บททั้งหมดของ The Debt of the Widow: บทที่ 31 - บทที่ 40

"B, stay with me! Don't you close those eyes. Fucking look at me!"Dante's voice was a distorted warble. It bounced off the peeling wallpaper, stretching out like pulled taffy. Gravity gave up. The floor buckled, turning into a rolling sea of grey linoleum that threatened to swallow the kitchen table."Everything is... bright," Bianca slurred.Her tongue felt like a thick, dry sponge. White light exploded behind her retinas, rhythmic and piercing. Every pulse of her heart sent a neon surge through her veins. The world wasn't a room anymore. It was a strobe light."You drank it. You actually drank it. Why the hell would you do that?"Dante’s face was inches from hers. His features were liquefying. His obsidian eyes smeared across his cheekbones, melting into a dark, oily ink that dripped onto his collar. One moment he was the Butcher, sharp and terrifying. The next, his jaw elongated, sprouting coarse grey fur that smelled of wet forest and old blood.He hauled her over the sink, his h

"Drop the leash. Now."Bianca’s voice didn't sound like her own. It was a hollow echo bouncing off the walls of a courtroom that shouldn't exist. She stood on a floor made of glass, suspended over a pit of churning black ink. Ahead of her, the High Judge sat on a throne of jagged obsidian. He looked exactly the same as the night at the North Gate, his charcoal overcoat sharp, his eyes devoid of anything resembling mercy.In his hand, he gripped the leather lead. At the end of it, her father Arthur was slumped in the grit, a gag still choking his pathetic sobs."You’re late for the verdict, Bianca," the Judge said. His voice didn't need a microphone. It vibrated through the soles of her feet."This is a dream. You aren't real." Bianca stepped forward, her bare feet sticking to the glass. "I drank the poison. I should be dead.""Dead? No." The Judge stood, the leather lead snapping as he yanked Arthur’s head back. "You’re just finally on the stand. You want to wake up? You want to go ba

"Where the fuck did everyone go?"The question scraped against the back of Bianca’s throat, dry as sun-bleached bone. Sunlight sliced through the shattered window frames of the safe house, striking the floorboards in jagged, indifferent geometric shapes. It wasn't the warm, golden light of a morning meant for waking up. It was a cold, clinical glare that exposed every speck of dust dancing in the stagnant air.Silence. No heavy, rhythmic breathing from the man who had anchored her through the night. No rustle of maps. No hum of the Blood Ledger. Just the sound of a leaky faucet in the kitchenette, each drop hitting the metal sink like a hammer on an anvil.Bianca pushed herself up.The movement triggered a cascade of sensory input that nearly knocked her back into the grey haze. Her skin felt three sizes too small. It was a tight, vibrating drumhead stretched over a frame that no longer belonged to a human girl. The bones in her legs were denser, a heavy architecture that made the flo

"What the hell took you so long to find me, Bianca? Or should I ask how many feds are trailing your scent right now?"Dante didn’t turn around. He stood at the edge of the pier, his silhouette cut sharp against the oily reflection of the harbor. The smell of diesel and dead fish choked the air. His voice was a jagged blade, stripped of the warmth she had crawled through hell to find.Bianca stopped ten feet back. Her boots skidded on the wet gravel. "Feds? I almost died, Dante. I jumped. I left everything behind because of you.""Yeah, you jumped." He spun around, the motion so fast it blurred. He wasn't the man she remembered. His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw stubbled and tight. He stepped into her space, his chest heaving. "A suicide attempt? That’s the oldest play in the book. A perfect distraction to slip a tracker under my skin or lead a strike team to the manifest. Who are you working for? My father? The Bureau?""Are you f**king serious right now?" Bianca’s voice cracked. Her h

"Get the boat moving! Move, damn you!"Dante’s voice cracked over the rhythmic percussion of the rain. He lunged for Bianca’s arm, his fingers slick with mud and motor oil, trying to haul her toward the rusted gangplank of the Obsidian Marauder. The Butcher’s Guard didn't wait. The tactical masks turned toward the hill, saw the strobe of red and blue cutting through the deluge, and vanished into the shadows of the shipping containers. Professional rats leaving a sinking pier."Dante, your leg!" Bianca shouted.He didn't listen. He took one step, his weight shifting onto his left side, and then the world tilted. The old wound from the vault heist—the one he’d been hiding behind a stoic grimace—finally snapped. His knee buckled with a wet pop. He hit the concrete hard, his rifle clattering away, sliding toward the edge of the dock."F**k!" Dante hissed, clawing at the oil-slicked ground. He tried to push up, but his face went grey, his jaw grinding until the muscles stood out like iron