Chapter 24 - The demise

The wood of the porch groans under Olivia’s weight, a sharp, dying sound in the absolute silence of the abandoned neighborhood.

The SUV she left idling at the curb provides the only light, its headlamps cutting two yellow tunnels into the thick, dusty air.

Olivia pushes against the front door. It isn't locked.

It swings open with a heavy, rusted protest, revealing a hallway that smells of stagnant water, old paper, and something metallic - something sharp that makes the back of her throat itch.

"Hello?" she whispers, her voice swallowed by the shadows. "Chloe? Are you here?"

She takes a step, then another. The floorboards are slick with grime. She moves deeper into the house, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs.

"Chloe! Mark! Please, if you can hear me..."

Silence. Not the silence of an empty room, but the heavy, expectant silence of a tomb.

She reaches the end of the hallway where a single, flickering lightbulb hangs from a frayed wire. It casts rhythmic, twitching shadows against the peeling wallpaper.

"Chloe?" she tries again, her voice breaking into a sob. "Please... don't do this to me."

She reaches the doorway of the kitchen.

The air here is colder, and the metallic scent is overwhelming.

In the center of the room, sprawled across the chipped floor, lies a man. He is tall and lanky, his limbs angled awkwardly like a broken marionette.

Olivia estimates he is in his late fifties, his hair a shock of thin, nicotine-stained grey.

This is Weiller.

His eyes are wide open, fixed on a point on the ceiling that doesn't exist. They are static, glassy, and unblinking.

A thick, dark stream of blood oozes from the corner of his mouth, staining his chin and chin-stubble.

His chest hitches in shallow, jagged jolts - short breaths that sound like a saw cutting through wet wood.

He is fighting for every second, his fingers twitching against the floor.

"Oh God!" Olivia gasps, the horror slamming into her.

She rushes forward, ignoring the grime staining her dress. She drops to her knees beside him, the cold floor biting into her skin.

She grabs his shoulders, her hands instantly slick with something warm.

"Sir! Can you hear me? Look at me!" she cries, shaking him gently. "Where is she? Where did they take Chloe? Please, you have to tell me!"

Weiller’s head lolls to the side. A wet, gurgling sound escapes his throat as he tries to speak. His gaze shifts, finally landing on Olivia.

There is a flash of recognition in those dying eyes - a flicker of pure, unadulterated terror.

"Logan..." he wheezes, the word accompanied by a spray of red. "The... the North... Wing... they... they didn't... stop..."

"Don't talk about the Logans! Tell me where my sister is!" Olivia is screaming now, her tears dripping onto his pale, waxy face. "Who did this to you? Was it Sebastian? Was it Aiden?"

He doesn't answer. His breath hitches again, a long, whistling gasp that ends in a choked rattle. His grip on her sleeve tightens for a second, then goes limp.

Olivia’s breath hitches. As she leans closer to check his pulse, she notices her knees are soaking wet. She looks down and feels the world tilt.

A massive pool of blood is spreading out from beneath his ribcage, dark and viscous, reflecting the flickering lightbulb above like a black mirror.

It’s too much blood. The wound is deep, hidden by the shadows of his tattered jacket.

"No, no, no... stay with me!" she pleads, pressing her hands against his side to stop the flow. "You can't die yet! I need to know! Where is Chloe? Where is Mark?"

Weiller’s eyes begin to roll back. His jaw drops open, a silent scream frozen in his throat. He looks like a man who has looked into the abyss and realized it was looking back.

Olivia is trembling so hard her teeth are chattering. She is alone in a house of death, covered in the blood of a stranger who holds the only key to her sister’s life.

Every shadow in the kitchen seems to stretch toward her, mocking her failure.

As Olivia shifts her weight to reach for her phone, her hand brushes against something hard and cold protruding from his side.

She pulls back his jacket, her breath hitching in a silent scream.

Deep in Weiller’s waist, buried up to the hilt, is a tactical hunting knife.

The handle is unmistakable - it’s engraved with the silver crest of the Logan family. But it’s not just any knife. She recalls seeing it somewhere.