Chapter 29

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Chapter 29: The Devil’s cardboard 

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The flame flickered softly as Victor Kane lit the end of his cigar. He wasn’t in a hurry—he never was. Every movement was deliberate, calculated, like a man who knew time bent for him. The tobacco caught fire, glowing a fierce red, and a curl of smoke drifted lazily into the stale air of the underground chamber.

A steel cage stood at the center of the room, cold and unfeeling under the dim, amber light. Inside, a girl—barefoot, bruised, and barely seventeen—huddled in the corner. Her wrists were raw from the iron cuffs. Her breathing was shallow, panicked, but quiet. She hadn’t made a sound in over an hour.

Victor didn’t acknowledge her at first.

Instead, he turned his attention to the camera in the corner of the room. The little red light blinked back at him. Always watching.

“To those keeping tabs,” he said smoothly, exhaling smoke. “Remember this. I don’t miss a single detail. I don’t lose pieces on the board. I remove them.”

He took one more slow drag, the tip of the cigar glowing like a dying star.

Then he walked toward the cage.

He didn’t need to speak.

His smile said it all.

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Elsewhere – Paris

Hidden deep within the underground corridors of the Louvre, past sealed doors and roped-off exhibits, she sat where no tourist had ever ventured.

They called her The Widow.

Draped in black from head to toe, with a veil that shrouded her face and gloves that hid more than her skin, she moved like someone who didn’t need permission. The legends around her were endless. Some said she was once royalty. Others claimed she was a ghost who walked through fire and never burned.

Only one thing was certain—her power was real.

She stirred her tea with a silver spoon, slow, thoughtful. When her phone buzzed, she answered without looking.

“He’s becoming impatient,” she murmured, voice soft as silk and just as dangerous.

The man on the line—a shadow with a name no one ever spoke aloud—answered with a nod she couldn’t see. “And reckless.”

She took a sip, eyes still fixed on the painting before her. “Send him the coordinates.”

A pause.

“And remind him what happens to dogs who forget who feeds them.”

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Victor’s Mansion – Restricted Wing

The corridor leading to Victor’s private surveillance room was silent, cold, and longer than it needed to be. The doors opened automatically when he approached, revealing a wall of screens blinking to life.

No art. No windows. Just eyes. Everywhere.

One screen held a frozen image of Isla’s face—eyes narrowed, jaw tight. Another followed Vi through an alley in Berlin. A third showed Christopher, pacing in a safehouse Victor had already marked.

He stared at them like puzzle pieces. Close. Too close.

He reached for a remote and flicked to a new feed—Zurich. The courier’s last known location. Gone dark.

Victor exhaled slowly. So, the Widow had sent a message of her own.

But Victor Kane didn’t flinch.

He never did.

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“Activate Lazarus.”

The command was quiet. Precise.

A secure channel relayed it halfway across the world. In a forgotten asylum outside Detroit, lights began to flicker. An old generator coughed to life. Rusted locks gave way.

And a door opened.

Out stepped a man in a torn straightjacket, barefoot, unshaven, with eyes that hadn’t blinked in hours.

Ezra Quinn.

Victor’s last resort.

He wasn’t loyal.

He wasn’t sane.

But he was useful.

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Back in the Hideout

The lights dimmed.

Just a flicker. But enough.

Vi noticed first. Her head jerked toward the ceiling. “That wasn’t power failure,” she muttered.

Christopher was already reaching for his gun.

Vi raised a hand. “No. This isn’t an attack. It’s a warning.”

The laptop on the desk sparked to life. Nobody touched it.

And then the video played.

Victor’s voice filled the room like poison.

“To my beautiful Isla…”

Her blood went cold.

“Your father screamed, you know. When he realized he wasn’t getting out.”

She stood rigid, fists clenched at her sides.

“You can run. You can fight. But you’ll always end up back where you belong.”

The screen shifted.

Now it was live.

A new girl. Shackled. Screaming.

Vi didn’t hesitate—she slammed the laptop shut.

“Son of a bitch.”

Christopher looked at Isla.

“This has gone beyond anything we planned.”

Isla didn’t blink. She didn’t cry.

She just said, “Then we stop planning.”

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Later That Night – Victor’s Private Study

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting long shadows across the room. Victor held a glass of brandy in one hand, swirling it gently as he watched the flames dance.

He was humming.

Not a tune anyone would recognize. Something old. Something broken.

He walked to the shelf and pulled down a leather-bound photo album. The cover was unmarked, aged at the edges. He opened it slowly.

There were only a few pages.

A photograph slipped loose.

He caught it before it hit the ground.

A little girl. Dark hair. Bright eyes. Held tightly in a man’s arms.

Victor stared down at it, eyes unfocused.

“She looks just like her mother…”

He touched the photo gently.

Then he smiled.