The smoke swirled like a living thing, heavy, stubborn, refusing to clear.
Tom's lungs burned as he surged forward, one arm raised to shield his eyes, the other swinging blindly through the thick haze. "Jhel!" he shouted, voice raw with fury. "You coward, get back here!"
He swung again, slashing at the air like he could grab Jhel by the collar and slam him into a wall. His fingers clawed through nothing, just smoke and broken furniture and the ghost of a man who had slipped through his fingers.
Tom cursed under his breath and stumbled forward a few more steps, chest heaving, blood still trickling from the small cut on his cheek. The fury inside him surged and spiraled, aimless and untamed.
Behind him came Gregor's voice, calm but strained. "Tom. You good?"
Tom froze.
The sound of Gregor's voice grounded him more than he liked to admit. It cut through the smoke like a thread of sanity. He turned toward it slowly, his pulse thudding like war drums in his ears.
And just like that, as if the smoke had been waiting for a cue, it began to dissipate. Slowly at first, wisps rising toward the ceiling, curling away from broken chairs and cracked walls. Within seconds, the room began to take shape again.
It was a wreck.
The couch was destroyed, half of it blown into cinders and foam. The far wall was scorched black, cracked and dented from where Tom had slammed into it. Books lay scattered across the floor like fallen soldiers. Glass glimmered everywhere. But most importantly…
There was no Jhel.
Just him and Gregor. Alone.
"Damn it," Tom muttered under his breath. He turned in a slow circle, eyes scanning every possible corner, but it was useless. Jhel was gone.
Gone.
*****
Without warning, Tom let out a guttural yell and grabbed the nearest object, a dusty ceramic vase that had somehow survived the blast, and hurled it full-force into the wall. It shattered on impact, shards flying like shrapnel, raining down in pieces across the floor.
"How could I let him fool me?!" he roared. "I had him! I had him!"
He kicked the edge of the coffee table hard enough to tilt it, then stood there breathing like a wild animal.
Gregor didn't flinch. He stood off to the side, arms crossed, one foot propped on a broken beam, watching Tom with the same detached focus a bouncer might have at a nightclub fight.
"You done?" he asked after a beat.
Tom didn't answer immediately. His chest still heaved, and for a moment he looked like he might grab something else to smash.
Gregor raised an eyebrow. "Look, I get the drama. Really. But burning up in rage won't change the fact that he outplayed us. Again."
Tom's fists slowly unclenched. He looked over at Gregor, teeth gritted, jaw tight.
Gregor pointed lazily toward the door. "If you're finished destroying his furniture, we should probably chase him, yeah?"
Tom exhaled sharply and ran both hands through his hair, composing himself. "No point," he said. "He's not here anymore."
Gregor's brow furrowed. "You sure?"
"Completely," Tom replied, his voice steadying. "Jhel didn't just have one escape route. He planned this whole encounter. He had redundancies. The smoke, the decoy couch, the explosive failsafe, it wasn't spontaneous. This was engineered. We weren't just dealing with a paranoid old man. We were dealing with someone who expected to be found."
Gregor's mouth tightened at the edges. He didn't like being outsmarted. "So that's it then? He gets away and we sit in the ashes?"
Tom shook his head. "No," he said. "You were right about one thing though. Anger won't solve this. We move on to the next plan."
Gregor eyed him skeptically. "We have a next plan?"
Tom turned, finally looking at him fully. "I had a backup plan in case the journalist escaped."
Gregor's eyebrows rose. "So technically, your backup plan had a backup plan?"
A tired smile tugged at the edge of Tom's mouth. "Welcome to working with me."
Gregor huffed a breath and looked away, but there was a trace of amusement and admiration in his expression. "Arrogant little shit," he muttered.
Tom smirked, but his eyes flicked down then locked on something, Gregor's right arm.
Blood.
It soaked the sleeve of Gregor's coat and was slowly dripping down to his glove. The blast had torn into his forearm at some point, probably when the couch detonated. Gregor hadn't said a word about it.
"You're bleeding," Tom said flatly.
Gregor immediately pulled his arm back, turning away like a stubborn kid caught hiding a report card. "It's minor. Just a scratch."
Tom didn't move. "You know I'm a vampire now."
Gregor rolled his eyes. "Yes, I was there for that part of your life crisis."
"I have healing blood," Tom said, ignoring the sarcasm. "It's one of the perks."
"I'm not drinking your blood, Tom."
Tom raised an eyebrow. "Why not? You've seen my dad heal me with his blood, like, a million times."
"Yeah. You. Not me."
Tom extended his wrist and bit down on it, fast and clean. Two puncture holes opened with a trickle of red. "Come on. Don't make this weird."
Gregor looked at the blood, then at Tom, then back at the blood. "It's already weird."
"Gregor."
Gregor sighed reluctantly, he stepped forward. He took Tom's wrist and brought it to his mouth like someone being handed a dare in a college dorm. He paused for one last grimace, then drank.
The blood was warm and metallic, tinged with something strange, like static, like magic humming just beneath the surface. It burned a little going down, but it wasn't painful. It was… electric.
As he swallowed, Gregor's arm began to itch. Then tingle. Then burn.
He let go, stepping back.
Tom nodded toward his arm. "Look."
The torn flesh had closed. Completely. Not a scar, not a scab. Just clean, healed skin. The dried blood was still there, but the wound? Gone.
Gregor turned his arm over slowly. "Okay, that was weird.