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20 — Shatterpoint

Author: Torque Stone
last update Last Updated: 2025-11-30 18:56:16

Smoke crawled across the floor—thick, bitter, burning Eirwen’s throat raw.

Not fire.

Gas.

It rolled beneath the doors, hugged the concrete, turning the air heavy and wrong. Above and below, the building shook—boots, detonations, violence getting closer.

Eirwen’s vision blurred. She stumbled.

Domenik’s hand snapped to her wrist. No hesitation. No softness. Absolute.

His grip anchored her, steady and unyielding. His fingers pressed just hard enough to make her body obey.

“Stay with me.” His voice was a command, not comfort. Low, certain.

She dragged in a breath that scorched her lungs.

“I am.”

“Not enough.” He stepped in, bracing her jaw, forcing her eyes up to his. His thumb claimed her chin—deliberate, controlling.

“Look at me.”

Her vision swam, but she did. His gaze pinned her, sharp, unwavering.

“Again. Breathe.”

She obeyed. Slow. Shallow. Then deeper.

Only then did the world settle enough to sharpen.

Behind them, Talia coughed, half-carried by Heller toward the stairwell. Boots scraped concrete, voices starting to crack with panic.

“They’re breaching from below!” Heller’s shout echoed.

“I know,” Domenik snapped.

Another blast rocked the walls. Dust rained down.

Eirwen’s heart slammed against her ribs.

Domenik leaned in—his words for her alone, iron wrapped in silk.

“You move when I move. Don’t break formation. Don’t freeze. Stay with me.”

He wasn’t asking. He was locking her to him, as if nothing in the world could make him let go.

She nodded, voice lost. “Okay.”

He held her gaze, searching her face for weakness, then released her.

“Good.”

The word was heavy, final, a promise more than praise.

They moved.

The stairwell was a concrete throat, every step echoing with gunfire and orders. The gas clawed at their eyes. Every footfall felt too loud, every breath a risk.

Halfway down, Talia sagged. Heller caught her, swearing.

“She’s fading—”

“She stays conscious,” Domenik barked. “Talk to her.”

Talia fumbled inside her jacket, pressed a silver drive into Eirwen’s palm. The name CAYDE etched deep.

“Only you,” she whispered. “Don’t let them—”

Her knees gave. Eirwen caught her, panic tightening her grip.

“Stay with me.” Eirwen tried to steady her, but her own hands were shaking.

Domenik was already there, gripping Eirwen’s arm, holding them both steady.

“She’s alive,” he said—sharp, not reassuring. “Move.”

They moved.

Above, boots thundered. Shouts bounced off concrete.

“They have your overrides,” Eirwen managed between breaths. “Your codes. That was inside.”

“I know.” Domenik’s jaw clenched. “Someone sold us out.”

Another blast shook the stairwell.

“They’re boxing us in!” Heller’s voice cracked.

“They want her alive,” Domenik said, flat and lethal.

Eirwen stiffened. “I’m not cargo.”

His gaze sliced to her, cold and unyielding. “No. You’re leverage.”

The truth steadied her more than any lie could.

At the lower landing, the door creaked open—slow, deliberate.

Gaslight spilled through the gap.

A silhouette filled the doorway—tall, controlled, immaculate even in chaos.

A woman stepped in. Coat soaked, boots silent, eyes carved from patience and violence.

Her gaze locked on Eirwen—the same bones, the same cold steel.

The Widow.

Alive. Unbreakable. Watching.

“Well,” she said, her voice smooth as glass. “You’ve made a mess.”

Domenik shifted instantly, blocking Eirwen with his body—no hesitation, no show. His hand lifted, ready for violence.

The Widow’s eyes flicked over his stance—a faint, knowing smile.

“Still loyal?” she murmured. “Disappointing.”

Her attention returned to Eirwen.

“So,” she said, too lightly, “you finally stopped hiding.”

Eirwen’s pulse hammered. Her throat tightened, old wounds rising.

“You’re supposed to be dead.”

“So I hear.” The Widow’s lips curled. “Death’s overrated.”

Domenik didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“One more step and this ends,” he said, calm as execution.

The Widow tilted her head, studying him. “You won’t. Not yet. You still want answers.”

She looked Eirwen up and down, gaze sharp as a knife.

“Feel it, don’t you? The pressure. The way the city closes around you when you stand still.” Her smile was all blade. “You always had instincts worth killing for.”

Eirwen swallowed, fingers twisting in Domenik’s coat.

He didn’t look back, but his hand closed over hers—brief, possessive, grounding.

“Breathe,” he murmured.

She did.

The Widow watched them, almost amused. “So that’s your trick now?”

Eirwen lifted her chin. “What do you want?”

The Widow’s smile turned predatory. “Everything.”

The silence was a drawn wire.

Boots thundered above. Shouts split the air. Time splintered.

Domenik’s voice cut through, low and lethal. “You don’t touch her.”

The Widow’s eyes flicked to him, cold. “We’ll see.”

She faced Eirwen again.

“Come with me, or I dismantle everything he’s built. Piece by piece. Until you do.”

The threat landed—real, human, merciless.

Eirwen’s chest tightened.

Domenik leaned in, his breath hot at her ear, voice low enough for only her.

“You don’t go anywhere,” he said. “Not unless you choose to.”

Not permission.

A line drawn in blood.

Her breath shook.

The world narrowed to his grip, his word.

Gunfire cracked above. Gas burned her lungs. Her mother waited. The city held its breath.

Eirwen understood:

This wasn’t fate.

This was leverage.

And tonight, someone was going to bleed for underestimating it.

═══════⊹⊱♚⊰⊹═══════

Next: 21 — Widow

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