Page 13

I wish I had found a way of counting the days that I’ve been stuck in this godforsaken room.

Every time I look at the walls, the endless tally marks etched into the concrete mock me. Someone else had the time—or the hope—to mark the days before they either broke or were forgotten.

I can’t even remember how long it’s been since I was taken. The light from the single bulb overhead never changes. The air never gets any less damp, any less heavy with decay. The only constant is the drip from the ceiling, the steady beat of water hitting the floor, driving me to the edge.

It’s like being buried alive.

And now my body’s giving out. The cough started a few days ago, at least, I think it was days. At first, it was a tickle in the back of my throat, something easy to ignore. But now it’s this deep, relentless thing that rattles in my chest, shaking me with each breath.

My wrists are the worst. The skin’s rubbed raw from struggling against the cuffs, blood is crusted over the metal, and I can feel the infection setting in, burning beneath the surface.

I’m not sure how much longer I can keep this up.

The metal door slams open, scraping against the floor and sending a harsh echo through the room. I straighten up, instinct kicking in, but it’s useless. My arms, chained behind me, tug against the restraints, reminding me of how far gone I am.

The last time I fought back, they beat me down so hard I blacked out. I had tried—god, I tried—to make a break for it when the guards got sloppy.

I went for the closest one, landing a punch that shattered his nose, the feel of bone crunching beneath my knuckles still vivid in my mind. For a second, it felt like I might actually get out like I could make it back to Sable, Kai, and the other fuckers. But that hope lasted about five seconds before the other guard tackled me, and they beat the fight out of me until I could barely see straight.

Kai would have laughed at me for thinking brute force was the way out. “Come on, baby,” he’d say, flashing that lazy grin. “You know better than that.” He always did. Even back at the Manor, when everything felt like it was falling apart, he could talk me down without even trying. He knew when to call me out, when to drag me away from the edge, when to just sit with me in silence. Fuck, I miss him. I miss him more than I want to admit.

When I woke up, there was a knot the size of a golf ball on the back of my head and every muscle in my body was screaming in protest. I could barely move for days after that.

They weren’t gentle when they chained me up, either. They wanted me to remember what happens when I fight.

Now I’m chained tighter than ever.

No room for hope.

They don’t speak when they meet my gaze. They never do. The Syndicate’s message is always in the pain, not the words. Their methods are carved in the bruises on my ribs, the scars on my wrists.

The usual one sits down across from me, his bulk barely fitting into the chair. His uniform is pristine, black with faint red stitching, and the Syndicate’s insignia gleams like a threat on his chest. He flips through a thin file—my file. I watch his gloved fingers glide over the papers.

The other guard stands behind him, taller and leaner, with shoulders that appear to stretch the seams of his uniform. A black mask obscures his face, but his eyes, cold and unyielding, bore into me like a predator watching its prey. He cracks his knuckles slowly, the sound echoing through the room, each pop meant to be menacing.

They’re playing the waiting game, trying to get inside my head.

I wish Kai were here. He’d be able to read these guys like an open book, pick apart their tells, figure out what their endgame is. He’s always been the best at that—seeing angles the rest of us miss. He would have found a way out of this mess already. But Kai isn’t here. It’s just me, my blood drying on my skin, and the weight of knowing that if I don’t survive this, he’ll lose me.

My father raised me for this.

From the moment I could comprehend words, I was told the Syndicate was not to be trusted. He drilled their symbol into my memory, made me study its lines, and warned me to speak up if I ever saw it. My mother lived in fear of them, her eyes darting at shadows, her hands trembling whenever the mail arrived. We moved constantly, always one step ahead, always running.

“They’ll destroy us if they find us,” she used to whisper, her voice always filled with terror.

But in the end, they found us—they always find you.

After that, my father changed. His love turned cold, his words short, his lessons brutal. He trained me for this moment, the day the Syndicate would come back, the day they’d try their dirty little tricks to get me under their thumb. He taught me to endure. To resist. To never, under any circumstance, engage.

“Outlast them,” he’d say. “No matter how brutal the hand you’re dealt, you outlast it.”

He told me I had a mind for strategy, the kind of thinking that would make me unstoppable. But now, as I sit here, every nerve in my body is screaming, those words feel hollow.

