The night was silent except for the faint breathing of two newborns — Marie curled beside Ariel, and Rodey wrapped in Dylan's jacket, sleeping with his tiny clawed hands clinging to the fabric like he'd never let go.
Dylan smiled faintly, brushing his hand through Ariel's hair.
For once, everything was calm.
No radio calls. No hybrid hunts. No screams. Just home.
Then—
BANG.
The wooden door shattered open. Boots stormed in. Flashlights cut through the dim basement.
"Dylan Vefa! You're under arrest for harboring a hybrid!"
Dylan froze, heart sinking as the babies began to cry.
Ariel's ears flattened, her golden eyes flashing in panic.
Hussain was there. His badge glimmered in the doorway.
He looked broken — eyes red, hands trembling.
He didn't say a word.
"Hussain…" Dylan whispered, voice cracking. "You—called them?"
Hussain looked away.
"They knew. I had no choice, Dylan. They had my wife. My daughter. If I didn't—"
"You sold me out!" Dylan's voice roared through the house, shaking the walls. "You sold her out!"
Ariel shielded the babies, growling lowly. But she was too weak to fight — her stitches still fresh, her energy drained from giving birth.
The officers aimed their rifles.
"Don't shoot!" Dylan shouted, stepping in front of them. "She's not a threat! She's just—"
BANG!
One of the rifles fired.
Ariel screamed — the bullet pierced her shoulder.
Dylan turned, catching her before she fell.
"No, no, no… Ariel, stay with me!"
Her blood stained his hands.
Rodey and Marie wailed in the background.
Then, Dylan snapped.
All the rage, grief, betrayal — everything exploded at once.
He grabbed the nearest officer, slamming his head against the wall. Another tried to cuff him — Dylan broke the cuffs apart with sheer adrenaline.
He roared, punching through the gunfire, disarming two before collapsing to his knees beside Ariel.
"Dylan…" Ariel whispered weakly. "Save… them…"
"I will," he whispered, choking on tears. "I promise."
Her hand fell limp.
The cops surrounded him again. Hussain stepped forward, face full of guilt.
"I'll take him in," Hussain said quietly.
Dylan looked up, hatred burning in his eyes.
"You killed her, Hussain. You killed my world."
As they dragged Dylan away, Rodey's cries echoed in the house.
That sound — that desperate, trembling cry — would haunt Dylan for the rest of his life.
The sirens faded into the distance, replaced by the rough hum of the van's engine. Dylan sat handcuffed in the back, eyes fixed on the trembling figure beside him.
Ariel's breathing was shallow but present. Every exhale came with a low, broken growl — pain and will mixed together.
Her hand reached weakly toward him.
"Dylan… Rodey…"
"Shh, don't talk," he murmured, trying to keep his voice steady though his throat was closing. "You're still alive. You'll see them."
Up front, Hussain gripped the wheel hard enough for his knuckles to whiten. His radio crackled with commands:
"Unit 3, return to base. Confirm the hybrid is neutralized."
Hussain didn't answer.
He slammed the brakes. The van screeched to a halt in a lonely stretch of forest road — no cameras, no lights, no witnesses.
He took a deep breath, eyes filled with guilt, then climbed out and yanked the back doors open.
Cold air rushed in. Dylan blinked, confused.
"Get out," Hussain said quietly.
"What?"
"Take her and go. Now."
Dylan stared, disbelief freezing him for a moment.
"You—you betrayed me, Hussain. Why?"
"Because I thought I had to," Hussain replied, his voice trembling. "They had my family. They would've killed my son. But I can't watch this go further."
He unshackled Dylan, pressing the keys into his palm.
Ariel shifted, groaning weakly, blood soaking through the gauze on her shoulder.
"She won't make it far," Hussain warned. "But if anyone can keep her alive, it's you. Go west, to the old docks — Dr. Mario's people still hide there."
Then Hussain reached into the front seat, pulling out a small wrapped bundle — Rodey. The baby was crying softly, his tiny ears twitching under the blanket.
"He's safe," Hussain said. "I'll tell them you died. I'll protect him until you can come back."
Dylan's voice cracked.
"And Marie?"
"A couple from the border district took her in," Hussain said. "Clean names, safe papers. No one will look for her there."
For a long moment, neither man spoke. Only the sound of the forest wind and Ariel's ragged breaths filled the silence.
Dylan looked at Hussain — his brother, his betrayer, his friend — and saw only pain in both their eyes.
"If they find out, you'll lose everything," Dylan said.
"I already did," Hussain whispered.
