Page 57 of Nocturne
Facing the mirror in my room, I stare at myself in silence. The reflection doesn’t look like me, but I know it’s me — or what’s left. I watch myself with a coldness I didn’t even know I was capable of feeling. What I’m about to do has no turning back. It won’t be easy. And, honestly? I don’t give a fuck. This is what happens when they rip from you everything that mattered, when they tear apart the only part of you that was still alive. When someone destroys what you loved with their own hands… mercy ceases to exist.
I grab a black, tight, long-sleeved shirt and put it on like I’m slipping into new skin. The bulletproof vest lies tossed on the messy bed, soaked with the scent of sleepless nights, and I wear it without hesitation. The black pants, baggy, loaded with pockets and signs of wear, hang on the corner of the full-length mirror, like they’ve been waiting for me. I put them on slowly. Every movement heavy with tension, methodical, precise — like part of a ritual. No rush. Just rage. And an almost poetic creativityfor all the blood that’s about to spill.
I open my backpack and pack what I know I’ll need. Things that, if I stop to think too much, might make me hesitate — so I don’t think. I just zip it up and leave. The door slams shut behind me with a dry snap. The night swallows me whole without asking questions. I walk like I’m afraid of nothing anymore. Like I know I’m walking straight into death… and still, I smile along the way.
?????
“What’re you packing?” Quinn Bishop’s voice hits me the moment I step into the warehouse, slicing the silence like a blade too thin to see. Her purple hair’s tied up in a messy ponytail, strands slipping loose at the sides. Her eyes are covered in glittery makeup, tiny star stickers stuck to her temple sparkling under the grimy ceiling light.
“Get the fuck outta my way, bitch.” My answer comes dry, sharp, spat out with disgust. “I’m not repeating myself.”
She laughs — an annoying, low, venomous laugh. “Chill, stud. I was just messing around. What the hell’s your problem now?”
“You know what your problem is, Quinn?” My voice drops heavy, loaded. “You wander around like a shadow — pretending you matter, but you’re nothing but noise. You’re a ghost. And you’ve got the balls to talk to me like you know me.” I step closer, no brakes. “Fuck off. And don’t get in my way.”
The words come out like bullets. I want them to hurt. Want her totaste the metallic burn of my rage. Part of me wants to shove a bullet right between that bitch’s eyes, but if Carter trusts her enough to keep this snake inside Nocturne… I swallow the urge. For now.
She stares for a second, changes — I almost think she’s scared — until her face shifts. Her eyes narrow. Her mouth twists into a crooked, almost rotten smile. Her expression turns sick, sadistic. She moves closer with slow, hypnotic steps, sliding her hand across my chest, fingers digging into the shirt like she can feel what’s underneath.
“You’re so fucking hot, Damon… but such a dumbass.” Her voice drips honeyed sarcasm, sharp like glass shards hidden in syrup. “If I were you, I’d watch where I walk, yeah? Anyone could wanna fuck you over — and leave you stranded somewhere far away.” She smiles, eyes gleaming with malice. “But hey… don’t take that as a threat, okay? Just thinking out loud.”
But that’s exactly what it is. Every word’s a veiled promise. A warning dressed up as small talk. And that smile she keeps on her face? Just a mask for someone who’d love to see me dead.
?????
I walk through the warehouse, the air thick and heavy with the smell of sweat, metal, and tension. The place is packed with members of Nocturne and Iron Requiem — shadows moving silently, eyes sharp, bodies ready to explode into violence. My vision’s blurred, like a thick fog clouding everything, while Emma’s words echo inmy head: Hunter was the one responsible for Noah’s death.
In the first hall, where the training gear is stashed, the worn-out boxing ring and some piled-up tables, Zion and Grace stare me down — Hunter’s lil’ puppies. I ignore them, a shadow passing by. My eyes scan every corner, every shadow, hunting that son of a bitch. The low voices around suddenly stop; some guys notice my state — out of myself, tense, sharp as a razor ready to slice. My fists tingle, my chest burns, heart pounding fast, like it’s about to jump out of my throat.
Emma appears, coming out of a side room. Her eyes land on me, and right away, fear paints itself across her face. She sees my expression — rage, raw hatred, a storm about to break. I can’t think straight, can’t control a damn thing. I just feel the brutal pressure inside my chest, hands shaking, teeth clenched.
“Damon… you okay?” She rushes over, forcing a smile, trying to hide it so no one around suspects. She hugs me quick, trying to hold back what she can.
“You don’t gotta put on this act, Emma. Not today.” My voice is low, heavy, loaded.
She lets go, half embarrassed, eyes wide, looking at me like she wants to stop me from moving forward. “Damon, you can’t do this. The truce… all of this. You’re gonna fuck the plans, everything.”
“I don’t give a fuck. He killed Noah.” My voice tears through the silence, cutting sharp. “Don’t try to change my mind. If you didn’t want me to know, you wouldn’t have told me.”
She drops her head, defeated, knowing I’m right. She told me everything.
Our eyes lock the exact moment I look over Emma’s shoulder.
And it hits me like a punch to the chest.
Hunter Wolfe.
He stares back at me — no shock, no doubt, no running.
He knows.
He gets it.
The reason I’m here.
The fury in my eyes.
The death I carry in my hands.
