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CHAPTER 172 THE NEW CODE
The safehouse in Old Dock was one of the few places in the city where whispers still meant something. Tucked behind rusted shipping containers and surrounded by crumbling warehouses, it was a ghost-space, long forgotten by the authorities and revered by the survivors of the last war. Inside, low light glowed against cracked brick, casting elongated shadows across a narrow table littered with blueprints, burner phones, and a single black chessboard, half-finished.Alessia stood by the window, arms crossed, gaze distant as rain tapped lightly against the pane. Luka sat at the table, thumbing through a dossier marked with the Foundation's seal."How long until Viktor makes his next move?" she asked without turning."Two days, maybe less," Luka replied. "There’s a meeting planned in the Narrows. A summit of the strays. Word is he's calling it 'The Iron Pact.'""He always did have a flair for names," she muttered.Luka closed the file. "He’s not just uniting the underworld. He’s rewriting
CHAPTER 171: THE PLACE OF OLD FIRE
The abandoned church stood like a corpse refusing to rot.Its spire jutted into the bleeding sky like a dagger thrust into heaven. Once a house of salvation, now gutted by flame and time. Charred wood. Stained stone. Ash frozen in patterns that still whispered of that night...Carrick’s purge, the screams, the fire licking at the pews like hungry tongues.Luka stepped through the shattered doorframe just as lightning stitched the horizon behind him.He wore no body armor, no mask. Just the same long coat soaked in the city’s blood. His footsteps echoed as he crossed the ruined nave, the hollow floor groaning beneath his weight like bones protesting resurrection.He reached the altar, the scorched remains of a crucifix overhead still smoldered with ancient anger.He waited.And she came.Alessia entered with the storm at her back, coat whipping behind her, heels slow and deliberate on the stone. A pistol was strapped to her thigh. Another tucked at her back. Her hair tied back like a so
CHAPTER 170: OF ASH AND SILENCE
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
CHAPTER 169: THE PALE ROOM
The room was white.Too white.Luka blinked against the sterile light spilling from overhead panels, the kind that hummed softly and never turned off. There were no windows. No clocks. Just the low thrum of ventilation and the faintest scent of antiseptic.He sat on the edge of a narrow cot, shirtless, his ribs bandaged and skin marred with bruises. A thick vein of dried blood cracked down the side of his neck. His right knuckle was still crusted where he'd split it on Carrick’s jaw.The door opened with a hiss.Dr. Marek entered, clipboard in hand, sharp-eyed and expressionless. Behind him, two guards in black suits flanked the frame, motionless as statues. The Foundation didn’t do subtlety...not here. Not in the heart of their labyrinth.“You’ve stabilized,” Marek said without looking up. “That’s good. You were touch and go after the fight.”“I’m alive,” Luka muttered. “Sorry to disappoint.”Marek’s lips twitched. “Disappointment implies expectation.”He walked closer, stopping just
CHAPTER 168: THE ARCHITECT PROTOCOL
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
CHAPTER 167: MIDNIGHT TEETH
The night hung heavy over Dock 17, the air thick with salt, oil, and the sharp tang of rain-soaked metal. Waves lapped against the corroded underbelly of the city’s forgotten edge, whispering secrets to those mad enough to listen. This place wasn’t a battleground...it was a mausoleum.And Luka Gale had come to bury a monster.He stepped out of the stolen black van alone, boots crunching over broken glass and rusted chains. His coat fluttered in the wind like the wings of some fallen avenger. The docks stretched before him, slick with rain, flanked by towering cranes and gutted shipping containers. Shadows moved...but none dared approach. Salvi had kept his word: no soldiers. No backup. Just silence.Except for the click of a lighter.A figure stood on the edge of the pier, striking a match beneath the steel skeleton of Crane 9.Arturo Salvi.He wore a three-piece suit, black as coal, with a blood-red tie and gloves that gleamed with wet leather. He turned slowly, letting the flame ill
CHAPTER 166: THE THRONE OF TEETH
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
CHAPTER 165: BLOOD DEBTS
The rain hadn't stopped for two days.It slicked the rooftops, ran in rivulets down rusted fire escapes, and turned the alleys of Westbridge into murky veins pulsing with tension. Salvi’s men were on edge. Everyone was. Something in the air had changed...like the city itself was holding its breath.Inside a candlelit church on Hollow Street, Arturo Salvi knelt before a desecrated altar.The saints’ faces had been chiseled off, their eyes gouged with rusted nails. The crucifix behind him was inverted, wrapped in barbed wire.He wasn’t praying.He was remembering.“Do you recall what I told you the night I buried Marco’s father?” he asked, softly.The man standing behind him...the same advisor from the Glass Tower...nodded. “You said blood always knows its debt.”Salvi turned slowly, eyes like broken glass. “Luka Gale owes me. A debt paid in blood.”“He’s not his father.”“No,” Salvi said, rising. “He’s worse. Carrick had rules. Codes. Even monsters need boundaries.”“And Luka?”Salvi l
CHAPTER 165: THE SALVI SIEGE
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 books?” Luka a
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