He handed Dylan a gun — an old service revolver, still warm from the van.
"For when words stop working."
Dylan took it, nodding slowly.
He lifted Ariel carefully into his arms, her blood soaking through his shirt.
"Thank you," he said, his voice hoarse. "If I survive this… I'll find you. I'll find Rodey. I'll find Marie."
Hussain gave a shaky smile.
"Just… don't become what they say you are."
The van door closed. The engine started.
As Hussain drove away with the infant, Dylan stood in the cold, holding Ariel close — the night swallowing them both.
Her eyes fluttered open, faint but aware.
"You still here…?" she murmured.
"Always," he whispered back, looking up at the stars. "I'm not letting them take you again."
And in that lonely stretch of road, Dylan Vefa died.
Only revenge remained.
The storm had chased them all the way to the docks. The rusted signs, cracked boards, and flickering lights made the old shipping yard look like a graveyard of metal.
Dylan's coat clung to him, soaked through, Ariel's blood still warm on his chest.
He slammed on the metal door three times — the code.
A small panel slid open.
"Password?"
"Vefa."
The locks unlatched, and the heavy door opened to reveal a man with greying hair and kind, sleepless eyes — Dr. Mario, the last of Ali Vefa's loyal circle.
"Dylan?" Mario whispered, shocked. "Gods, you look—what happened?"
"No time," Dylan rasped, carrying Ariel inside. "She's dying. She needs you."
Mario's expression hardened instantly, the scientist taking over the man. He guided them through the narrow halls of the hidden lab beneath the docks — the last sanctuary for hybrids and outlaws alike.
The faint hum of generators mixed with the beeping of machines. Ariel's breathing was erratic now, her claws twitching weakly.
Dylan laid her on the table.
"The cops raided the house. Hussain—he let us go. They'll come here next."
Mario didn't look up. His hands were already moving — cutting, scanning, injecting.
"They already did come," he said quietly. "They tortured me, Dylan. Wanted to know where she was. I told them I didn't know. They broke my ribs for it."
Dylan froze. "Then why are you—"
"Because Ali saved me once," Mario said, pressing a syringe into Ariel's arm. "And this woman… she might save all of us."
The monitors flickered to life, showing her vitals.
Heart rate—unstable. Blood oxygen—rising. Cells—dividing.
Mario's brow furrowed. He adjusted the scanner again, disbelief creeping in.
"This… this can't be."
Dylan stepped closer. "What is it?"
Mario turned the screen toward him.
"Her cells are… reforming. Like planaria — when you cut them, they regrow. Her tissue doesn't just heal, it reconstructs itself using something… deeper."
He zoomed into the microscopic feed — millions of shimmering cells pulsing with faint bioluminescence.
"Stem cells," Mario whispered. "But not human. A self-renewing network — she's… perfect regeneration."
Dylan blinked, lost between awe and horror.
"So she can't die?"
"She can," Mario said grimly. "But it'll take a monster to kill her."
Ariel's breathing steadied. The cuts began to close, fur and flesh knitting seamlessly. Within minutes, the gashes that would have killed her were gone — replaced by smooth skin and faint golden markings that glowed under the lamp.
Mario wiped his brow, looking at Dylan.
"She's alive, but she'll need rest. Her metabolism burns faster than anything I've seen."
Dylan nodded, relief washing over him.
He took her hand gently.
"You did good, Ariel. Just rest now."
Her eyes fluttered open halfway, voice barely a whisper.
"You didn't… leave me…"
He smiled weakly.
"Never will."
Mario leaned against the wall, exhausted.
"Dylan… if the government learns what she is, they'll burn the entire city to find her. You need to disappear."
"I already did," Dylan said coldly. "The man they're hunting died tonight."
He looked down at Ariel — her face peaceful, her body now healing faster than the world could hurt it.
The soft glow of her regenerating skin reflected in his eyes — the eyes of a man.
Morning crept through the cracks of the lab's rusted ceiling. The soft hum of machines was all that remained of the chaos from the night before.
Mario was asleep in his chair, head slumped on a stack of medical charts.
Dylan sat beside Ariel's bed, hand on her wrist, eyes sunken from the sleepless night.
Then—
A soft beep.
A slow exhale.
Ariel opened her eyes.
Her irises glowed faintly gold under the sterile light, feline pupils adjusting. The cuts, bruises, even the deep punctures from bullets—gone. Her skin smooth, her muscles tense with new strength.
Dylan stood instantly. "Ariel?"
She blinked, disoriented. Then her lips curved into a tired smile.
