Screaming through the city streets, Alaric pushed the car to its limits.
Luna’s knuckles were white, digging into the passenger door panel. Her breath hitched with every lurch, every near miss.
Images of Evie, innocent and vulnerable, flashed behind her eyes. Elias’s voice, raspy with urgency, still echoed: “He’s got her. Near the old docks. Warehouse 7.”
“Faster, Alaric!” she urged, her voice a raw plea.
His jaw was tight, a muscle twitching near his ear. He didn't respond, his gaze fixed on the road, weaving through late-night traffic with precision born of desperate training.
Each second felt like an hour, a lifetime slipping away. The betrayal of Lyra, the cold ruthlessness of The Collector – none of it mattered now. Only Evie.
Only the pulse hammering in her ears, the fear a physical weight in her chest.
Turning sharply onto a derelict road, the car bounced over potholes. Warehouse 7 loomed ahead, a hulking shadow against the inky sky.
Alaric killed the engine fifty yards away, plunging them into silence save for their ragged breathing.
“Stay low,” he murmured, his hand already on the door handle. “He knows we’re coming. Elias wouldn’t have told us otherwise.”
Ignoring his command, Luna was out of the car before he finished, her eyes scanning the building. No lights. No obvious movement. Too quiet.
Feeling a cold dread trickle down her spine, she moved towards the building, Alaric a silent, swift shadow beside her.
Wind whipped loose hair across her face, carrying the metallic scent of brine and decay.
The metal door was ajar, a sliver of darkness beckoning. A trap.
Stepping inside, the air was heavy, damp, and smelled of stale concrete and something else… something sickly sweet, like cheap disinfectant trying to mask something foul.
Alaric held up a hand, motioning for her to stop. His eyes were razor-sharp, assessing the shadows, the stacks of forgotten crates.
“Evie!” Luna’s voice cracked, echoing in the vast space. No answer.
A low chuckle slithered from the gloom, sending a shiver through her.
“Brava, Luna. So predictable.”
The Collector emerged from behind a towering stack of wooden pallets, his face half-obscured by shadow, a faint smirk playing on his lips.
Evie was with him, bound to a chair, a gag tight across her mouth. Her eyes, wide and terrified, met Luna’s.
“Let her go,” Luna snarled, every fiber of her being screaming for vengeance.
“Now, where’s the fun in that?” The Collector tilted his head, his gaze flicking to Alaric. “And you. Always playing the hero, Alaric. Such a disappointment.”
Alaric moved, a blur of motion, but The Collector was faster.
Snapping his fingers, a hidden tripwire activated. A net dropped from the ceiling, narrowly missing Alaric, who managed to roll clear.
“Amateur,” The Collector scoffed, pulling a small, silver pistol from his jacket. He pressed it to Evie’s temple.
Luna froze. Her blood ran cold. One wrong move, and her sister was dead.
“Come closer, Luna,” he purred, his eyes gleaming with sadistic amusement. “Let’s talk about your… *masterpiece*.”
Remembering her street fighting lessons, Luna scanned the environment. Anything could be a weapon. Her gaze landed on a broken windowpane, jagged shards glinting on the concrete floor.
“You wanted to see me,” Luna said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. “Here I am. Let her go.”
He laughed, a dry, humorless sound. “Not until I’ve had my pound of flesh.”
Alaric, meanwhile, was circling, trying to find an opening, his eyes darting between The Collector, Evie, and Luna.
This was her fight. Luna knew it. This monster had taken everything from her, twisted her life into a grotesque parody.
Lunging forward, not at The Collector, but at the broken window, Luna grabbed a large shard of glass.
“Stop!” Alaric yelled, his voice laced with urgency.
But Luna was beyond hearing. Her grip on the glass was absolute, a primal instinct taking over.
The Collector’s eyes widened, surprised by her sudden, unexpected move. He tightened his grip on Evie, using her as a shield.
“Come one step closer, and she dies,” he warned, his finger tightening on the trigger.
Luna didn't stop. Her eyes were fixed on him, a silent promise of pain.
With a guttural cry, she charged, the glass shard raised high.
Alaric, seeing her intent, threw himself forward, trying to get between them.
The Collector, caught off guard by the combined assault, hesitated for a fraction of a second, his focus split between the enraged artist and the tactical agent.
A deafening *CRACK* ripped through the warehouse, echoing into the sudden, terrifying silence that followed.
Luna staggered, her hand gripping the glass, poised to strike.
Alaric was directly in front of her, his body hunched.
The Collector stood unmoving, his pistol still raised.
Evie’s muffled whimper was the only sound.
Time stretched, elastic and agonizing. Who had been hit? Who had fired? The air hung thick with dread, the fate of all four hanging precariously in the balance.