Page 45 of Nocturne
I lean forward slowly, like I ain’t even mean to, grab the joint sittin’ in the ashtray and snag the lighter off the table. Flame flickers for a second before catchin’ the twisted tip, and I take a hard hit, feeling the thick hash smoke fillin’ up the room, mixing with the cold-ass smell of the concrete outside. I could be sleepin’ right now. I could be runnin’ from all this shit. But nope—I’m wide the fuck awake, waitin’ for that damn money to show up. The smoke curls in the air, and the sound from the movie keeps the silence from closin’ in—just enough to let the tension keep buildin’ in my chest.
The bruises from my fight with Hunter still ache, my ribs hurt with every breath, even with the painkillers. I still feel an annoying pain above my right eyebrow, where a small adhesive bandage tries to keep the cut from getting infected.
It’s not easy having your own enemies so close to your life, almost every day. They doubt my gang’s methods, question our moral code, and that weighs heavy. When you’re dealing with blood, rules are essential. Without them, everything falls apart.
Despite the aches in my body, nothing compares to the weight I carry inside for everything I did to Hunter when I found out about that fucking shit he did to that innocent family. It was supposed to be different, there could’ve been another way, but he chose the dirtiest, most brutal path — because that’s who he is deep down.
A monster who’d rather kill than wait. All because of some shitty informant, who sooner or later would’ve been exposed, a threat that could’ve been handled differently, but he didn’t want to. He killed. And it wasn’t just the family who suffered, it was me too, because I felt forced to strike back, to do what I had to so he’d feel the weight of what he did.
This shit won’t leave my head. Nor my skin. Nor my blood.
Each punch was more than just rage — it was a desperate attempt to silence the mess he planted inside me. Blood dripped from Hunter’s mouth, staining his chin, his teeth, my knuckles. He coughed up red, and still looked at me. Wide eyes, pupils blown — not with fear. Worse. It was guilt. Surrender.
He didn’t even try to fight back. Just took it. Like he knew he deserved the beating. Like he’d been waiting for this.
For a second, just one fucked-up second, some part of me thought it might be mercy.
The whole warehouse was watching.
The hanging lights flickered, throwing twisted shadows across the metal walls. Members from both gangs — Nocturne and Iron Requiem — stood frozen, likewax figures. Stunned. Or maybe just entertained.
My breath was tearing through my lungs, my knuckles throbbing. Hunter dropped to his knees, then to his side. His blood mixed with the dirt on the floor. And me? I wanted more. I wanted to end him right there. Erase every goddamn memory he ever left behind. Until Carter and O’Connor burst through the rusted doors, yelling my name. Vincent grabbed me by the shoulders and yanked me back. “Damon, enough!”
The warehouse had turned into a ring. Members of both gangs were watching me turn into a fucking monster, ready to rip the life out of Hunter’s body.
But then Carter and O’Connor showed up, and Vincent pulled me back, while Zion and Grace rushed over to him, lying on the ground, bleeding.
He wasn’t moving. His chest rising and falling with effort, like even breathing hurt.
My phone rings and I let out a heavy sigh, like I’m finally dropping some weight off my chest. It’s Emma.
“Hey, did I wake you?” I can hear the worry in her voice, soft, almost a whisper.
“Nah,” I reply, trying to hide the exhaustion weighing down my bones. “Waiting on a delivery. The big man’s idea.”
She takes a deep breath on the other end.
“So I know you’re pissed,” she says, voice low, and silence settles between us, thick like she’s afraid to ask about the fight with Hunter.
“Yeah,” I finally say, my voice rough. “Thanks for coming by last night, by the way. You helped me a lot. Andthat breakfast was good,” I add, trying to ease the tightness in my chest.
“You don’t gotta thank me, Damon,” she sighs, a sound mixed with tiredness and care. “If you’d open up to me more, we’d already be square.”
I get her frustration, but I just can’t be what she wants. I’m not like that. Never was. I turn and look out the apartment window, curtains swaying slow, carried by the cold night breeze. The sky’s got more stars than I remember.
“It ain’t about wanting to or not, Emma,” I say, each word loaded with pain and anger, almost a shout stuck in my throat. “I carry a weight inside me I don’t even fully get. Opening up to someone? That’s giving up a piece of me I buried a long time ago. It ain’t weakness, it’s survival. And I don’t know if I’ll make it if I let it out.”
I fall silent, feeling the heavy air fill my lungs. Sometimes, I think this shit’s stuck inside me like poison that won’t quit. The grief for my brother, the shit I’ve seen, the shit I’ve done... it all tangled up into a knot I can’t untie. Opening up means unleashing that mess I tried to bury years ago, and I don’t know if I can make it if I let it loose.
It’s not just fear or strength. These feelings drown me. I choke trying to hold control, ‘cause losing it means losing myself completely. Like I built a wall — not to keep others out, but to stop my own pain from swallowing me whole. That’s what holds me back. That’s what keeps me from sinking for good.
I swallow hard and look back to the window, where city lights flicker distant and cold. There’s so much tohandle — gang shit to do, people to kill, playing the monster they want me to be when it counts. But the heaviest part, the worst, is facing that my brother wasn’t who I thought he was. Back then, I was just a damn kid, barely even close to grown. And even so, I still miss him.
But all the shit I found out hit me like a punch I never saw coming. For years, I carried this image of him in my head — a version that kept me going. But this is real life. Cold, unforgiving. And even knowing Noah was part of a rival gang — the same one trying to fuck us over, the reason for this dumb truce — I still gotta find out the truth about that night.
I sit there, listening to the silence on the line, heavy as everything I can’t say.
“I know it’s not easy,” Emma says on the other end of the line. Her voice is low, like she’s afraid of pushing me even deeper into the hole I’m already in.