"You stayed again…"
He exhaled, relief washing over his face. "You scared me to death."
She pushed herself up, ignoring his words, looking around. "Where's Marie?"
Dylan hesitated.
"Safe. With a couple Mario arranged. No one knows she's ours."
Ariel swung her legs off the bed.
"Then I'm going to bring her back."
Dylan stepped in front of her instantly.
"No. You're not strong enough yet. And the city's burning—cops, gangs, hybrids—everyone's hunting something they don't even understand."
Ariel's tail flicked sharply behind her. Her voice came low, with a feral edge.
"She's my child, Dylan. Ours. I won't let strangers raise her while we hide like rats."
He grabbed her shoulders gently, trying to steady her.
"Listen to me. If you step outside now, they'll track your heat signature in seconds. You're not a ghost anymore—you're evidence."
Her eyes softened for a moment, but only barely.
"You think I care about being hunted? You think I survived bullets and labs to live in a basement?"
Mario stirred awake behind them, rubbing his eyes. "She's right about one thing, Dylan," he murmured. "Her regeneration's complete. Physically, she's stronger than ever. But—"
"But what?" Dylan snapped.
"Emotionally, she's volatile. The hybrid instinct is taking control faster than I predicted. Her cells are rejecting suppression drugs."
Ariel turned toward the doctor, glaring.
"I'm not your experiment."
"You were never mine," Mario said softly. "But your body is rewriting the rules of biology. You need control—or next time, you might not stop."
Dylan's eyes widened slightly. "What do you mean 'not stop'?"
Mario looked away. "Her body feeds on energy—the same kind of adrenaline that comes from combat, anger… fear. If she pushes too far, she won't be Ariel anymore. She'll be what they made her to be."
Ariel's jaw tightened, her tail stilling.
"They made me a weapon," she said quietly. "But you forgot something, Doctor—every weapon has a wielder. And I choose mine."
She turned to Dylan, her voice steady, deadly calm.
"You can hide, Dylan. I can't. Marie's mine. I'll bring her back."
Dylan's throat tightened, anger and fear twisting inside him. He wanted to shout, to stop her—but the fire in her eyes, the same fire that once made him fall for her, held him still.
He took a slow breath.
"Then I'm coming with you."
Ariel's expression softened for a heartbeat, then turned sharp again.
"No. If they see you, they'll know who you are. You were a cop once—they'll trace it back. Stay here."
He stepped closer. "I'm not letting you walk into hell alone, Ariel."
A faint, bittersweet smile crossed her lips.
"You already did once. I survived. I'll do it again."
She brushed past him, heading for the stairs. The metal door creaked open, morning sunlight spilling through, turning her shadow into a long, feline silhouette.
Mario whispered under his breath as she disappeared,
"If she's truly what I think she is… the world isn't ready."
Dylan stood frozen, watching the door swing shut, the echo of her footsteps fading into the chaos above.
He clenched his fists.
"Then I'll make it ready."
Rain fell like needles.
Dylan's car screeched to a halt outside the safehouse Mario had arranged — a modest home at the edge of the city, surrounded by a white fence now splattered with blood.
Ariel leapt out before the engine stopped. Her senses flared — the stench of gunpowder, iron, and death hit her nose first. Dylan followed, heart hammering as he drew his pistol.
The door hung open, riddled with bullet holes.
The walls inside were painted crimson.
The family — the kind couple who had promised to protect Marie — were slumped on the sofa, lifeless.
Ariel's claws extended instinctively as her breath caught.
"No…"
She stepped deeper inside, trembling. Then she saw her.
On the floor. Small. Still.
Marie.
Ariel's scream tore through the house.
It wasn't human — it was raw, primal agony that made even Dylan's knees weaken. She fell to her knees beside the child's body, cradling her gently, her bloodied fingers trembling.
"Marie… open your eyes, please—please…"
Dylan couldn't move. His gun fell from his hand. The air felt thick, suffocating.
Ariel's tears dripped onto the child's lifeless skin, her voice breaking into animalistic sobs. Her tail had gone limp, her body shaking violently.
"They shot her like she was a threat… like she wasn't even alive…" she whispered, her voice hollow.
Dylan knelt beside her, hand hovering near her shoulder but too afraid to touch. "Ariel…"
She turned toward him slowly — her eyes glowed gold, burning with hatred. Her voice was sharp, trembling between grief and fury.
"We hybrids are more humane than your humans, Dylan."
The words cut deeper than any blade.