Weak.

When I was a kid, I used to wander the halls of our mansion late at night, chasing shadows and daydreams. Sometimes, I’d find him in his office, the thick smell of cigars hanging heavy in the air. I’d hide behind the door and listen as he spoke on the phone. The Syndicate’s name came up often in those conversations—always whispered, like invoking a curse.

“The Syndicate’s run its course.”

“No one’s heard from them in years.”

I didn’t understand it then. I thought the Syndicate was just some boogeyman conjured up to keep me in line. A story meant to scare me into compliance. But now, sitting here with their bruises painted across my skin and their insignia burned into my memory, I know the truth.

The Syndicate never disbanded. They didn’t dissolve.

They were waiting.

I close my eyes for a second, just one second, and I see her.

Sable.

Her face floods my mind like a wave crashing through the darkness, breaking apart the cold, suffocating void. Her laugh echoes in my ears—soft, teasing, a sound so sweet it feels like a sin to even remember it. God, I craved her for years. For longer than I ever should have.

She doesn’t remember me. Not the way I remember her.

I remember the day I met her. Barely more than teenagers running through the estate gardens of my new stepmother’s summer home. It was one of those hot, lazy summer days, the kind where everything feels slow and warm, and time doesn’t quite matter.

Silas was with us, like always.

He was always in the center of it all, the gravitational pull that kept everyone orbiting around him.

The untouchable golden boy.

But I ignored him, as I usually did. Sable was by the pond, sitting there with her knees pulled up to her chest, the worn hem of her sundress brushing against the dirt. It was one of those dresses she always wore in the summer—white with little blue flowers, the fabric thin and fluttering with every soft breeze. She wasn’t wearing shoes—she rarely did back then. Her bare feet were caked with mud, toes idly dipping into the water as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

Her head was tilted back, face turned up to the sun, eyes closed like she was absorbing every ounce of warmth it had to give. Her hair spilled around her shoulders in soft waves, wild and unkempt like honey left to run free. The sunlight caught in it, turning it into a halo, and it made her look otherworldly—more ethereal than a girl should look at thirteen.

I stopped in my tracks, watching her from a distance, not daring to get closer. She looked so… delicate, so fragile, as if the world itself might crack her open if it got too close.

But then I saw how her mother treated her. The way she was put on a pedestal so high it was almost cruel. Her mother painted her as perfect, unblemished, a picture of grace and refinement. But I saw the cracks—the way she struggled to meet expectations that no one could live up to. The forced smiles, the tension in her shoulders when her mother’s gaze lingered too long, waiting for her to falter.

I wanted to keep her.

I wanted to keep her from breaking.

I wanted to keep her from crumbling under the weight of it all.

I don’t know why she was so precious to me, sitting there in the sunlight.

Maybe it was the innocence she carried in her eyes back then, a kind of light that seemed impossible in my world.

Maybe it was the way she didn’t see the world the way we did, with all its cruelty and sharp edges.

Or maybe it was because I knew, deep down, that someone like me could never have someone like her.

I never told her that day. Never told her how beautiful she looked. Never dared step into her graces.

How could I? What could I have said that wouldn’t have shattered the fragile thing she was trying so hard to hold together?

She didn’t even know of my existence aside from a shadow in Dayton’s life. And I knew no one could ever love the twisted mind I had. So, I kept my distance. I watched her from afar, always knowing she would end up as Silas’ girl. Even if she hated him as a teenager.

The way Silas looked at her like she was his most prized possession.

The perfect match for the perfect guy. It made sense. Everyone knew it.

Silas was the sun, and she was the moon, orbiting around each other in a perfect dance.

They want me to confess. They’ve been trying to break me for days—or weeks, maybe longer. They’re waiting for the moment I crack, for the moment I’ll give them what they want. To agree to help them and give them the killer.

“You know why we’re here, Thompson,” the guard with the file says, his voice devoid of any humanity. He closes the file, setting it down neatly on the table between us. “Agree to help us bring who is responsible to justice.”

I don’t flinch. My heartbeat stays steady, controlled. My wrists continue to burn as I shift slightly in the chair, the raw skin screaming with every tiny movement.

“I’m not helping the Syndicate.”

