2025-05-26 18:03:501:02 PM – Somewhere on the Cross Bronx Expressway
The van rattled like a dying drumline, windows groaning in their sockets, dashboard lit up like a Christmas tree of ignored warnings. Jay drove with one hand on the wheel, the other holding a half-eaten empanada he insisted on calling “emergency fuel.”
Dorian sat in the passenger seat, eyes fixed on the skyline ahead, jaw tight, fists tighter.
“You’re sure it said he’s alive?” Jay asked for the fifth time.
“Yes.”
“And we’re talking Malik Malik? As in, your baby bro, presumed dead, memorial mural in his honor, rest in peace, amen?”
“Yes.”
Jay whistled low. “Damn. Okay. Just checking. 'Cause the last time we took a spontaneous trip to the Bronx, you punched a drug lord, and I almost got hit with a crowbar shaped like Jesus.”
Dorian didn’t answer. His thoughts were ricocheting too fast.
Malik had been gone seven years. Fire. Screams. A warehouse burned down by people trying to erase something—or someone. Dorian never found the body. Only ash and silence. Everyone told him to let go.
He didn’t.
Now this note. A ghost, handwritten.
The burner phone was in his coat pocket. Still dead. He didn’t want to charge it yet. Didn’t want to hear what it might say.
Jay glanced over. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing.”
“The thing where your eyes go full Terminator and you forget humans breathe oxygen. It’s stressing me out.”
Dorian exhaled, slow and measured. “I didn’t ask you to come.”
Jay snorted. “Yeah, well, you don’t get to go chasing ghosts without backup. Plus, if this turns into a horror movie, I need to die first. It’s in my contract.”
Dorian allowed a slight twitch of amusement. “You’re not dying first.”
Jay grinned. “So I’m the final girl?”
“You’re the comic relief.”
“Ouch.”
The van took the Jerome Avenue exit, weaving through graffiti-tagged walls and corner bodegas. The Bronx felt grittier than Harlem—like the city wore its scars out loud here.
They stopped outside a half-abandoned building with shattered windows and a metal gate rusted halfway down.
“This the place?” Jay asked, peering out.
Dorian checked the address scrawled on the back of the note. “Yeah.”
“You sure it’s not a trap?”
“I’m counting on it.”
Jay blinked. “Wait—what?”
Dorian stepped out before he could explain. The air smelled like old smoke and bad decisions. He walked up to the gate and knocked twice.
No answer.
He tried the rusted handle. It gave with a screech that echoed down the block. Jay followed reluctantly, clutching a flashlight from the glove box like it was Excalibur.
Inside, the air was stale and heavy. Broken furniture littered the corners. Sunlight speared through cracks in the boarded-up windows. The place reeked of forgotten things.
Dorian moved slowly, scanning everything. His muscles were tight, but his mind was sharper.
He stepped into what used to be an office. On the wall hung a dusty corkboard with faded newspaper clippings. One headline caught his eye.
“GHOST UNIT DISBANDED – NYPD Denies Secret Task Force”
Jay whistled behind him. “Yo… this place has vibes. Like haunted bunker meets crackhead Craigslist ad.”
Dorian didn’t smile. He was staring at another clipping. One with a picture.
It was grainy, but there—on the edge of the frame—stood a figure in the shadows. Lean. Young. Familiar.
Malik.
Dorian ripped the article off the board. Behind it, a map had been pinned—dots, scribbles, codes. One word circled in red:
“HAVEN”
Jay peered over his shoulder. “Haven? Sounds like a cult. Or a rehab for ex-assassins.”
“Or both,” Dorian murmured.
He turned as the floor creaked behind them.
Someone was there.
A girl—no older than twenty—stood in the doorway, hood pulled low, eyes sharp and unreadable.
“Looking for something?” she asked.
Dorian stepped forward. “You left the package.”
She didn’t answer.
“Who are you?”
“I’m the debt Malik paid.”
That made Dorian pause. “He’s alive?”
She nodded once.
Jay let out a breath. “Holy sh—okay.”
“Where is he?” Dorian demanded.
