The silence inside the muscle car was a physical weight, heavy enough to crush bone.
The windshield was shattered, a spiderweb of cracks surrounding a jagged hole where a piece of the iron gate had pierced through. Rain lashed into the cabin, cold and relentless, mixing with the smell of gasoline, wet velvet, and the coppery tang of drying blood.
Raven sat in the passenger seat, his body rigid. The adrenaline of the battle in the courtyard was beginning to fade, replaced by the dull, throbbing ache of the Scientist's experiments and the bruises blooming across his ribs. But he didn't move. He stared straight ahead, his dark eyes fixed on the road, scanning for headlights, for pursuit, for the inevitable vengeance of the King.
In the back seat, Gazelle was silent. She was curled into a tight ball beneath the velvet cloak, shivering violently. She wasn't asleep, but she wasn't entirely awake either. She was drifting in the grey space between trauma and exhaustion, her mind unable to process the violence she had just witnessed.
Dante drove with a reckless, terrifying precision. He gripped the wheel with one hand, a cigarette burning between his lips, the cherry glowing bright red in the darkness. He was bleeding from a cut above his eyebrow, the blood trickling down his cheek and staining his collar, but he was grinning. It was a manic, breathless grin, the look of a man who had just cheated death and found the experience exhilarating.
The car tore down the cliff road, leaving the looming shadow of Morgan Manor behind. The forest stood like a wall of black spears on either side of them.
Raven watched the road signs flash by. He frowned.
"You missed the turn," Raven said, his voice rough.
Dante didn't slow down. He flicked the ash from his cigarette out of the broken windshield. "I know."
Raven turned in his seat, the leather creaking. His eyes narrowed, the faint red glow of the Berserk state flickering deep within the iris. "The Witch lives North. This road leads back to the City."
"Sharp eye," Dante drawled, shifting gears as the engine roared. "We aren't going to the Witch."
Raven stiffened. "Dante. We stick to the plan."
"The plan is dead," Dante snapped, losing the smile for a fraction of a second. "Look at us, Raven. Look at her." He jerked his head toward the rearview mirror, where Gazelle's pale, trembling reflection was visible.
"She's in shock. You look like you went twelve rounds with a meat grinder, and I'm driving a convertible because half my windshield is in my lap. If we go trekking into the woods right now, in this storm, with no supplies and half of Reagan's army probably tracking the mud we're leaving? We die before sunrise."
Raven hesitated. He looked back at Gazelle. She looked small, fragile, utterly broken by the night. The forest was unforgiving even to the healthy; for her, in this state, it would be a tomb.
"Where?" Raven asked, his tone softening slightly.
Dante smirked again, turning the wheel sharply as they hit the asphalt of the highway. The city lights glowed in the distance, a sprawling nebula of neon and misery.
"My place," Dante said. "It's in the chaotic neutral zone of the Industrial District. The King's patrols don't go there unless they have a death wish, and the rats are too busy eating each other to notice us. We go there, we patch up, we get a fresh car, and then we go find your witch."
Raven looked at the approaching city. Going back felt like walking back into the mouth of the beast they had just escaped. Every instinct screamed at him to run further, to hide deeper.
But he looked at Dante. He saw the tension in his friend's jaw, the white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. Dante wasn't being reckless; he was being protective. He was trying to save them the only way he knew how.
"It's risky," Raven murmured. "If they find us there, there is no exit."
"Then we make one," Dante said, glancing at him with a look of absolute loyalty. "Trust me. I know these streets better than Reagan knows his own sins."
Raven clenched his jaw, then slowly exhaled, the tension in his shoulders dropping an inch. He nodded.
"Get us there safe, Dante."
"Consider it done."
*
Miles behind them, the service tunnels of Morgan Manor expelled a ghost.
Alexander Morgan stumbled out of the rusted drainage pipe, splashing knee-deep into the freezing river water. He gasped, the cold air burning his lungs. He dragged himself up the muddy bank, his expensive loafers slipping on the slime.
He collapsed onto the wet grass, coughing up water and bile.
He was alive.
He looked down at himself. His bespoke suit was ruined, caked in filth. His hands, usually adorned with rings, were scraped and bloody. He looked nothing like a Prince. He looked like something the river had rejected.
Run, his mother had said. Run to the river. Run to the woods.
Alexander pushed himself up to his knees, wiping the mud from his face. He looked toward the treeline, the vast, dark forest where he was supposed to hide.
It was vast. It was empty. It was primitive.
"I am not an animal," Alexander hissed, his voice cracking. "I do not hide in holes."
He stood up, swaying slightly. The wind bit through his wet clothes. He looked at the forest again. If he went there, he would be alone. He would be hunted like a deer. And eventually, the Twins would find him. They excelled in the hunt.
But Raven... Raven and the Driver...
Alexander narrowed his eyes. He had watched Dante for years. He knew the type. A man like Dante, a man who drove loud cars and wore his arrogance like armor, wouldn't go to ground in the dirt. He would go where he felt powerful. He would go to his territory.
"The Industrial District," Alexander murmured.
He knew Dante's file. He knew where the driver lived. It was a calculated risk. A gamble.
If he went to the woods, he survived the night but lost the war. If he found them... if he could offer them something... perhaps he could survive the story.
Alexander turned his back on the safety of the forest. He slicked his wet hair back, a shadow of his old vanity returning.
He began to walk toward the city lights.
*
The apartment building was a towering monolith of cracked concrete and rusted fire escapes, looming over the smog-choked streets of the Industrial District. Neon signs buzzed and flickered—Open, Liquor, Girls—casting a sickly pink and green glow over the wet pavement.
Dante pulled the battered muscle car into a narrow alleyway behind the building, parking it under a tarp that smelled of oil and dead fish.
"Home sweet hellhole," Dante announced, killing the engine.
The silence that followed was ringing. The rain drummed on the tarp above them.
Raven moved first. He stepped out of the car, his movements stiff but efficient. He opened the back door.
"Gazelle," he said softly.
She didn't move. She stared blankly at the seat in front of her. Raven reached in, unbuckling her seatbelt. He slid his arms under her knees and back, lifting her effortlessly. She was light, terrifyingly so.
She rested her head against his blood-stained chest, her eyes half-closed. "Are we safe?" she whispered, her voice barely a breath.
"For now," Raven lied.
"Top floor," Dante said, grabbing a duffel bag from the trunk. "The elevator's been broken since the 90s. We walk."
They moved into the building. The lobby smelled of stale cabbage and bleach. The fluorescent lights hummed with an angry buzz. They began the climb.
Raven carried Gazelle without slowing, his breathing steady, though the pain in his ribs flared with every step. Dante walked ahead, checking the landings, his sawed-off shotgun concealed under his jacket.
They reached the fourth-floor landing. The hallway was dim, lit by a single flickering bulb.
Dante reached for his keys, his shoulders finally relaxing. "Almost there. I've got a first aid kit that—"
He stopped.
A door across the hall opened. A beam of warm, yellow light cut through the gloom of the corridor.
A woman stepped out.