Page 67 of Nocturne
And it’d be so much, so much worse if they knew.
If anyone found out what happened between me and Damon.
Or what still burns inside me, even after everything.
CHAPTER 17
DAMON
The red sign of Route 66 Ghosts crackles above my head, casting a glow so harsh over the wooden sidewalk it feels like it’s trying to make sure I’ve got nowhere to hide.
I lean against the brick wall, the night air cold on my face, eyes locked on the white van parked near the entrance — like every car sitting in this lot is hiding a secret that’ll never make it out of here.
This place is way too far from Boston to attract the curious. And that’s exactly why I came — to find someone who doesn’t want to be found.
The door creaks open as someone walks in, letting out a burst of muffled music and the stench of cheap whiskey that almost convinces me to just keep walking.
But I stay still, breathing deep, like the neon might numb me for a few minutes before everything begins.
A sign pulses blood-red just above the entrance — part warning, part promise.SINNERS WELCOME.The letters scream into the dark with a kind of sacred boldness, while the soft white neon below tries to sugarcoat it with a half-assedwelcome, like anyone in there still had a shot at redemption.
I stop for a second, hands buried in my pockets, breathing in the smell of cigarettes, dry rain, and pure fucking decay. The sign flickers in the puddle at my feet,like it’s laughing at me — and maybe it is.
Because I know this place doesn’t forgive anyone. And yet here I am.
I push open the heavy metal door, fully aware that every step I take inside is ripping out another piece of a soul I’m not even sure I still have.
?????
I’d never agreed with that Confucius line until today.
Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.
I killed a fuckload of Nocturne Pact members. Blew up their damn warehouse — that shitty place they called home, their refuge. But fuck, what did it even matter if the emptiness in my chest still screams so loud it almost chokes me? Like something vital was ripped right out of me and left there, bleeding in the dark.
Nothing I do to them is gonna bring Noah back.
No punch, no fire, no death will fill that black hole inside me.
And worst of all? I’m not at peace with myself.
But what really eats me alive — and at the same time twists my gut with bitter rage, almost a cruel satisfaction — is knowing Hunter felt that same pain.
He killed my brother like crossing a name off a list, cold, no remorse — just another dumb mission for him to check off and forget.
I could’ve killed him.
Pulled the trigger in a way so cruel, so methodical, he’d feel every ounce of my hate ripping through him, shredding whatever humanity was left in those cold eyes.
Could’ve been sadistic, ruthless, tearing from him the same peace I’ll never get.
But I didn’t.
Because deep down, in that rotten place where my scars rot in silence, I know killing him wouldn’t set me free. It’d be too easy. A lie I’d tell myself to pretend the void could be filled with blood. And I hate that.
Hate him for making me feel, for looking at me like that — like he sees past the chaos tearing my world apart.
If I killed Hunter, maybe I’d get rid of the hate eating me alive. But I’d also kill the only part of me still beating, still feeling, still hurting for real.