She held Marie tighter. "You call us monsters… but tell me, who kills children in their sleep?"
Dylan had no answer. His throat burned, his heart pounding with guilt.
"I wanted to believe in your world," Ariel said softly. "That maybe there was a place for us. But your world just proved me wrong."
He clenched his fists until his nails dug into his palms.
"I swear I'll make them pay, Ariel. Every last one."
Ariel looked down at Marie again, her tears falling quietly. "No. This isn't about revenge anymore."
She stood slowly, her claws retracting, holding Marie's small body in her arms. Her expression was cold now—beyond grief.
"This is extinction. And I'll be the last one standing."
Lightning flashed through the broken window, casting her shadow across the walls—a jaguar silhouette framed in blood.
Dylan watched her walk into the storm, unable to follow, unable to speak.
The only sound left in the house was the echo of rain and Ariel's fading voice.
"Your kind made a monster, Dylan. Now you'll see what one really looks like."
The thunder didn't stop. It rolled like judgment over the city as Dylan and Ariel stood among the bodies.
Ariel's breath was shallow; blood ran down her arm from the bullet that had pierced her shoulder. Her jaguar eyes were fading back to dull amber.
"Dylan…" she whispered, her voice shaking. "The one who did this—the one who gave the order—was Marco Dicosta."
The name hit him like a hammer. His uncle. The man who had murdered his father.
Dylan's pulse roared in his ears.
Before he could speak, a gun cracked. The round tore through the rain and slammed into Ariel's left hand, twisting her body backward.
"Ariel!"
She staggered but didn't fall. Her pupils dilated; the beast inside her awakened again. With a roar that ripped through the storm, she sprang forward.
The cops didn't even have time to scream.
Claws flashed. Bones broke. The alley lit up with muzzle flashes and lightning until only silence remained.
Dylan stared, frozen between horror and awe, as she stood drenched in blood, her breathing ragged. Then she turned back to him, eyes soft for one last time.
"Please… save Rodey," she said, smiling faintly through the pain.
A movement behind her—Dylan saw it too late.
A man in a long black coat stepped out of the smoke, his weapon gleaming. It wasn't a rifle; it was a long-barreled gun fitted with a blade.
One pull of the trigger—
Ariel's body jerked violently, then the blade cut clean through.
Her head fell into Dylan's arms. The world went white.
Something snapped inside him.
When Dylan came back to himself, he was kneeling on the ground.
The rain had stopped.
The alley was filled with corpses—thirty, maybe forty.
Blood streaked his uniform, his hands, his face. The air stank of gunpowder and iron.
He didn't remember drawing his gun. He didn't remember firing.
He only remembered the silence after the storm.
And in the middle of it all, Ariel's voice still echoed in his head:
"Please… save Rodey."
Dylan closed her eyes gently, stood up, and whispered to the darkness,
"I will. I swear it."
Next night.
The night was colder than usual — or maybe Dylan's soul had finally caught up with the weather.
He stared at the broken mirror in Mario's old hideout. His badge — once his pride — now a rusted memory. Officer Dylan Vefa .
A name split between justice and crime. Between what he was and what he had become.
The news called him a murderer. The cops called him a traitor.
He didn't deny either.
When Ariel and Marie died, something inside him didn't just break — it reversed. The man who once hunted monsters became one.
For days he drifted — haunted by her last words:
"We hybrids are more humane than your humans, Dylan."
And then came the visitor.
A man in a long coat, his face half hidden by the shadows of a broken streetlight.
Agust. Leader of the underground syndicate — Deck of Cards.
"You look like someone who's lost more than his badge," Agust said, lighting a cigarette.
Dylan didn't respond. The only thing that flickered in his eyes was rage.
"I know your name," Agust continued. "Dicosta. Vefa. Two sides of a legacy that tore this city apart. Maybe it's time to make it whole again — by force."
That struck him.
The name Dicosta — the same name that tortured Hussain, that ordered Ariel's death — was his own bloodline.
Dylan clenched his fists. "You think I don't know what I am? I've spent my life cleaning the city of my own family's filth."
Agust smiled.
"Then stop cleaning it. Burn it. Rebuild it. I have men, guns, connections. You have strategy, police networks, and vengeance. Together we can control everything the Dicostas ever corrupted."
Dylan's silence stretched. Then, he extended his hand.
"I'll build your structure. You'll give me power. But this isn't a deal, Agust. It's an execution plan."
Agust smirked. "Then call it what you want — welcome to the Deck."
Dylan stared at the Ace of Spades carved on the table — symbol of death, of beginnings.