“I’ll take you,” she said. “But you won’t like what you find.”
“I already don’t.”
She turned without another word and disappeared down the hallway.
Jay looked at Dorian. “We following the mysterious hoodie girl into a sketchy death-maze now?”
“Yes.”
“Just making sure.”
They followed her through a back exit, out into a fenced alley that led to a crumbling stairwell. She stopped at the bottom step and turned.
“You sure you’re ready?” she asked.
Dorian didn’t flinch. “I’ve been ready for seven years.”
She opened the door.
Inside was a narrow corridor lit by flickering bulbs. The air buzzed with static, like reality was fraying at the seams.
They entered what looked like an underground hub—walls lined with monitors, wires running like veins, people moving between terminals with hushed urgency.
At the center sat a man in a wheelchair, facing away from them.
The girl stepped aside.
“Dorian,” she said. “Meet the architect of Haven.”
The man turned.
Dorian’s heart stopped.
It wasn’t Malik.
But it was someone he knew.
Someone who’d died in the same fire.
“Quinn?” Dorian whispered.
Quinn smiled—older, scarred, but unmistakable. “Thought you’d show up eventually.”
Jay looked between them. “Wait—you know wheelchair Professor X?”
“Quinn ran point on the Ghost Unit,” Dorian said. “He was the reason I survived.”
“And I’m the reason Malik did,” Quinn added.
Dorian’s voice turned to steel. “Where is he?”
Quinn wheeled closer. “Safe. For now. But not for long.”
He tapped a remote. A screen lit up—grainy footage of a man being dragged into a black van. Malik. Alive. Fighting.
Dorian clenched his fists.
Quinn pointed to the timestamp. “Three hours ago. Uptown. They know you got the message.”
“Who’s they?” Jay asked.
Quinn didn’t answer directly. “The ones we thought we buried. They’re building something. Using people like Malik to do it.”
“What do they want from him?” Dorian asked.
Quinn looked up.
“They want what’s in his blood.”
Dorian went still.
Jay blinked. “Okay. Plot twist. What are we—X-Men now?”
Quinn ignored him. “Malik’s not normal, Dorian. He never was. That’s why they burned the unit. That’s why they want him back.”
“And what do you want?” Dorian asked quietly.
“To finish what we started. And to stop them before they turn him into a weapon.”
Dorian stepped forward. “Then tell me where he is.”
Quinn held his gaze for a long second. Then nodded to the girl.
“Give him the coordinates.”
She pulled out a slip of paper and handed it to Dorian.
“You have one shot,” she said. “They’re moving him tonight.”
Dorian stared at the address. He didn’t recognize it, but he didn’t need to.
The war he’d tried to escape was back.
And this time, it had his brother.
Previous Chapter
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Chapter 15: Shadows of Truth
The cold dawn filtered through cracked windows, casting long, fractured shadows over the safehouse. The team sat scattered in the dim light, exhaustion etched into every face. But the weight of the night’s revelations pressed heavier than any fatigue.Dorian rubbed the sting in his shoulder, grimacing as he remembered the bullet’s near miss. The adrenaline rush was fading, leaving a raw ache — a reminder of how close they’d come to losing everything.Across the room, Lana broke the silence with a sharp laugh that barely hid her nerves. “So, our mole doesn’t just flirt with danger — she practically invites it in with a red carpet.”Jax chuckled, the tension briefly easing. “Yeah, and here I thought my worst day was dealing with a corrupt city council.”Mara shot them a warning glance but couldn’t suppress a smirk. “We can joke later. Right now, we need answers.”Dorian stood and walked to the interrogation room where the woman — the mole — was held. Her eyes met his with a strange mixt
Chapter 14: Fractured Loyalties
Dorian barely had time to catch his breath before the city’s next wave of chaos hit like a tidal surge. The rooftop encounter haunted him — the mysterious woman’s warning echoing louder than any gunshot. Voss’s grip was tighter, deeper, and more ruthless than anyone had dared admit.The safehouse felt claustrophobic despite its spacious rooms, walls closing in with secrets and whispered fears. The team moved like ghosts, shadowed by the threat stalking them beyond the windows.Jax sat behind his battered desk, rifling through intercepted messages and digital scraps scavenged from the city’s underbelly. “Voss’s men aren’t just coming for us — they’re cleaning house. Anyone connected, anyone who might speak, they’re targeting tonight.”Mara leaned over the desk, her voice steady but grave. “We have to warn the others — the journalists, the informants. If they fall, the whole network collapses.”Rhea’s fingers danced over her tablet, eyes darting between encrypted lines of code. “There’s
