Thedoor doesn’t just open; it disintegrates.
The sound is a wet, splintering crack that vibrates through the floorboards and up into the soles of my boots. Dust and wood shrapnel cloud the air, illuminated by the strobing blue-and-red light of the vehicles outside. Through the haze, a silhouette fills the frame.
He’s a mountain of a man, draped in a tailored charcoal overcoat that looks out of place in a war zone. Viktor.
My blood turns to liquid nitrogen. I know that face. He wasn’t just Felix’s muscle; he was the keeper of the keys. He was the one who bought the “supplies.” He was the one who stood outside the booth, checking his watch while Wendy’s screams turned into whimpers.
“Peter,” Viktor rumbles, his voice a deep, cultured bass that cuts through the chaos of the gunfire outside. He steps over the threshold with a casual arrogance, a heavy-caliber handgun hanging at his side. He doesn’t even look at me. His eyes are locked on the table—on the top of Wendy’s head. “You always did have a penchant for theft. My employers want their investment back. And they want the girl. She was just starting to get profitable.”
Beside me, I feel Wendy’s breath hitch—a sharp,jagged sound of pure, unadulterated terror. The gun in her hand wavers, the muzzle dipping toward the floor. I can feel the trauma radiating off her like a heat signature, the phantom weight of Viktor’s shadow threatening to pull her back into the cage.
“Don’t look at the coat, Wendy,” I whisper, my voice a low, lethal vibration. I don’t move to help her. I don’t raise my rifle yet. I stay rooted. “Look at the man. He’s just meat and bone. He’s just the thing standing between you and the sun.”
Viktor laughs, a dry, hollow sound. He takes another step, his boots crunching on the glass. “She’s a broken thing, Peter. You can’t fix what the white dust destroys. Give her to me, and maybe I’ll let you walk away with enough of the cash to buy a new conscience.”
“Peter…” Wendy’s voice is a broken thread. “He… he used to… the needle…”
“I know,” I say, my eyes never leaving Viktor’s chest. I reach out, not to take the gun, but to place my hand firmly on her shoulder, grounding her. “I know he did. And he’s the last one left. You kill the memory by killing the man. Do it now, or we both die in this hallway.”
Viktor’s expression shifts. The boredom vanishes, replaced by a cold, professional mask. He begins to raise his weapon, his arm moving with the practiced grace of a seasoned killer.
“Last chance, little bird,” Viktor says, his eyes narrowing on Wendy. “Back to the booth, or into the ground.”
Time slows down. I see the muscles in Viktor’s forearm tense. I see the firing pin of his weapon begin its journey. I could end it. I could put a burst into his skullbefore he finishes his sentence. My finger is twitching on the trigger.
But I wait. I gamble her life and mine on the hope that she can find the shard of steel I know is buried in her soul.
“Now, Wendy,” I growl.
She doesn’t scream this time. She doesn’t whimper. She rises from behind the table in one fluid, desperate motion. Her hair is a mess of sweat and ash, her eyes wide and glowing with a terrifying, righteous fury.
The first shot she fires misses his head by an inch, shattering a vase behind him. Viktor flinches, his aim spoiled, his round thudding into the oak table.
“Again!” I roar.
She leans into it. She stops fighting the recoil and starts using it. Crack. Crack. Crack.
The first bullet catches Viktor in the shoulder, spinning him halfway around. The second tears into his chest, ripping through the expensive wool of his coat. He stumbles back, his mouth hanging open in a silent O of shock, his blood spraying across the white wallpaper in a beautiful, violent arc.
He’s falling, but Wendy doesn’t stop. She steps out from behind the table, walking toward him as he hits the floor. She’s staring down the sight of the gun, her face a mask of absolute, icy calm.
“This is for the booth,” she whispers, her voice carrying over the distant rattle of the Lost Boys’ rifles.
She stands over him, the muzzle of the gun inches from his forehead. Viktor looks up at her, the predator finally realising he’s become the prey. He tries to speak, but only a crimson foam bubbles at his lips.
Wendypulls the trigger one last time.
The silence that follows is absolute. The world outside is still burning, Hook is still calling in kills on the radio, but in this hallway, the ghosts are finally quiet.
Wendy stands there for a long moment, the gun smoking in her hand, her chest heaving. She turns to look at me, and for the first time since I found her, the hollow look is gone. There is a fire in her eyes that could burn the world down.
“He’s gone, Peter,” she says, her voice steady. “They’re all gone.”
I walk over to her, stepping over Viktor’s remains, and pull her into my arms. She tastes like iron and salt, and she feels like a queen.
“We’re just getting started, darling,” I say, looking toward the open door and the dark woods beyond.
The gun clatters to the floor.