He pocketed it.
"You'll call me Ace. And the first card we play… is against Marco Dicosta."
Agust raised an eyebrow.
"Your own kin?"
"No," Dylan said coldly. "My first target."
The warehouse smelled of oil and stale smoke. A single bare bulb swung above the table where Marco Dicosta sat like a king on a throne of crates — sleeves rolled, cigar smoke curling up around his grin. Agust lingered behind Dylan, shadowing him like an interested witness.
Marco's eyes flicked over Dylan, slow and appraising, then widened in a show of surprised affection. "Ah—my nephew." He tapped ash into a cracked tin and set the cigar down with theatrical care. "Sit. Don't stand like a guard at attention."
Dylan didn't sit. He kept his coat on, hands buried in his pockets, voice flat. "You called me here."
Marco laughed, a dry sound that didn't reach his eyes. "You have a name that brings trouble, boy. Dicosta, Vefa—chaos woven into the syllables. My brother used to complain about the family line, you know. Said the name would poison you." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "So I did what any good uncle would do."
Dylan's pulse hit the inside of his jaw. He'd thought about that night a thousand times — the murder in the dark, the blood that split his life into before and after. His mouth went cold. "You killed him."
Marco shrugged, almost casual. "I killed a man who would have dragged you into our rot. I told the world you ran. I made sure you wouldn't inherit the Dicosta leash." He studied Dylan, eyes sharp. "My brother said you'd be safe if I made you run. If I killed him — anyone could be free from the crime that name attracts."
The words landed like a hand around Dylan's throat. For a second the warehouse narrowed to Marco's voice and the memory of his father's face. Dylan's fingers curled but he kept his face a blank mask. "You call murder protection?"
Marco shrugged again, then added, almost kindly, "We're all animals, Dylan. Sometimes you break a leg on purpose so the pack will push you away from the hunt. I removed the obstacle for you. I did you a favor."
Anger flared into something hotter and steadier than rage — not the blind fury of the street, but the ice-cold promise of something inevitably planned. Dylan heard Hussain's voice in his head, Ali's, Ariel's last plea. He thought of the alley, of the blade through the rain, of Marie and the blood on his hands.
He forced a smile he didn't feel. "Convenient story."
Marco's smile widened as if pleased. He stood and crossed the table, coming close enough that Dylan could smell the expensive liquor on his breath. "Convinced? You should be. People like me make choices no one else has the stomach for. We keep the city running."
Agust's hand was steady as a surgeon's. The cigar smoke curled between his fingers; the blade he'd hidden in the cuff glittered like a promise.
Marco didn't see it until the steel slid home. He blinked once, the theatrical grin cracking into surprise, then into anger. For a heartbeat the warehouse smelled only of cheap whiskey and hot metal.
"You—" Marco rasped, clutching at the wound, then realizing the knife was not the only thing he'd been stabbed with. He looked at Dylan with the dawning horror of a man who'd just been outplayed at his own table.
Dylan didn't flinch. He watched Agust pull the blade free as if he were watching a chess piece being taken. The room tilted, the men around the table frozen between celebration and shock. Marco's fingers went slack on the crate where he'd been leaning.
"You thought you could make me run," Dylan said, voice low and calm. "You thought killing a man would let you control the rest. You were wrong."
Agust's hand was steady as a surgeon's. The cigar smoke curled between his fingers; the blade he'd hidden in the cuff glittered like a promise.
Marco didn't see it until the steel slid home. He blinked once, the theatrical grin cracking into surprise, then into anger. For a heartbeat the warehouse smelled only of cheap whiskey and hot metal.
"You—" Marco rasped, clutching at the wound, then realizing the knife was not the only thing he'd been stabbed with. He looked at Dylan with the dawning horror of a man who'd just been outplayed at his own table.
Dylan didn't flinch. He watched Agust pull the blade free as if he were watching a chess piece being taken. The room tilted, the men around the table frozen between celebration and shock. Marco's fingers went slack on the crate where he'd been leaning.
"You thought you could make me run," Dylan said, voice low and calm. "You thought killing a man would let you control the rest. You were wrong."
Agust's hand was steady as a surgeon's. The cigar smoke curled between his fingers; the blade he'd hidden in the cuff glittered like a promise.
Marco didn't see it until the steel slid home. He blinked once, the theatrical grin cracking into surprise, then into anger. For a heartbeat the warehouse smelled only of cheap whiskey and hot metal.
