I felt Royal glance over at the page. He didn’t ask. Didn’t need to.
“I found one more,” I said quietly.
“Devane Holdings. Near the docks. Camille marked it.”
Royal spit blood to the side. Nodded.
“Then that’s where we go.”
I didn’t look at him.
“Wolfe?”
He ran a hand through his hair. It came back streaked with ash.
“He’s already moving.”
I closed the ledger. Blood had dried on the back cover. I didn’t know if it was mine. Didn’t care. Because Camille left the map. But Cloe was writing the ending.
And tonight?
We stood in the ashes. And said nothing.
Grief didn’t make noise. Retribution did. And Wolfe was already on the way to deliver it.
Wolfe
We didn’t start at the warehouse. We started with the men who led us to it. Not because I needed them alive. But because I needed to hear the hum again.
The gravel cracked beneath my boots. No voices. No orders. No countdown. Just breath. Just the weight of steel. Just the memory of a girl tied to silence and calling out without a word. The air in the safehouse was chemical—false clean.
London was already inside. Blood on his sleeve. Split knuckle. Collar torn like he’d just finished burying someone who didn’t stay down.
He didn’t greet me. Didn’t smile. Just handed me a keycard with fingers still streaked in red and eyes that looked carved from vengeance. Like this was the version of London they built when diplomacy failed.
“Downstairs,” he said.
“Third door on the left.”
I didn’t thank him. Didn’t speak. He didn’t need that. And I was bleeding again.
The tape at my side had started to slip, crimson soaking through the cotton beneath my jacket. But I walked like pain was the currency I planned to spend.
I entered first. The corridor reeked of iron and silence. Blood splattered across the nearest wall. A trail smeared toward one of the open doors. Another body lay halfway in the hall, neck bent wrong, mouth frozen in something that might’ve been a scream if London had left him enough throat to finish it.
The floor was streaked with red. Violence painted like intention. London’s kind of art.
The corridor was silent. A long row of numbered doors. No cameras. No echo. Door 3 waited. Closed. No lock. I opened it.
Inside—
a console.
a man.
a speaker still glowing.
The hum was playing. Faint. Warped. The last breath of her resistance caught in the air like a ghost that hadn’t let go.
