CHAPTER 5

John Mark sat on the edge of the rusted cot in the basement, his skull thumping. Every second felt like a fever dream. The theft of his fire, Carl appearing out of the shadows to claim his life, his brothers treating him like a diseased stray.

None of it lined up. How did he go from the heir of the Hale Syndicate to the grit under their heels?

He shut his eyes and pressed his palms together. He wasn’t the spiritual type—not since the Abyss King started whispering in his marrow and the high gods went deaf. He’d spent years hoping Caleb, or some divine intervention, would show him a way out.

The silence had been total.

"Don Frank Ye, if you're even watching... just give me the truth." John’s voice was a dry rasp in the dark.

"Please."

The final request.

Suddenly, a massive surge of electricity slammed through his ribs. This wasn't the calm, tactical clarity he used to carry. This was raw. Violent. Hot. For a fraction of a second, a deep, ground-shaking snarl echoed in the back of his mind. A sound he hadn't heard since the day Carl arrived.

He gasped, air hitching in a throat that felt tight with tears.

The instinct. It was buried, but it was alive.

"You're still in there," he breathed, his heart hammering against his sternum. "Praise the Don... you're still there."

He tried to seize that spark, to drag the predatory fire to the surface, but the sensation slid away like oil. He was left gasping, trembling on the thin mattress.

He was too far gone. Between the crushing weight of the Syndicate’s rejection and the secret surgery he’d undergone to prep his eye for Julian’s graft, his body was a wreck. He couldn't hold a thought together, let alone summon the strength to fight.

He forced himself up, legs feeling like wet paper. He looked at the tray Carl had dropped off earlier. While John had been unconscious, the biological son must have returned to finish the humiliation. The bread was ground into the dirt, and the water bowl was flipped, soaking the concrete.

"Real classy, Carl," he muttered.

Pride didn't fill a stomach. He knelt on the cold stone, picking up the dry, soiled crusts anyway. He had to eat. He had to keep his heart beating long enough to find out if that snarl was real or just the final hallucination of a dying man.

Once he could walk without hitting the wall, he slipped out. He bypassed the main halls where the sounds of clinking crystal and laughter drifted down—planning some gala for the golden boy. He went straight to Officer Daniel Miller’s office to sign the finality of his death.

Miller looked at him with eyes full of lead.

"You've got less than two weeks, John," Miller said, his voice trailing off. "Are you sure? You don't want to spend the time with them? Just tell them."

A knot of salt and grief formed in John’s throat. He’d hallucinated a final dinner with them—a real one, with the old jokes. A walk through the docks with his brothers. A look from Marcus that didn't hold a death sentence. But they didn't want him. They had Carl. To them, John was a stain on the ledger.

"They're busy," John said, voice level. "And honestly? They’d prefer the quiet. Just give me work to do for the Syndicate before I'm gone. Keep my hands moving."

He went to the back room and pulled on the ritual gear. A heavy, crimson coat and a porcelain mask that erased his face. The mask was a mercy. It hid the hollows of his cheeks and the wetness in his eyes. It meant the Hales wouldn't have to deal with the "shame" of seeing their blank son save their empire.

To the city, he was a nameless savior. To the Hales, he was still just a ghost.

He walked to the edge of the Timberland Wall, the massive concrete barrier holding back the shadows of the Abyss. Below, the dark energy of the blight swirled like black smoke. A literal throat of hell. He spent the afternoon moving through the tenements near the wall—the people the Syndicate forgot. He saw kids with greyed skin and parents who looked like they were already made of ash.

"You'll be safe soon," he told a sobbing man clutching a sick child. His voice was a muffled vibration behind the porcelain. "The shadows are retreating. I promise."

"But the things down there..." the man whispered, gripping John’s red sleeve. "We hear the screaming. What happens to you when you go over? What if they catch you?"

John looked at the drop. For the first time in months, the ice in his chest settled into a strange peace.

"It doesn't matter what's down there," John said softly, patting the man’s hand. "As long as your kid gets to see the sun, I’m not worried about the dark."

By the time he snuck back into the manor and ditched the red gear in his crawlspace, he was vibrating with fatigue. His skull felt too small for his brain. He didn't get three steps into the foyer before the Don’s roar hit him like a physical strike.

"Where the hell have you been?"

Marcus stepped into the light, his face a mask of pure fury. The brothers were a wall of muscle behind him, eyes burning.

"We’ve been looking for you for hours!" Marcus barked. "Carl’s engagement party to Caleb is in forty-eight hours. Two days, John! You’re still his brother. You should be here moving crates and checking the lists, not wandering around like some spoiled brat!"

"I was just... out. Getting air," John said, leaning his shoulder against the wood paneling so he wouldn't collapse. His left eye, the one he was surrendering to Julian, throbbed behind the hidden bandage. He didn't have the breath to tell them he was doing the job they were too drunk on power to notice.

"Always about you," Julian spat, crossing his arms. He looked at John with a loathing that made John’s blood run cold. "Running off to hide when there’s heavy lifting. You’re lucky Carl is so forgiving, or we’d have locked you in that cellar hours ago."

John just dropped his gaze to the floor. Why bother? He was a ghost. A ghost with an expiration date.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "I'll go help."

Suddenly, the heavy front door slammed open, the oak hitting the stone wall with a crack. Andrew Knox, the Beta, sprinted in, chest heaving and face flushed. "Don! Don, you won't believe it!"

"What is it?" Marcus asked, his voice dropping into the cold, lethal tone of the Syndicate leader. "Is the wall failing?"

"The scouts just saw her!" Knox shouted, a manic grin splitting his face. "The hero! The one in the red coat. She was just at the North border, healing the sick families!"

The air in the room shifted instantly. The heat of the anger toward John just... evaporated. Marcus stepped forward, his eyes wide with a desperate, hungry hope.

"Where?" Marcus demanded, his voice trembling. "Where is the savior now? Track her! I want her brought here immediately. We will honor her above all others!"

John stood in the shadows, his broken box at his feet, watching his family hunt for a phantom while the man they hated stood right in front of them, bleeding in silence.