The rain came down like judgment.It hit the city hard, hammering the rooftops, pouring through rusted gutters, pooling in the cracks of streets that hadn’t been repaved since Carrick’s first body dropped. Above Dock 17, smoke still lingered in the sky, a black memory that refused to drift. But the fire was elsewhere now.At the Gale Estate...the so-called Glass Fortress...Luka stood at the long war table surrounded by ghosts of loyalty.Alessia, Marco, Viktor, Lena. The core.And yet the room felt fractured, like hairline cracks were forming beneath every word.Viktor leaned forward, his jaw tight. “You should’ve kept the archive.”“We’d be gods,” Marco added. “Feared. Untouchable.”Luka shook his head, soaked to the bone, hair dripping over his eyes. “No. We’d be targets. Everyone Carrick ever blackmailed would’ve come for us next.”“They still might,” Alessia said. “Except now, we don’t even have leverage.”“We have clarity,” Luka replied.“Clarity doesn’t stop bullets,” Marco snap

Rain painted the city in gunmetal hues, blurring light and shadow until they bled together. In a high-rise overlooking the industrial sprawl of the east quarter, Luka Gale stood with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the sky. Below, the streets crackled with tension...sirens in the distance, hushed rumors in alleyways, foot soldiers on edge. Behind him, the war council assembled. Alessia leaned against the long steel table, hair tied back, eyes scanning a digital map of Salvi’s network. Viktor stood beside her, arms crossed, scarred fingers tapping rhythmically against his bicep. Marco adjusted the grip on his custom revolver, while Silas leaned on a cane he didn’t need...only carried for show. Luka turned. “Status.” Alessia pointed to three red dots on the map. “Salvi’s safehouses. One at the old distillery in Verdant Row. Another near the docks...Warehouse 9. And this...” she tapped the largest icon “...is the Glass Tower. His fortress.” “Which one holds his boo

The sanctum beneath the Moretti estate was carved from bedrock and madness.The walls were lined with bones...not metaphorical ones, but the actual remains of enemies, betrayers, and unfortunate souls whose names had been stricken from memory. Every vertebra embedded in the masonry, every skull staring blankly from its mortared place, was a warning: Salvi’s domain was not governed by men. It was ruled by nightmares.And at its center sat a throne.A grotesque sculpture of fused teeth...human, animal, and something else...interlocked and lacquered, glistening under cold blue lights. The Throne of Teeth.Arturo Salvi stood before it in a charcoal overcoat, sleeves rolled back, revealing the scars etched into his forearms...ritualistic, old. His eyes were dilated, alive with a cruel fire.Behind him, an iron door hissed open.“You should be dead,” the advisor muttered, his voice shaking slightly. “The Butcher was never meant to fail.”Salvi’s smile was thin and poisonous. “Everyone fails

The room was silent...cold, sterile, and without shadows. Not a single corner allowed for secrets. Luka sat in a chair that was more a throne than furniture...carbon-steel molded to the shape of the human spine. A surgical halo of lights floated above him, flickering now and then, as if the entire place breathed.He didn’t know how long he’d been under.The last thing he remembered was Eve’s voice at Dock 17. Now, he was deep inside the Foundation.The walls were matte-black, seamless, humming with barely-contained energy. There were no doors...at least, none he could see. Only a mirrored surface on the far end of the chamber, like the eyes of a god waiting to blink.Then the voice came again. Not Eve’s. A man’s.“Do you know what your father once said before he slit a man's throat in a public square?”Luka didn’t flinch. “Probably something about power. Or weakness.”“No,” the voice said, gentle as snow. “He said, ‘It’s not the death that matters. It’s who remembers it.’”A low hiss

The room was too quiet.No buzzing lights. No footsteps in the hall. Just the ticking of the antique clock nailed into the far wall like a quiet threat. It was a test...Luka could feel it in his bones. The Foundation never invited you to speak. They summoned you.And today, they’d summoned him alone.He sat at the far end of the conference room’s long obsidian table, a single spotlight angled to wash over him like an interrogation lamp. He didn’t fidget. Didn’t blink. But he could feel every pair of eyes behind the tinted glass watching him.The door behind him clicked open.Agent Thorne entered, trench coat still damp with rain, and the stink of ash and gun oil clinging to him like second skin. He didn’t sit right away...just dragged a chair back with a screech and dropped into it with the weight of someone who’d already buried too many secrets.“You’ve been busy, kid.”Luka didn’t answer.Thorne tossed a thin manila folder onto the table between them. “Carrick’s dead. Confirmed. Bod