The guard leans forward, clasping his hands together, his fingers twitching as if eager for the next phase of this game. “We’ve given you enough time, Levi. Aren’t you sick of being in pain here?”

“Go to hell,” I spit, my eyes locking with his, refusing to back down. “Just fucking kill me already, you know you’re going to do that, anyway.”

The guard leans back, exchanging a glance with his partner, who steps forward. This one isn’t carrying a file. His job isn’t to ask questions.

His job is to make me bleed.

“You really want to do this the hard way, don’t you?” The first guard sighs. “All right. If that’s how it’s going to be—if you won’t agree—we’ll take her instead. Let’s see how long she lasts in here.”

My chest tightens. No . They can’t touch her. I let them take me, so she could be safe. That’s why I’m here. They should have figured it out by now. Why haven’t they found the true killer?

“You won’t touch her.” My voice is low, my hands clenched so tightly in the restraints that my nails dig into my palms. “This is between you and me.”

The guard tilts his head slightly, his masked face revealing nothing. “That depends on you, doesn’t it?”

“You don’t have shit,” I snarl. “You’re grasping at straws; the killer is evading the largest secret society in the world. And it is killing you having to ask a Thompson for help.”

His posture shifts slightly, his calm exterior slipping just for a second. He’s not used to people pushing back. They rely on fear, on breaking people before they get a chance to think.

“Perhaps,” he murmurs, almost thoughtfully. “Boss thought you’d want to be in the Syndicate’s good graces—what a shame.”

The second guard moves suddenly, striking me across the face with the back of his hand. My head jerks to the side, the taste of blood filling my mouth as my vision blurs for a moment. The knot on my head from the last beating throbs, the pain spiking through my skull like a hot brand.

I spit blood onto the floor, glaring up at them through the haze of pain. “Fuck you.”

The guard sighs heavily, gesturing to his partner, who steps forward again. This time, he doesn’t hesitate. His fist slams into my ribs, and I hear the crack before I feel it. The pain is immediate, searing, a white-hot flash that tears through my chest.

Another blow follows, this time to my gut. My body jerks against the restraints, but I don’t scream. I won’t give them the satisfaction. I grit my teeth, forcing the pain down, pushing it to the back of my mind.

I’ve survived worse.

I can survive this.

But the next hit lands squarely on the knot on my head, and black spots dance in front of my eyes. The room spins, the walls closing in tighter, and for a moment, I’m not sure if I’m going to pass out.

“Last chance,” the guard says, his voice distant, muffled by the ringing in my ears. “Agree, or Sable dies.”

My mind races, Sable’s face flashing before me—her soft laugh, her wide, innocent eyes.

I won’t break.

I lift my head slowly, blood dripping down my chin, and meet the guard’s gaze.

“Go fuck yourself.”

My body slumps forward, head hanging as blood drips from my split lip onto the cold concrete floor.

I’m numb to the pain, to the blows, to the threats.

It’s all white noise now, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m starting to believe this is how it ends for me.

But then I see her again. Sable. I would have given anything to protect her.

But Victoria… I failed her .

I lift my head slowly, blinking through the haze, trying to force the words out past the pain. “I tried to save her.”

The guard stops mid-punch, his hand frozen in the air. Both of them exchange a quick glance. Then the one holding my file sits back down, intrigued. “Go on,” he says, his voice colder now, less of the routine menace.

I spit another mouthful of blood onto the floor, my chest heaving with every labored breath. “I tried… to stop the bleeding,” I say, forcing the words through my battered throat. “But it was too late.”

I see it again—Victoria lying there, crumpled like a broken doll, blood soaking the floor beneath her. I’d found her too late, and no matter how much pressure I applied, no matter how hard I tried to stop the bleeding, her life slipped through my fingers.

“Can’t you tell?” I growl, my anger flaring despite my weakness caught in my throat. “Your fancy autopsies… your so-called evidence… didn’t it show I tried to save her?”

The guard with the file closes it slowly, his fingers brushing over the pages. The door creaks open again, but this time it’s different. A figure steps inside, cloaked in a long black coat—the hood pulled up to shield his face from the flickering light. The guards straighten immediately, their postures rigid, like they’re afraid of this man. The room falls into a suffocating silence. The only sound is the continued steady drip of water from the ceiling.

