Gone

Mr. Voss’s shadow filled the doorway, calm and absolute. The guards stiffened. Damien froze only for a breath. Then he pushed. The chain screamed and the bolt tore loose from the wall.

The sound was sharp, metal on stone, and the guards spun toward him. Damien swung the length of chain like a weapon, slamming it into the nearest man’s head. The guard crumpled. Another lunged, baton raised, but Damien shifted his weight and wrapped the chain around the man’s arm, wrenching it until bone cracked.

Mr. Voss didn’t flinch. His eyes were steady, cold, proud in a way that cut deeper than any weapon. “My son,” he said, as if watching a lesson unfold.

Damien ignored the words. He spun again, chain striking, boots kicking. Another guard fell. A baton struck his ribs and pain exploded through his side, but he did not stop. He could not stop.

Blood smeared the floor. Keys scattered. Damien dropped low, snatched them up, and ripped the manacles from his wrists. His skin tore where the metal had cut him raw, but the freedom burned hotter than pain.

Mr. Voss moved forward slowly, controlled, not a man rushing to stop his son but one curious to see the outcome. “You think freedom is in your hands,” he said. “You think escape will change the design. But the design is mine. Always mine.”

Damien tightened his grip on the chain, every muscle screaming, every breath fire in his chest. He did not answer. He launched himself at the final guard instead, the chain smashing across the man’s throat. The guard gurgled and fell, boots twitching.

The corridor rang with silence. Engines rumbled faintly outside. Mr. Voss stared at him. For a moment, neither moved.

“Run,” Mr. Voss said finally, voice steady. “Show me what you do with your freedom. It will not matter. You will always return to me. You are mine.”

Damien’s jaw locked. He wanted to strike, to crush the calm out of that face. But instinct screamed louder: survive. He turned, snatched a fallen pistol from the ground, and sprinted.

The facility erupted in noise. Sirens blared. Radios crackled. Shouts thundered from every corridor. Boots pounded in pursuit.

Damien fired once, the shot cracking off the walls, scattering men behind cover. He ran harder, chain still wrapped around his forearm, pistol clenched. The door at the end of the corridor loomed. He burst through, into the night.

The cold air hit him like ice. Trucks lined the yard, engines hot, guards scrambling. Floodlights swept across the concrete.

He didn’t think. He dove under one of the trucks, rolled, came up on the far side, and sprinted for the fence. Bullets cracked into the ground near his feet. He vaulted over a crate, shoved a man aside, slammed the chain into another’s face, and kept moving.

The fence gleamed with razor wire, but a maintenance ladder clung to one side. Damien scrambled up, ignoring the tearing in his hands. Bullets tore the metal near his head. He flung himself over the top and dropped, rolling on the far side.

Concrete turned to dirt. Dirt to grass. Then he was running through dark fields, lungs burning, blood dripping from his wrists, ribs screaming with every breath. Behind him, the sirens wailed, the lights blazed, the empire of his father thundered with pursuit.

He did not look back.

Hours blurred. His legs carried him, automatic, fueled only by fury and the thought of Ivy. Ivy’s face, Ivy’s voice, Ivy’s body trembling in his arms. He pushed through the pain, through the exhaustion, through the memory of chains still cutting into his skin.

By the time the horizon bled with light, he staggered into the edges of the city. Stolen clothes from a washing line clung to his body, hiding the blood, hiding the scars. He slipped into streets he knew by instinct, alleys he had memorized long ago.

Finally, finally, he reached the gates of the mansion.

The guards recognized him and froze, eyes wide, unsure whether to salute or retreat. Damien shoved past without a word. His body moved on instinct, straight through the halls, up the stairs, to Ivy. To her room. To her.

The door stood ajar.

The silence inside was heavier than chains. Sheets were thrown aside. A chair overturned. The faintest scent of perfume lingered, fading.

“Ivy?” Damien’s voice cracked, raw. He stepped inside, searching every corner. Nothing. No movement. No breath.

His heart slammed. He tore through the rooms, shouting her name, flinging doors open, demanding answers from silent walls.

The staff shrank back from him. Their faces pale, their eyes avoiding his. Not one dared to speak. Not one dared to tell him what had happened.

The silence was worse than any scream.

Damien’s chest heaved. His fists clenched. He felt the weight of the chain still wrapped around his arm, digging into his skin. He ripped it off and hurled it across the room.

“Ivy!” His roar shook the walls.

Only silence answered.

Where is she?” Damien’s voice was raw, thunderous. He seized the nearest man by the collar and slammed him against the wall. “Tell me! Where is she?”

The man stammered, lips trembling. “M-Master Damien, I… I don’t know. She… she was here, she....”

Damien’s grip tightened until the man choked. Fury burned through his veins. “Don’t lie to me! Someone saw her. Someone knows what happened.” He shoved the man aside and turned on the others, eyes blazing.

They shrank back as if his rage were fire.

“Speak!” he shouted. His voice echoed down the corridor, shaking the air. “Who took her? When? Who was here?”

A maid burst into tears, covering her mouth with trembling hands. Another worker muttered something about Eve, then silenced himself quickly, fear locking his lips. Damien caught the hesitation and lunged at him.

“What did you say?” Damien’s eyes were wild, his teeth clenched, spit flying with every word. “Say it again!”

The man dropped to his knees. “Forgive me, sir. I… I only heard her voice. Mistress Eve. She came here last night. She—she said you wanted Ivy taken somewhere safe. We… we didn’t question it.”

Damien froze, chest heaving, vision narrowing to red. Eve.

The hall went deathly quiet. The servants stared at him, waiting for his fury to strike again.

“Safe?” His voice was low, dangerous, shaking with rage. He dragged the man to his feet by the scruff of his shirt. “You think I would let anyone touch her? You think I would hand her over?” He shoved him hard into the wall, the thud rattling the frames.

The man whimpered, nodding frantically.

Damien released him with disgust and staggered back a step, his chest rising and falling like a drumbeat. The pieces crashed together in his head—his father’s chains, Eve’s obsession, Ivy’s silence.

“Ivy…” he whispered, almost broken, before his voice rose again, a roar that tore through the mansion. “Eve!”

The staff cowered, huddling against the walls, some weeping, some whispering prayers. None dared to move.

Damien turned, his fury uncontained. He ripped the curtains from the windows, shattered a vase with the back of his hand, knocked over a table with a violent shove. His body shook with rage, his blood pounding. He stormed back into Ivy’s room, tearing through every corner, searching for a note, a clue, any trace she had left behind. Nothing. Just the overturned chair, the scattered sheets, the echo of her absence.

He staggered to the bed, gripping the mattress so hard his knuckles whitened. His head dropped, breath ragged. For a moment, he was silent. Then he looked up, eyes sharp, voice raw.

“She was here,” he said to himself, to the walls, to anyone who would listen. “She was here, and now she’s gone. And whoever touched her… whoever dared…” His jaw tightened until his teeth ached.

He turned back to the servants. “Gather everyone,” he barked. “Now. Every guard, every driver, every maid. If anyone lies, if anyone hides something from me, I will tear this house apart brick by brick.”

The workers scattered, terrified, rushing to obey. Damien stood in the wreckage of Ivy’s room, chest heaving, fists trembling. His ribs throbbed from the blows, his wrists still burned from the chains, but the pain was drowned out by a single truth.

Ivy was gone.

And Eve had her.