Page 60 of Nocturne
And for a second… maybe I am.
“Let go of me, fucker!” I thrash, try to break free, but Vincent’s a fucking bull — a bastard in his late thirties with arms like steel and twice my strength.
Hunter’s still on the ground, face a mashed-up mess, mouth hanging open and dripping blood, eyes half shut, gasping for air.
“Hunter! Hunter!” Grace runs to him. Her expression is pure hatred. Her eyes snap toward me, dripping with disgust, and for a second the silence slices the oxygen in the room. “This isn’t over.” She snarls. “And you, bitch…” Her gaze jumps to Emma. She points a sharp, firm finger. “Your time’s comin’ too, bitch. I’ma wipe that fake-ass innocent look right off your fuckin’ face.”
Emma doesn’t flinch.
Doesn’t say a word for a second.
Then she slowly lifts her middle finger with calm, defiant insolence. “Take your shot, cunt.”
The tension spikes.
Like gunpowder waiting for the match.
“You’re dead, man.” Zion steps up behind Grace, his dreads bouncing with each word, silver grillz flashing under the dim warehouse lights. “I fucking promise. Where the fuck is O’Connor, huh? This ain’t sliding. You motherfuckers are gonna pay. I swear.”
O’Connor’s name hangs in the air like a bomb about to drop.
But I don’t answer.
Because inside — even with blood on my hands, even after unloading three years of hate — I still don’t feel peace.
Only more rage.
?????
Four Days Later
Friday
01:26 am
I stare at myself in the living room mirror as if that could remind me who I am — or what I’ve become. The purple mask covers my face like a second skin. It’s a Japanese demon, an oni with hollow eyes, curved horns, and a mouth wide open in eternal fury. The surface has a matte, almost metallic shine, reflecting the warm light from the lamp I left on in the corner.
The face staring back at me is monstrous. Animal. That’s exactly what I need to be now. The Damon who believed in limits, stayed back there, buried with my brother’s body.
There is no loyalty left to be broken. Never existed.
What there was was a rotten truce, sewn with fear and interest, as if some peace could grow among the ruins.
Hunter killed Noah — and now thinks he can walk around, breathe, exist, as if that isn’t a crime with every beat of his heart. But he won’t die. Not yet.
I want him to see.
I want him to feel.
Today, Iron Requiem is the one who will fall.
I take a deep breath and fit the mask on for good. The sound of the clasp is dry, final.
No prayer, no doubt.
Just silence.
Silence and promises.
