"We don't have to," he says. He walks to a cabinet in the morgue. He opens it. Surgical tools. Bone saws. Scalpels. He grabs a bone saw. It whirs to life with a menacing buzz. He hands me a scalpel. "Improvise," he says, a dark grin cutting through his exhaustion.
"Alaric," I say, taking the blade. "If we do this... we kill them all. No mercy."
"No mercy," he agrees. "They touched my property. They invaded my home. Tonight... we clean house."
He looks at the door. "Ready to play the finale,petite?"
I grip the scalpel. I feel the cold steel. I remember the dogs. I remember the rock. I remember the way he looked at me in the dark.
"I'm ready," I say.
Alaric kicks the door open. We step into the hallway. Wet. Bloody. Armed with medical tools. The King and Queen of the Underworld, coming to reclaim their throne.
CHAPTER 21
SURGICAL PRECISION
POV: Elodie Fray
Location:The Basement Corridor (Morgue Level) -> The Pharmacy/Lab
Track:Glory and Gore– Lorde (Slowed & Reverb)
Sensory:The hum of refrigeration units, the slickness of blood on tile, the smell of formaldehyde and betrayal.
Mood:Cold-Blooded Calculation.
The morgue is a refrigerator for the dead, but right now, it is the only place in Hallowed Halls where I feel alive.
I stand in the doorway, peering into the long, sterile corridor of the basement level. The fluorescent lights have been dimmed to 'Night Mode'—a low, buzzing blue that makes the walls look like veins under pale skin. My hand grips the scalpel handle so tight my knuckles are white. The blade is small—a Number 10 surgical steel blade—but Alaric showed me where to put it.The carotid. The femoral. The brachial.The geography of death.
Behind me, Alaric leans against a stainless steel autopsy table, breathing in shallow, controlled hitches. He looks like a ruin. His clothes are sodden rags clinging to his shivering frame. The bandage on his shoulder is a black sodden mess. But his eyes... his eyes are tracking every shadow, every flicker of light. He is a general with no army, directing his last soldier.
"Clear," I whisper, pulling my head back in.
"Patrol intervals," Alaric wheezes. He holds the bone saw in his good hand, not turned on, just a heavy club of metal and plastic. "They will be sweeping... every fifteen minutes. Standard protocol."
"Your protocol," I remind him.
"My protocol," he agrees, a dark smirk touching his pale lips. "Which means I know the blind spots."
He pushes off the table. He sways, grabbing the edge to steady himself. "I can walk," he growls before I can reach for him. "Lead the way, Elodie. We need to get to the elevator shaft. The service ladder."
"We're going up?"
"We need leverage. Sterling... will be in the Pharmacy or the Records Room. Second floor."
"How do you know?"
"Because she is methodical. If she is dismantling my empire, she will start with the paper trail."
I nod. I step out into the hallway. My boots—wet and squelching—are too loud. I stop. I sit down on the cold linoleum and unlace them. I kick them off. I stand up in my socks. Alaric watches me, approval flashing in his eyes. He does the same, gritting his teethas he bends down. We leave our boots in the morgue—ghosts of the people we were when we entered the river.
We move. Socks sliding silently on the wax. We stick to the walls. We move like shadows. We pass the laundry room. The boiler room. We reach the intersection near the service elevator.
Voices.
I freeze. I hold up a hand. Alaric stops instantly, pressing his back against the wall, merging with the darkness. Two men. They are coming around the corner. Heavy boots. The jingle of tactical gear. The static burst of a radio.
