2025-08-06 22:39:57Chapter 5: The Wolf at Her Door
The blood wasn’t hers.
But it might be soon.
Elara stared at the crushed recording device in the box. The blood on it was dry, flaked. Not symbolic. Real. Human.
The note sat next to it, stained with crimson fingerprints.
You were mine the moment you lied.
—V
She didn’t sleep.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe until morning light forced its way through the window.
And even then, all she did was change clothes, grab her passport, and head for the door.
But it was already too late.
The hallway outside her apartment was empty.
Too empty.
She paused.
Then instinct took over.
She turned around—just in time to see a tall man in black surge forward, a gloved hand reaching for her mouth.
She ducked, twisted, slammed her knee into his side. He grunted, but another figure was already charging from the stairwell.
She ran.
Down two floors. Across the emergency fire exit. Through the laundry chute.
She hit the ground hard in the basement.
Alarms triggered.
A knife sliced past her shoulder—missing by inches.
She kicked a rolling laundry bin toward the attacker, knocking him into a stack of crates.
Then she bolted for the parking lot.
Across the city — Damian’s penthouse
The security alert hit Cole’s phone first.
“Eyes on her building. Someone’s made a move.”
Damian looked up from his laptop. “Victor?”
“Or someone worse. Either way—she’s marked.”
Damian stood. “Get the car.”
Cole narrowed his eyes. “You sure she’s worth the risk?”
“No,” Damian said. “But if she dies now, I don’t get my endgame.”
Parking garage — ten minutes later
Elara’s hands shook as she jammed the key into her car.
Tires screeched in the distance. She turned the ignition.
Nothing.
Battery dead.
Her heart dropped.
A shadow passed behind her.
She reached for her bag, felt for the tiny blade tucked in the lining—
But then the window shattered beside her, and a hand dragged her out by the hair.
“Stop fighting,” the man snarled. “Orders are to bring you back alive—barely.”
Then came a sound like thunder.
A car engine roared.
A black Maybach crashed through the garage entrance, skidding sideways, its backdoor swinging open mid-spin.
Gunshots burst through the air.
Elara screamed as the man holding her was ripped away by a single shot—clean, silent, professional.
Another attacker dove behind a car.
Too late.
Cole leaned out the passenger window, silenced pistol in hand, and dropped him.
“Get in!” he shouted.
Elara didn’t hesitate.
She dove into the car.
The door slammed shut.
The Maybach vanished into the dark, tires shrieking, gunfire echoing behind them like a war zone.
Inside the moving car
She was shaking.
Her lip was bleeding.
She didn’t care.
“You knew,” she snapped at Damian. “You knew they’d come for me!”
“I warned you,” he replied calmly.
“That was your warning? Dinner and mind games? You son of a—”
“Shut up,” he said coldly. “You’re alive because I planned for this.”
Cole drove in silence, unbothered.
Elara’s voice dropped. “You planned for me to get attacked?”
“I planned for Victor to panic,” Damian said. “You were the test.”
“Test for what?”
“For how quickly he’d betray his own spy.”
She turned away, furious. Humiliated.
But most of all, scared.
Because despite everything, she knew he was right.
Damian’s private safehouse — outskirts of the city
The car pulled into an underground garage.
The building above it was quiet, minimal, fortified.
Security cameras covered every angle.
Inside, the walls were reinforced, windows tinted, locks biometric.
Elara had never seen anything like it.
“This is where you keep the people you break?” she muttered.
“No,” Damian said. “This is where I keep the people who are useful.”
“And what am I now?”
He met her gaze. “Leverage.”
She stared at him. “You’re a monster.”
He stepped closer.
“No, Elara. I’m the product of monsters. I just learned how to bite back harder.”
Later that night — the safehouse, second floor
Elara sat wrapped in a blanket, watching the fire in the hearth.
Her phone had been destroyed.
Her past life was gone.
She was off the grid now.
Damian entered silently, two glasses of wine in hand.
“I don’t drink with my kidnappers,” she said.
“Then drink with your shield.”
She didn’t argue.
They drank in silence.
Then she asked, “How long do you think I have before Victor tries again?”
Damian sipped. “He won’t send anyone else.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s going to think you’re already dead.”
He handed her a tablet.
On it: a security feed. Her car, in flames. Her building locked down.
She stared in disbelief. “You faked my death.”
He nodded.
“Why?”
“Because now,” Damian said, “you belong to no one.”
Flashback — Ten Years Ago
A boy, soaked in blood, crawled from a riverbank, lungs collapsing, ribs shattered.
They thought he died that night.
He almost did.
But as he passed out in the mud, he saw two faces hovering above him.
One man in a black coat. The other in a military uniform.
And then darkness.
Present — Safehouse
Elara set down her wine.
“What do you want from me now?”
Damian stood.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “we go hunting.”
“For who?”
“The man who ordered your death.”
“Victor?”
“No.”
He turned back toward her.
“The man Victor answers to.”
Somewhere in a cold, sterile room, a man watches Elara’s death footage on loop.
He smirks.
Then deletes it.
Behind him, a wall of monitors shows faces: Damian. Elara. Cole. Victor. Serena.
He presses a button.
One name appears on the screen.
PROJECT PHOENIX: ACTIVATED
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