Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO: Ghosts in the Smoke

Jace's POV

The air in Barcelona hung heavy with humidity… and secrets.

From the fire escape above Club Nirvana’s back alley, I rested on the rusted railing, a cigarette burning between my fingers. Below, Lucian was entering a black car. 

I didn’t move nor did i say a word, Just let the smoke slide past my lips, curling like ghosts toward the sky.

My heart was beating too damn loud for someone who claimed to feel nothing at all.

Lucian Moreau should’ve been just another face. Another name pinned to a board. A shadow in the rearview.

But I could still feel the brush of his hand on my wrist, still taste the tension between us from the lounge—like it had branded itself into my skin.

And I hated that. I hated him so much for what he'd done to my parents.

My fingers found the lighter in my pocket, flicking it once… twice.

“Not yet,” I muttered under my breath, eyes locked on the back as they disappeared into the city. “Not tonight.”

But memory doesn’t care about timing. It struck anyway, forcing me to remember that agonizing night.

Flashback .........

Ten Years Ago in the city of new York.

Heat and Smoke rose through the clouds, and the screams could be heard from miles away.

I was just ten and barefoot, Bleeding through my nose. I remember the sting of glass slicing through my heel as I stumbled down the hallway, coughing through smoke thick enough to choke a ghost.

“Papa?” I choked, coughing loudly. “Papa!” I yelled but there was no answer.

The library was already collapsing when I got there—beams fallen.  Books burned beyond recognition. My eyes fell on my parents.

My father was lying under a crumbled beam, body twisted wrong, blood on his lips. Reaching for me with a shaking hand.

“Moreau…” he rasped. “He lied… everything… was a lie.”

Then nothing. His hand dropped then his eyes closed for good.  My mother was right next to him, unrecognizable because she was half burnt.

They were Gone!

And standing at the top of the stairs, framed in orange light and ash—

Lucian Moreau with blood on his shirt. Silent and Staring with a keg and gun in his hand.

We locked eyes for a moment too long then he turned and walked away like he had not robbed me of my happiness.

Present — Barcelona

I crushed the cigarette beneath my boot.

My jaw tightened with anger.

There were still blank spots in the memory—holes where clarity should be. But I knew one thing: Lucian was there. And he hadn’t saved anyone. He was the one who murdered them.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a 

blocked number. I stared at it for a second too long before I picked up.

“Yeah?”

A distorted voice came through, low and crackling. “Your real name is still buried. Don’t slip or else....”

My spine snapped straight. “Who is this?”

Silence followed then the line went dead.

I checked the log—nothing. No trace. Like it never happened.

“Son of a bitch.” I gritted my teeth and tightened my grip on the phone like I could crush the truth out of it.

The city suddenly felt colder. The night too quiet. Someone had reached out from the shadows, and it wasn’t to help.

I pulled my hoodie over my head and slipped into the alley, vanishing into the city I knew too well.

My apartment sat two flights above a closed bodega in El Raval. There were no lights and no name on the door. Three deadbolts and a peephole with a cracked edge.

It wasn't home, Just one of many places I could disappear into.

I kicked off my boots and flipped the overhead light. Then crossed the room to the corner where my corkboard waited.

Photos, maps, red thread running like veins between dates and faces. Some names were circled. Others scratched out. Patterns only I could read and understand 

And in the dead center—Lucian Moreau.

A candid photo from a gala that I had taken. Him in a tux, champagne in hand, that arrogant half-smile on his face. He didn’t know he was being watched.

But I had been watching every damn time.

My fingers brushed the edge of the photo.

“You’re next,” I whispered. “Even if you don’t remember me, I remember everything.”

Except I didn’t.

There were gaps, mismatched pieces and things that didn’t make sense—like why Lucian was in Barcelona now, after years of silence. Why he’d come to that club, and why had he chosen me out of all the dancers. Why my father’s final breath carried the name Moreau.

The past wasn’t just buried. It had been burned clean.

A knock echoed through the apartment which made me freeze.

No one knew I lived here neither did I ordered anything. I grabbed a knife from the counter and approached the door, silently.

Looking through the peephole— it was empty. I opened the door slow and carefully. Right there on my doorstep was a box. It was plain brown with no return address just taped shut.

I brought it inside, cut it open with the blade.

Inside was only one thing, a photo. I furrowed my brows in confusion. It was Worn, yellowed with time. It was a picture of Me.

I was maybe four or five. Grinning, front tooth missing, standing in front of the mansion. 

I hadn’t seen this picture in years.

I turned it over. On the back, written in thick black marker: “The devil you seek isn’t who you think.”

I stared at the words until they blurred.

Someone knew who was.

Not just who I was—but what I was doing.

They were playing a game And I hated games.

But I’d play And I’d win.

Even if it meant dragging Lucian—and every ghost tied to him—straight through hell.

I pinned the photo beside Lucian’s on the board and stepped back, heart still pounding.

I whispered to the room, to the silence, to the past—

“Game on.”