"Not everything that breaks makes a sound."
The fight was over, but the scene still bled like a fresh wound.
James sat slouched on a busted curb, blood stiffening on his sleeve while one of Victor's medics threaded a needle through skin. His gaze kept drifting….not to his wound, but to the far end of the alley, where the shadows hadn't moved since Lucas left. His gut twisted every time he blinked.
Something was still watching.
Or maybe something was still in him.
Two men remained. One conscious, twitchy, reeking of panic—Dante. The other slumped over, silent as stone. The quiet one. Unconscious. Unmoving. Wrapped in a rope that shimmered faintly, like moonlight soaked into thread. James hadn't seen Lucas tie it. But when he turned after the fight, it was already there.
Victor Cross arrived with the stillness of a man who'd already seen too much.
He didn't bark orders. Didn't demand answers. Just scanned the alley with slow, deliberate eyes. Like he was counting the ghosts.
He took in the scorched pavement, the jagged dent in the alley wall. A scar from something with weight and intent. This wasn't crossfire. Wasn't turf war.
This was surgical.
Effortlessly brutal.
Victor didn't like remembering, but the feeling in the air dragged one memory up by the throat—Bristol, 2009. Something in the morgue that moved after the autopsy. He hadn't seen what killed it. Only what was left.
This... felt like that.
He turned to James.
"Where is he?"
James didn't meet his eyes.
"Gone."
Victor's brow creased.
"Gone where?"
"He Didn't say anything and just walked off. Like none of this touched him."
Victor didn't answer. His eyes dropped to the rope now, wrapped around Dante and the Quiet One. A quiet pulse shimmered through it. Like it was breathing. He stepped closer.
"Load them up. We'll take them to the safehouse."
Two of his men stepped forward—then stopped short.
"What's the problem?" Victor asked.
One glanced at the rope, then back.
"It's the rope, sir. We tried. Can't touch it."
Victor squinted.
"Can't?"
The man hesitated.
"It's cold. Not normal cold. Burns, kinda. One guy said it whispered to him."
Victor crouched, holding his hand an inch above it. A cold so clean it felt like it peeled the skin back. He'd not felt something like that . Different places. Different rules.
He stood slowly.
"Don't touch the rope. Just carry them as they are."
They obeyed, lifting the captives with quiet urgency. Dante flinched at every motion, mumbling to himself. The Quiet One didn't stir.
Victor watched. Hands in his coat pockets. Mind tightening into knots.
Why were they still alive? Lucas left them breathing. That meant he wanted them to talk.
And if he wanted that… it meant this wasn't over.
Victor lit a cigarette, staring through the smoke at the cracked brick and scorched concrete.
Cain wasn't just hunting the dark.
He was something it feared.
—
The Call – Night
The city spread beneath him like a dying animal—quiet, breathing slow.
Lucas leaned against the hood of his car, cigar half-lit, eyes locked on the skyline.
The air was thick. Heavy with the sense of something unwinding.
Then, a sound.
Footsteps that didn't sound human.
Lucas moved—just his eyes, tracking.
Not human.
Just instinct on four legs.
It was a dog.
In folklore, dogs don't bark at ghosts.
They refuse to approach them. They know better.
It stopped.
Its ears flattened. Tail dropped.
It whined once, low in its throat, then turned and fled back into the dark.
Lucas didn't react. He'd stopped wondering why they feared him.
His phone buzzed in his palm.
Victor.
Victor (urgent):"Where the hell are you?"
Lucas (flat):"Out."
Victor:"You vanished. After all that? Looks like a gang war out here."
Lucas:"The job was done. They were out."
Victor (snaps):"The job was DONE? This isn't just a job, Cain—my fucking brother is missing, we have no fucking clue where he is. You tell me the job's done when you find my goddamn brother and bring him back to me."
Lucas's thumb flicked the lighter closed, the small spark of flame dying. His eyes narrowed, not at the phone, but at the darkness that clung to the city around him.
Lucas (calm):"I suggest you calm down and prepare for what's coming next."
Victor's voice hitched, caught between fury and fear. The weight of the words settled, unsaid, in the space between them.
Lucas ended the call without another word.
—
Casa Nocturna – Midnight
The door closed behind him with the weight of memory. Casa Nocturna swallowed him in silence.
In his room, a black obsidian ashtray.
A worn leather-bound journal.
A cracked pocket watch—motionless, forever 2:15.
He didn't touch any of them this time. Just stared at the old objects, their past lingering in the air like dust.
Lucas poured a drink, savoring the smooth burn as it slid down his throat. He sat on the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on the darkness in the corners. The shadows twitched like they were holding their breath.
The Quiet One's face drifted back to him—those wrong eyes, that voice like damp soil. Not human. Maybe not even close. Something beneath the surface.
