Page 61 of Nocturne
They won’t see Damon. They’ll see the incarnation of loss, of rage, of the absence Noah left. The oni inside me. Today, there’s no more peace, no more restraint — only a trail of fire and burnt flesh.
?????
The Iron Requiem warehouse is a beast made of concrete and shadows—cold, oppressive. The high ceiling holds a dirty skylight that lets in scattered streaks of afternoon light, like the leaden sky outside refuses to fully shine on this place. The floor is hard, stained with oil, mud, and time, and the echo of my footsteps sounds like hollow thunder cutting through the vast gloom.
It’s not empty. It couldn’t be.
Iron Requiem members are scattered at the entrance—three of them, lined up like sentinels guarding the dark pulse of the party inside. They look like living shadows, but their eyes burn with the same hunger that’s been eating at me.
"Y’all forgot to invite me again..." My voice cuts through the air like a cold-ass blade. "...but it’s cool." A crooked grin spreads across my face. "This time, I brought the fuckin’ fireworks."
The metallic stench of gasoline and gunpowder still clings to my jacket, dancing with the tension hanging in the air. My steps hit the floor heavy, deliberate — like each one’s a warning. Smoke from their cigarettes floats around the room, mixing with sweat and fear.
They don’t say shit. Just stare.
"Who the fuck are you?" growls the first guy, pulling a knife like that’s supposed to scare me. The blade catches the broken neon above the door, flickering like some kind of curse.
“Yo, you better turn your ass around and bounce the fuck outta here,” another one snaps, voice shaking like he’s trying to sound tough.
But I laugh. Low. Dark. Empty.
"Nice advice." I tilt my head, eyes locked in, predator locked on prey. "But I think I showed up just in time to ruin your little party."
One of them catches my attention more than the rest. His tattoos tell stories of blood and ice across his hands—detailed roses, sharp lines, letters inked with surgical precision, like every stroke was a war oath. He wears a heavy, gleaming black jacket, almost impenetrable, the hood tossed back. His face is hidden behind a black mask, only his eyes visible—young, but hardened by a brutal world.
I’m standing right in front of them.
Breathing steady.
Blood pounding loud in my ears.
About to kill them.
And still, these motherfuckers really didn’t get it.
Didn’t see it in my eyes?
Death’s already here — and she’s wearing my skin.
Almost imperceptibly, I pull the knife from my waist. The cold metal slides against my skin, like an extension of my own body. Spinning the blade through the air, everything around slows down, like time’s trapped in some torturous slow-mo.
Eyes lock onto each of the three standing before me with almost cruel precision — every detail, every breath, every hesitation laid bare.
In a heartbeat, I throw the knife straight into the guy in the middle’s chest.
The blade finds its mark with brutal cruelty: plunging deep into his left eye.
Blood erupts like a volcano, spraying hot and dark everywhere — running down his face, staining the black fabric mask, dripping onto the cold concrete floor. He screams, a ripped-out sound of pain and agony that mixes with the empty street’s hollow echo.
He hits the ground, thrashing like a wounded animal, crushing his own life on the cold, filthy pavement.
“You lost your damn mind?!” The second dude yells, panic and rage tangled in his scream.
But I don’t give a fuck about the desperate cries from someone already carrying a death sentence in his veins.
I hit the other two with cold precision, watching them crash onto the filthy concrete—broken bodies, still as hell, silent witnesses to my fury.
No rush. I back away, every step calculated, a whisper in the darkness.
