Hayes Calloway’s massive frame filled the doorway, cutting off the dim light and blocking most of Ethan Kane's view. But through the narrow gap under the brute’s arm, Ethan caught a glimpse of Ryan Cross huddled in the far corner.
"Where's my brother?" Hayes grunted.
"Where's Chloe?" Ethan asked at the exact same time.
Ethan forced a reassuring smile to his face, suppressing the rising panic. "Warren said he was going to buy some more buns. He told me to come ahead and let you know he's fine."
It was a lie he had rehearsed on the walk back—a desperate contingency plan to buy time in case Hayes was still alive.
"Oh." Hayes didn't look entirely convinced, but he grunted and stepped aside, gesturing for Ethan to enter.
Ethan squeezed past him sideways, keeping his right hand hidden behind his back.
The moment he stepped into the room, the bleak reality hit him like a physical blow. Ryan was curled in the corner, his knees pulled tightly to his chest, his head buried. He was trembling violently. Even with Ethan back, the boy didn't dare look up.
Ethan’s heart sank. He scanned the cramped, messy room, searching for the little girl.
Nothing.
An ominous dread crept down his spine. Under normal circumstances, Chloe would have thrown herself into his arms the second he walked through the door. She was a clingy kid. Despite getting older, she still insisted on curling up next to him to sleep. He had spent the last two days on the Nightharvest worrying that she wouldn't sleep a wink without him there. But there was no welcome. No warm hug. No Chloe.
The dread turned into a suffocating, icy panic.
A sudden prickle of survival instinct flared at the back of his neck, cold and sharp. Guided by pure animal reflex, Ethan threw himself forward.
"You lying motherfcker! Where is my brother?!" Hayes’s roar shattered the silence.
Ethan rolled across the floor, scrambling to his feet. Hayes stood by the door, chest heaving, a small knife gripped tightly in his hand.
The plan had failed. Ryan hadn't disarmed him.
Ethan glanced at Ryan. The boy had raised his head slightly, terrified but desperate to see what was happening. His eyes were bloodshot, his face mapped with angry red handprints, and a crust of dried blood clung to the corner of his swollen lip. Hayes had beaten him.
Ethan knew the physical disparity between them. Without the element of surprise, Ryan never stood a chance.
"I asked you a fucking question! Where is Warren?!" Hayes snarled. He didn't even look at the cleaver in Ethan's hand; he didn't view him as a threat.
Ethan couldn't think. He lunged to the side as Hayes closed the distance. He was no match for Hayes in a straight fight—that was why he’d tasked Ryan with doing the deed while the brute slept.
A heavy boot slammed into Ethan’s ribs. The force of the kick sent him crashing backward, his skull cracking against the hard wall. The world spun. Sparkles of light danced across his vision.
He is too strong, Ethan thought, his mind reeling. The gap is too wide. He had known Hayes was bigger, but in his starved, sleep-deprived state—worn to the bone after two grueling days of Nightharvest—he was nothing more than a twig to be snapped.
"Did you double-cross him?" Hayes gritted his teeth, piecing the silence together. "You motherfcker! You actually set him up?!"
Ethan looked up through his blurred vision, a flicker of confusion piercing his pain. Hayes sounded furious, but there was a trace of uncertainty in his voice. That didn't make sense. If Hayes had caught Ryan trying to kill him, there shouldn't be any doubt. Why was he guessing?
Ethan's gaze locked onto Ryan. The boy curled even tighter, turning his face away, unable to meet Ethan’s eyes. In that guilty, averted glance, the horrific truth clicked into place.
"When this useless piece of shit came crawling to snitch on you, I didn't fucking believe him," Hayes sneered.
Ryan hadn't failed to kill Hayes. He had never even tried. Faced with the choice, Ryan had chosen the most cowardly, self-serving path imaginable. He had sold Ethan out. He told Hayes the entire plan, laying bare every detail to save his own skin. To convince the brute, he had screamed: "It's my first time in your house! If Ethan hadn't told me, how would I know you keep a knife hidden here?!"
Hayes had believed him enough to wait. He hadn't truly believed Ethan had the guts, and he knew Warren was too smart to be tricked. But now, with Ethan returning alone, the truth was laid bare. And his rage peaked. Warren—his brother of twenty years—was dead, lured into a trap by a couple of gutter rats.
Ryan shook violently, consumed by fear, guilt, and a bitter, useless regret. He had assumed Ethan would fail. He thought Warren would return, and if Warren found out they had plotted against him, Ryan would be dead. But Ethan had succeeded. If only he had known... maybe he would have found the courage. If only he hadn't snitched, Chloe wouldn't be... dead.
In his twisted, panicked mind, Ryan blamed Chloe. Why did she try to stop him from telling Hayes? They couldn't beat him anyway. Why did she have to fight back? If they had just waited for dawn, Ethan would have returned and forgiven them. Ethan is our big brother, he would have understood! Ryan buried his face in his hands, sobbing hysterically.
"Where is Chloe?" Ethan's voice was a dry, hollow rasp. He used the wall to drag his aching body off the floor.