N–x–r-e.
The word felt like an echo crawling under his skin. It rang through him like a memory he couldn't shake.
Lucas (to himself):"I'll get answers tomorrow."
But in the mirror, something was listening. Quietly. Wickedly.
He drank again, the darkness in him stirring, though not enough to rise. Not yet.
—
Victor's Safehouse – Morning
Victor paced like a caged wolf. The safehouse felt too small for him now—restless, tight. Lucas walked in, his presence filling the space like it was his to claim.
Victor (bitter):"You sleep well?"
Lucas:"Better than you it seems."
Victor's jaw clenched. They moved toward the basement together. The walls narrowed. The air grew colder, almost unbearable.
The rope was still in place—two men tied to chairs like meat at a butcher's stall. The Quiet One barely moved, his eyes flicking open only when he sensed Lucas's shadow. Dante twitched every few seconds, like he was waiting for the pain to come.
Victor hesitated, his gaze lingering on the rope again.
Victor (low):"It... doesn't make sense. My men wouldn't touch it. Some said it burned cold. Others said it whispered to them."
Lucas gave a subtle nod.
Lucas (calm):"Good. Means it's working."
He stepped closer, his voice dropping a pitch.
Lucas:"Here's what I'm going to do. Interrogate them both, one by one, and get all the answers."
Victor's patience snapped, his anger surfacing.
Victor (annoyed):"No, I take Dante. And you take the other one. And remove the damn rope from Dante."
Lucas:"Are you sure?"
Victor sneered, teeth flashing.
Victor:"I don't mind getting my hands dirty, Cain. In fact, they've been itching for something real."
—
Two Rooms - Dante's Room
Victor leaned forward, his eyes hard. Dante rambled, his voice a mix of paranoia and regret—every word an attempt to explain the mess he'd found himself in.
Dante (nervous):"I didn't know, I swear! We just smuggled things. Thought it was just a disposal. And then just finishing up! We were sent to kill that man in that alley! Freaks with weird rules, man."
Victor didn't care about his excuses. He only cared about one thing.
Victor (sharply exhales):"I've got two questions for you. Where is my brother? Who do you work for? Make your words count—or you'll count your remaining breaths next."
Dante trembled, his breath shallow.
Dante (sweating):"I don't know, man... okay? I don't know your brother..."
Victor (cold):"CALEB CROSS. Now think again."
Dante froze, a flicker of recognition in his eyes.
Dante:"Only that we were ordered to call you... lure you out... and finish you. They thought it... without you, that pale hound—Cain—wouldn't be onto them..."
Victor slammed his fist onto the table, grabbing Dante by the collar.
Victor:"THEY. WHO?"
But Dante only sobbed.
Dante:"Those Born of the Black."
—
Meanwhile, in the other room, the Quiet One faced Lucas.
No yelling. No threats. Just the bare minimum—a room, two chairs, one rope pulsing like it had a heartbeat. Lucas sat across from him, a cigar between his fingers. He took his time lighting it, smoke curling upward like a spirit rising.
Lucas (calm):"Your name."
The Quiet One smirked.
Lucas (flat):"Don't make me repeat myself."
The room responded, as if Lucas's voice was a command. The Quiet One's eyes narrowed, something flickering behind them.
The Quiet One (smirking):"My name... is Varos."
a beat of silence. Then he added
"You know my name now… but don't get cocky. You don't know what I am, Cain."
Lucas took a drag from his cigar, his gaze cold as steel.
Lucas:"Cocky? Hmm... You're a Nyxborne."
Varos's face went pale. The air in the room shifted, and Lucas knew—Varos understood the weight of what was being said.
Varos's smile faltered, his eyes darting away.
Varos (soft, to himself):"This is bad. No, he knows my name, not what I am... not completely, but he knows. This. Is. Bad."
Varos tried to recover, the smile returning, but it was strained.
Varos (smiling):"Well, that's the great Lucas Cain for you. You never miss anything."
Lucas leaned in, his voice soft but cutting.
Lucas:"You're going to tell me where the man known as Caleb Cross is. Or… "
Varos's smile faded, the tension crackling between them like a live wire.
---
Outside, Victor leaned against the basement wall, drained. His shirt was damp, his mind a whirl of jagged thoughts.
Victor:"He talk?"
Lucas:"Enough."
Lucas lit another cigar, his gaze distant, as if he were already miles away.
Victor (gritting his teeth):"Fill me in."
Lucas stepped forward, the door to the office swinging open. The heavy smoke from his cigar lingered, mixing with the musty air of the alleyway outside.
As the door clicked shut behind him, Victor remembered Lucas's words from the night before:
"I suggest you calm down and prepare for what's coming next."
The memory twisted in his gut.
It made him uncomfortable.
END OF CHAPTER 5.