The old garage door screeched as it lifted, casting flickering amber light across the blood-slick floor. Dee strolled in like a man coming home from vacation. His swagger was real — boots echoing on concrete, the scent of cigar smoke curling around his shoulders.
He was smiling.
Grinning, really.
That wide, wolfish smile he wore whenever someone bled for his entertainment.
"Damn. Look at this."
He stepped over a corpse with a twisted neck, surveyed the bullet holes and shattered glass with a low whistle.
"Aiden went full psycho. Good to know the boy's still got it."
Two men flanked him, grim and silent. Another dozen spread into the shadows, weapons drawn. Dee held up a hand.
"Fan out. Lock it down. I want eyes on everything. If he's still breathing in this building… I want him on his knees."
His voice echoed down the corridor — sharp and cold.
Footsteps scattered. Men peeled off. Boots slammed against metal stairs. Shouts echoed.
But Dee kept walking, slow and unbothered, until a figure stepped out from the side hallway—Connie, bloodied, trembling, a knife in her hand.
"You."
Her voice cracked.
He stopped. His eyes lit up with amusement.
"Connie, Connie, Connie. You're still kicking? That's either brave or stupid."
She lunged without a word, rage in her limbs. The blade caught his jacket, ripped fabric — but he twisted, backhanded her across the face.
She hit the wall hard, gasping.
"You always were a good puppet," he muttered, looming over her. "But you played too many roles."
Connie tried to slash again — he kicked her in the ribs, hard enough to drop her.
"You wanna know the truth, sweetheart?" he whispered, crouching beside her. "You were never special. Just useful."
Blood ran from her nose. She spit at him. He laughed.
"That fire in your chest? That belief that you two were forever?" He leaned close, lips curling. "I fed that. I made it real. I made you burn down that old lady's place. I told you he'd forgive you if you did."
Her eyes widened.
"That's right. I told you he'd crawl back to you. But the truth is — I just needed someone crazy enough to get close. And you, Connie?" He reached out, caressed her cheek mockingly. "You were perfect."
She screamed, stabbing upward—cutting deep into his shoulder.
He roared, slamming her down again, this time pinning her neck with his boot.
"I should kill you. But hell... maybe I'll let him find you first."
He stepped back, leaving her gasping, broken but alive.
"He's not dead yet. But he will be."
Then he turned toward the heart of the warehouse, drawing his gun.
"Bring me Shade."
Blood painted the floor like brushstrokes. Shell casings glittered in the dark. The acrid stench of gunpowder still hung heavy in the air.
Aiden moved like a blade given flesh—shoulders squared, eyes sharp, body bruised but crackling with violent resolve. The darkness bent around him, his mind a storm of cold fury and hard decisions. Every step forward was calculated. Every breath, weaponized.
And then. A rush of wind.
A flicker of movement.
He spun, gun half-raised.
Rosalie.
She appeared between blinks, panting lightly though unhurt, her golden hair streaked with dust and blood from past skirmishes. She looked like vengeance in heels — beautiful, lethal, and furious.
"Aiden."
His name came out soft, strained.
He didn't lower his gun. Just stared at her, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling with controlled rage.
"You shouldn't be here," he growled. "This isn't your fight."
She took a step closer, but he backed away—just a hair. Enough.
"You don't have to do this alone," she said, voice calm, almost pleading. "Let me help."
He shook his head once, slow and deliberate.
"This is my mess, Rosalie. These men—they're from my past. They came for me."
"And now they're here, killing, burning everything. You think that doesn't affect the rest of us?"
"I don't care," Aiden snapped. "I warned them once. I should've killed Dee back in Chicago. I should've burned it all down."
His eyes blazed. She saw it — something shifting behind them. The Shade. The one who didn't sleep. The one who only counted kills, not consequences.
"You don't have to become him again."
"What if I already did?" he muttered, almost to himself. "What if this is the only way it ends?"
She stepped in close, too close. "I didn't come here to watch you die."
"Then get out." His voice was ice now. "You have your family. The Cullens. I've got bodies to bury."
"Aiden"
"No."
He looked at her fully now, and it nearly broke her — not just because of the bruises or the blood. But because she could see what it cost him to say what came next.
"If I don't kill all of them… if I leave even one breathing… they'll come back. For me. For you. For everyone."
"You can't do this alone."
He looked at her and said, "Watch me."
He turned, stepping back into the shadows.
"Even if it take me all night," he muttered. "And I've got nothing but time."
Rosalie stood frozen for a second longer. Torn.
And then, reluctantly, she vanished into the dark, not retreating, but circling wide.
Because if Aiden thought she was going to let him fall apart alone… he didn't know her as well as he thought.