"Her?" Hayes smiled, a twisted, sadistic grin spreading across his face. He saw the agony in Ethan's eyes and relished it. He wanted Ethan to feel the exact same crushing despair. "If she were a bit older, maybe she'd have been useful. But she was just a skinny, pathetic dog. I didn't even have the stomach to touch her." He pointed a trembling, manic finger toward the door, letting out a wild, unhinged laugh. "I threw her out." He paused, savoring the strike. "Last night."
Ethan expected to feel a surge of homicidal rage, a shattering grief, or sheer madness. But instead, a terrifying, absolute silence washed over him. He stood there, back against the wall, staring blankly at Hayes. His eyes were devoid of any light, completely empty.
The lack of reaction unnerved Hayes. This wasn't the breakdown he wanted. He wanted tears, screams, a reflection of his own misery. Did this piece of shit not care about the kids? No, Hayes wasn't blind. He knew Ethan cared.
Drip. Drip.
A dark liquid tapped against the floorboards near Ethan's feet. It was dripping from the tip of his right middle finger. Hayes saw it, but he didn't care why a simple kick would make Ethan's hand bleed.
Then he realized. Blood isn't pitch black.
The fluid sliding down Ethan's finger looked like concentrated ink. A dark, circular puddle the size of a hand was pooling on the floor.
Hayes looked up at Ethan's face. The boy’s eyes were no longer human. The white of his sclera and the color of his irises had vanished, replaced by an abyssal, light-devouring blackness. It was the color of the night sky when the Lumcores failed.
Panic seized Hayes. "What the... you monster!" He lunged forward, raising the knife.
Ethan didn't move. But from the center of the black puddle on the floor, something emerged.
A finger. Withered, ancient, and grey, like a piece of dead wood. The nail was long, jagged, and sharp as an obsidian blade. The finger was easily a meter long, as thick as the puddle itself, as if some colossal, dying entity on the other side of the dark had punched a hole through the floorboards.
Squish.
The jagged nail tore through Hayes's chest. The sheer force of the thrust kept him pinned upright, his feet dangling. His eyes dilated, filled not with the agony of dying, but with absolute, mind-shattering horror.
The knife clattered to the floor. Inside Ethan's pitch-black eyes, two tracks of tears began to flow. He didn't feel them, but they were the only warm, living things left on his face.
Ryan's screams reached a fever pitch. He watched the withered, giant finger drag Hayes’s massive body back down into the tiny black puddle. Because the hole was too small, the brute’s bones and flesh were violently pulverized, folding and snapping with wet, crunching sounds until nothing was left.
Ethan sat down cross-legged in front of the hysterical boy. His face was completely blank, wearing the hollow, deadened expression of a veteran who had spent decades in the Nightharvest.
"Ryan," Ethan said, his voice terrifyingly steady. "I always knew you were like this." The tears kept falling from his black eyes, blurring his vision, but his voice remained flat. "When I said I was going to the Nightharvest, you told me you’d come with me when you got older. Stop lying, Ryan. You can fool others, but don't fool us. Even if you were my age, you wouldn't go. Cowardice doesn't fade with age; it festers. You're smart. You knew that as long as I went, you could survive off my back."
"I didn't mind," Ethan continued. "I was willing to let you lean on me. I wanted to protect you both. You were my brother, and Chloe was my sister. I owed you. Without your house, I would have died in the streets, just like I would have starved if Chloe hadn't shared her food. I loved you both equally. But today, I think I finally understand the difference. When Chloe gave me food, she went hungry. It was a real sacrifice. But you, Ryan... you let me stay because you knew I could keep you alive. Just like Warren Calloway kept me around to do his dirty work."
Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.
In the damp, foul-smelling basement, a man wearing a cracked white mask sat in front of Petra Marlowe. He had a paper party blower in his mouth, sending the uncoiling paper tube directly toward her nose with every breath. He was one of the four Nightbound who had invaded her home the night before. His mask was now broken in half, concealing only the upper portion of his face.
The man in the tailcoat was gone, but another stranger leaned against the damp wall in the corner.
"Come on, Miss Marlowe, cheer up," the Half-Masked One said, pulling the toy from his lips with a sigh. "I'm trying to entertain you here."
"She literally just turned eighteen yesterday," the man in the corner muttered, rolling his eyes. "That childish garbage wouldn't even amuse an eight-year-old."
"Is that so?" The Half-Masked One tossed the blower aside, grumbling. "Well, if she won't smile, I'm out of ideas."
Petra sat unbound, but she didn't try to run. These people had snatched her from her heavily guarded home and dragged her through the suffocating dark to this putrid cellar. Running was a death sentence. Her face was smudged with ruined makeup, and dried tear tracks stained her cheeks.
"Please... just let me go," she whispered.
The Half-Masked One grinned, showing his teeth. "That's not up to us, Miss Marlowe. You heard our terms last night. The moment your father—our dear Mayor Marlowe—opens the Nightveil Passage in Northridge City, you can go right back to your warm, safe bed."