I squint through my bloodied vision, trying to make out his features, but he stays in the shadows. His presence fills the room, though, commanding every inch of it. Whoever this man is, he holds fucking power.

“Levi Thompson,” the man says, his voice deep and measured. “The son of William Thompson. And my daughter’s killer.”

He steps forward, the hood shifting slightly to reveal a glimpse of his face. Older, with sharp features and eyes that gleam like dark stones. His stubble has grown out slightly, as if he hasn’t shaved in a few days, but his hair is perfectly slicked back.

“You may have tried to save her,” he says, “but you failed. And now, you’ve inherited her blood on your hands.”

“I didn’t kill her,” I growl again, my voice harsher now, the frustration spilling out of me. “I didn’t put the knife in her chest. I tried to stop the bleeding. ”

“You say you tried to save her, yet you ran. If you were innocent, why run?” His fist slams against the table, causing me to jump. “You left her all alone… to die.”

I don’t answer. He doesn’t care about the exact details of what happened. He only cares about the blood. And right now, that blood is on my hands, even if I didn’t put it there.

Her blood was warm and sticky on my hands, and real, the life slipping away faster than I could control. Her eyes had already gone glassy by the time I pressed my hands to the wound, pleading with her to hold on, to fight.

But she was gone. And I couldn’t save her.

I ran, not because I was guilty, but because I knew no one would believe me. Who would trust the word of Levi Thompson, the son of William, born into this world of lies and corruption? A history I’ve hidden from everyone. Even my own brother.

I know what my father has done, and I won’t allow myself to be tethered to the Syndicate.

I am determined to be the man he raised me to be.

My breath hitches, and I clench my fists against the restraints. “I was trying to stop… this… from happening.”

“You can’t stop fate. Too many people I know try to run from it, but it will always find you and stamp the light inside of you.”

He steps back, his fingers drumming on the back of the chair in front of him. “Let me make this simple for you, Levi. I’m giving you a chance to correct your mistake.”

I blink, not trusting what I’m hearing.

“You have until midnight on New Year’s Eve—that is one month from today,” he says as his finger runs across the photo of Victoria on the folder in between us, “to find the real killer. Prove to me that not all Thompson’s are liars and cheats. Or…” His smile widens, and it’s the kind of smile that sends a chill down your spine. “Or I’ll take Sable. I’ll take her, and you can watch as I do what should’ve been done the night my daughter died.”

My blood runs cold. The air seems to leave my lungs, and for a moment, the room spins. I can barely hear my own thoughts over the rushing in my ears.

Sable. Sable. Sable.

They’ll kill her.

They’ll do worse than kill her, and it’ll all be on me.

“You wouldn’t,” I choke out.

“I would,” he replies simply. “Wouldn’t be the first Wilson I’ve killed. If you don’t find the person responsible for my daughter’s death, Sable will be next.”

He turns on his heel, moving toward the door, but pauses just before he steps out. He glances back at me, his expression hard, final. “Midnight, Levi. Don’t waste your time.”

I have until New Year’s Eve. One month.

I need to find the killer.

Or lose everything.

“Do something about his injuries and that bloody cough then deliver him back to the Manor.”

I barely have time to process the command before one of the guards standing behind me makes his move. His fist connects with the side of my head, and the world tilts sharply. The pain erupts in a blinding flash, radiating from the point of impact like an electric shock.

When I wake up, it’s cold. My body feels like it’s been dragged through hell and back. My head throbs. The realization that I’m moving—being transported—creeps into my fogged mind, but the how or why eludes me. My wrists, though no longer chained, are still raw and aching from the restraints.

I try to move, to lift my head, but the pain keeps me pinned down.

The guard’s punch did its job. I don’t remember anything after the hit—just blackness. But now, as I try to shake off the remnants of unconsciousness, I can tell I’m not in that godforsaken room anymore. There’s a faint chill in the air, the smell of damp earth and rust mixing with something sharper—familiar.

The Manor.

I’m going back. The leader’s words ring in my ears, twisted with the threat he made. Find the killer or lose Sable.

They’re delivering me back. But it’s not a rescue. It’s not even a second chance.

It’s a countdown.

One month to find the killer. One month to save her. One month before, the Syndicate tears us all apart.