Chapter 13: Shadows and Alliances
The north district was a sharp contrast to the crumbling streets and shadowed alleyways of the southside. Here, the city wore a polished mask of prosperity: glossy skyscrapers pierced the night sky, their windows gleaming like eyes watching everything below. Neon signs flickered above cafes and clubs that spilled the laughter and music of the city’s affluent. Yet, beneath that gloss lay a simmering tension — a battlefield for power where money and secrets played more lethal games than guns.Dorian moved with practiced caution, his senses heightened, each step calculated. Years ago, he’d walked these streets with a different purpose — chasing dreams, not ghosts. Now, every familiar corner whispered warnings: old allies who might betray, enemies hiding in plain sight, and the ever-present threat of Voss’s reach extending even here.Mara flanked him, eyes sharp as she surveyed the crowd. “This is where the real war is fought,” she said quietly, “in boardrooms, behind velvet curtains, whe
Chapter 12: Crossroads
The early morning light struggled through the grime-coated windows of the safehouse, casting weak shadows across the cluttered room. The air was heavy with exhaustion and the scent of stale coffee, punctuated by the quiet hum of old electronics struggling to keep life in this forgotten place.Dorian sat hunched at the battered table, eyes locked on the glowing screen in front of him. The data drives—their lifeline, their curse—were connected to the ancient laptop, blinking in rhythm with his racing heartbeat. Around him, the team was a mix of tension and fatigue, the quiet hum of whispered conversations carrying a dangerous weight.Lana stood near the window, her arms folded tightly across her chest as she scanned the streets below. The city was waking, unaware of the fragile hope and deep danger lurking within these walls. She broke the silence with a low voice. “Voss’s men won’t take long to track us here. We have to move.”Caleb, attempting to cut through the tension, gave a crooke
Chapter 11: Fractures
The stale air of the subway tunnels clung to their skin, a cold reminder of the city's forgotten veins beneath their feet. Dorian’s pulse hammered in his ears as he tried to steady his breath, the man's face burned into his memory. Caleb—their unexpected ally—was more than just a contact; he was a wild card thrown into a game where trust was a rare currency.“We don’t have time,” Caleb said, eyes sharp in the dim light. “Voss is mobilizing fast. The Archive’s forces will be here within minutes.”Lana adjusted her grip on the data drives, sweat slicking her palms. “Then we move. Now.”Jay scanned the tunnel behind them, the distant echo of boots growing louder. “They’re closing in. We can’t outrun this forever.”Rhea nodded, pulling a battered map from her jacket pocket. “There’s an old service elevator just ahead. It leads to a maintenance access point above ground. If we can reach it, we might escape the immediate threat.”Dorian glanced at the flickering lights overhead. “And where
Chapter 10: Crossfire
The morning light seeped weakly through the grimy windows of the safehouse, casting pale slashes across the cluttered room. Dorian lay sprawled on the threadbare couch, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him like a lead blanket. Sleep had been a stranger last night—his mind replaying every step of the mission, every narrow escape, every calculated risk.His phone buzzed suddenly, sharp and insistent, snapping him back from the edge of unconsciousness. The screen flashed an unknown number, a message: They know.His breath caught. Slowly, he sat up, the message burning a hole through the calm of dawn. He showed it to Lana, who was at the small kitchen table, eyes tired but alert.“Voss’s network is tighter than we thought,” she said, voice low, brows knitting. “They’re already onto us. The Archive doesn’t miss a beat.”Jay, leaning against the wall with a grimace, slammed a fist on the table. “That means they’ve probably planted eyes here, too. We’re compromised.”Rhea, ever the
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