Mood:Post-Traumatic Clarity & Physical Collapse.
The lights of Monaco fade into a blur of gold and diamonds on the horizon, swallowed by the curve of the earth and the black indifference of the sea.
We are flying. Charon drives the boat like he’s trying to outrun the devil himself. The hull slams against the waves with bone-jarring violence, sending sprays of freezing water over the windshield. I am huddled in the stern bench seat, wrapped in Alaric’s tuxedo jacket. It smells of him—sandalwood, sweat, andthe sharp, coppery tang of the blood that splattered onto his collar when I shot my father.
My father.The words echo in my head, bouncing around like a bullet in a steel chamber. I killed him. I didn't hesitate. I didn't tremble. I looked him in the eye, I saw the void where his soul should have been, and I pulled the trigger. The recoil is still humming in my hands, a phantom vibration that feels strangely like the aftermath of a difficult concerto.Rachmaninoff’s Third.The physical toll of perfection.
"Elodie."
Alaric’s voice is close to my ear, fighting the wind. He slides onto the bench beside me. He is wet, his white shirt clinging to his chest, the black tie undone. He looks wrecked—the bruising from the torture at the factory is darkening under the marina lights’ afterglow, and his movement is stiff. But his eyes... his eyes are clear. He isn't looking at the horizon. He is looking at me.
"I'm okay," I say automatically. It’s the reflex of the good girl. The trained doll.
"Don't lie to me," he growls softly, his hand finding the back of my neck. His thumb presses into the pulse point, checking the rhythm. "You just committed patricide. The body keeps the score, even if the mind denies it."
"I don't feel guilty, Alaric." I look up at him. "That's the terrifying part. I feel... empty. Clean."
"It’s the shock," he diagnoses, pulling me closer until my head rests on his chest. I can hear his heart beating—strong, steady, a counter-rhythm to the chaotic sea. "The crash will come. And when it does, I will be here to catch you."
He kisses the top of my head. "You were magnificent," he whispers. "The way you held the gun... the stance... the breathing. You listened."
"I always listen to the Director."
"No," he corrects, his fingers tangling in my wind-blown hair. "You improvised. You chose the ending. That was all you."
A sudden drop in the engine’s pitch makes us both stiffen.Vrrrrr-thunk.The smooth roar of the twin outboards falters. It sputters, coughs, and then dies into a sickly whine. The boat lurches, losing momentum rapidly. The bow drops, slamming into a trough between waves. Silence rushes in, louder than the noise.
"Charon?" Alaric barks, standing up. "Status."
Charon is at the helm, frantically flipping switches. The glow of the instrument panel flickers and dies. "We lost power," Charon says, his voice grim. "Both engines. Total electrical failure."
"Restart it," Alaric commands.
"I'm trying! The ignition is dead. The fuel pumps aren't cycling." Charon slams his fist on the console. "It’s not mechanical. It’s a kill switch."
"A kill switch?" I stand up, gripping the gunwale for balance as the boat begins to drift sideways, rocking violently in the swell. "My father said the bomb on the yacht was the only switch."
"He lied," Alaric says, his face hardening. "Or he had a contingency we didn't see."
He moves to the console, pushing Charon aside to inspect the wiring. "Look at the GPS," Alaric points out. "It’s scrambled."
I look at the screen. It’s not showing a map. It’s showing a single, blinking red skull. And a countdown.00:15:0000:14:59
"What is that?" I whisper.
"It’s a beacon," Charon realizes, his face draining of color. "The boat is tagged. When the engines cut, it broadcasted our coordinates. Open channel."
"To whom?"
"To everyone," Alaric says, staring at the skull. "The Syndicate. The Coast Guard. The mercenaries. The scavengers." He turns to me, the silver fire in his eyes turning cold and calculating. "Your father didn't just want to blow us up, Elodie. He wanted to make sure that if he died, we would be hunted down like dogs. He turned this boat into a lighthouse."
"How long do we have?"
"Fifteen minutes," Alaric reads the timer. "Before the signal triangulates and every hunter in the Mediterranean descends on this location."
"We need to move," I say. "Can we fix the engines?"
"No," Charon says, pulling a panel off the dashboard. "The ECU is fried. It’s a logic bomb. Hardware destruction. This boat is a floating coffin."