"You—" Marco rasped, clutching at the wound, then realizing the knife was not the only thing he'd been stabbed with. He looked at Dylan with the dawning horror of a man who'd just been outplayed at his own table.
Dylan didn't flinch. He watched Agust pull the blade free as if he were watching a chess piece being taken. The room tilted, the men around the table frozen between celebration and shock. Marco's fingers went slack on the crate where he'd been leaning.
"You thought you could make me run," Dylan said, voice low and calm. "You thought killing a man would let you control the rest. You were wrong."
Marco gurgled, blood wet between his lips. He tried to rise, to grab Agust, but the world had narrowed to the ache in his stomach and the face of the nephew he'd thought to save. He met Dylan's eyes one last time — not with fear, but with an appraisal that finally recognized the depth of the trap.
Outside, someone shouted. Inside, Agust wiped his blade on his sleeve and tossed it into a box of playing cards. He met Dylan's gaze and smiled without mirth.
"It was always the only way," Agust said softly. "You wanted the throne. I wanted order. He wanted himself."
Dylan folded his hands, feeling nothing and everything. Marco slumped to the floor. The men who had laughed at the start of the night now looked to Dylan and Agust the way a hungry flock looks to the falcon that splits the sky — waiting for instruction.
"Lock the doors," Dylan ordered. His voice, clipped and dry, carried the weight of a gavel. "No one leaves. Clean this up. Notify our people—quietly. We move tonight."
The men moved with the obedience of a newly broken pack. Phones were taken, signals sent, locks bolted. The old king was dying where he had once been untouchable, and the machinery of the Deck began to turn under new hands.
Agust lit another cigar and, with a practised, businesslike motion, poured whiskey into the cups still warm from Marco's toast. He raised his glass to Dylan. "To balance."
Dylan did not clink. He watched Marco's chest rise and fall, the shallow rhythm of a man whose power had been a mask and whose mask had been removed. For a moment he allowed a single, private image in: Ariel's last whisper, Marie's small stillness. The oath he'd made to the dead hummed like an engine inside him.
When Marco's breathing stuttered and stopped, nobody applauded. The room exhaled instead, a collective releasing of held breath, the calm after a storm. Someone closed Marco's eyelids as if shutting a light.
Dylan stepped to the head of the table and spread the sheets Agust had produced across it—maps, ledgers, lists of precincts and payoffs. He moved his finger along the names, marking nodes of influence, pockets of rot. His plan, that had been a slow-burning fuse through years of pain, now had a match struck in the darkness.
"We consolidate fast," he said. "We take the Kings' fronts, fold the Queens into our hand, and place Jokers where the rot is deepest. We don't burn the city down—at least not yet. We pull the levers that matter: the banks, the courts, the dispatch. And we replace the faces with ours."
A murmur went round—excitement, calculation. Agust leaned in, approving. "You build the structure," he reminded them. "I back you with men and money."
Dylan allowed himself a single ironic smile. "You back me," he echoed. "But the Deck answers to me."
That claim had weight now; Marco's corpse was the final seal. The men in the room exchanged looks — some eager, some cautious — but none openly defied the new order. Power had shifted. The rules had changed.
As the clean-up began, Dylan walked to the broken window and looked out at the city he once swore to protect. Neon bled into rain-soaked streets. Somewhere, sirens began to wail, ignorant of the new hand at the controls.
He thought of Rodey and Marie — of the promises that had drowned in blood and the ones still left to keep. A cold certainty settled over him: the Deck would be a machine of retribution, but it would also be a shield for the small and the broken if he could force it to be. It would take the monstrous methods Marco had used and turn them toward those who had used people as collateral.
Agust came up behind him, cigar smoke tracing the air between them. "You did well," he said. "You cashed the family name."
Dylan's answer was a whisper, more vow than plan. "We cashed the family name. Now we spend it wisely."
Below, in the streets that had birthed both his oath and his vendetta, life bled on unaware. Inside the warehouse the Deck reshaped itself: new cards dealt, new rules written in the silence where an old voice had been.
When dawn bled into the sky, Dylan sat at the table with Agust's ledger open, pen in hand. He began to write the first orders.
Kill lists, yes. But also protections: safe routes for those who once had none, bribery channels cut at the root, pockets of the city to be reclaimed. His war would be measured. It would be methodical. It would be merciless.
Outside, a courier arrived, breathless, with a single scrap of paper. Dylan opened it. One name stared up at him: Rodey Flash.
He folded the paper into his palm and closed his hand around it until the edges creased.
Marco Dicosta was dead. The Deck had a new architect. The reckoning had begun.