photos. What the fuck’s going on?” I blurt as I step into the bathroom, my heart pounding in my throat.
“Hey, Damon.” He gives a slight smile. “I’m Zachary Hayes. Last time we met, we didn’t have time forintroductions.”
He walks over and locks the door with a sharp click, muffling the noise of the club outside — heavy music, voices, all swallowed by the tiled walls.
