The penthouse was a shrine to excess.
Marble floors veined in silver spread across the wide expanse, catching the reflection of crystal chandeliers that dangled like frozen constellations overhead. A wall of glass opened into the skyline of Crestwood town, where the night hummed with distant traffic and the pulse of neon. The furniture gleamed in shades of ivory and steel—angular couches, glass tables, sculptures that looked too fragile for human hands. Everything breathed wealth, but not the sterile kind. This was curated indulgence, a place that whispered, Here, the rules of the world do not apply.
On the balcony, Elijah Freeman leaned against the railing, shirtless, his torso carved in sharp lines of muscle that caught the dim city glow. A wide-brimmed Panama hat shadowed his handsome face. He sipped lazily from a tall glass sweating with condensation, some sparkling concoction that fizzed against the night air. From inside the penthouse, music poured through the sliding doors:
> 🎶 "El Hombre Normal…"
A Spanish pop-rumba, smooth and romantic, the kind of tune that made the hips sway without asking permission. The artist—Lucero del Alba—sang with a voice that curled like smoke around flame. Elijah hummed with it, even danced in small, fluid motions, rolling his shoulders, shifting his feet in rhythm.
The music seemed to pour through him like memory.
Then she appeared.
Chloe Halvern stepped onto the balcony, brunette hair cascading over her shoulders, skin bronzed against the glow of the city lights. A bikini clung to her figure, shimmering as if sewn from moonlight. Her presence alone made the glass-and-steel penthouse feel irrelevant.
Elijah turned, grinning. "There you are." He stretched his arms wide.
She slipped into them. They collided in an embrace that melted instantly into a kiss—hungry, familiar, the kind of kiss that carried history. Elijah's hands wandered her back, then dipped lower as he pulled her flush against him. She let it go for a moment before breaking with a sly finger against his chest.
"Not now," Chloe whispered, her voice silk laced with warning.
Elijah groaned but obeyed, kissing her once more before releasing her. "You'll ruin me."
"Mm," she teased, already turning back toward the penthouse.
Elijah spanked her lightly as she went. She shot him a look over her shoulder—half scandal, half indulgence. He chuckled, dancing again, drink in hand, hips swaying to Lucero's rhythm.
Chloe's phone buzzed on the glass table. She picked it up, her face sharpening when she saw an unknown number flash across the screen.
She hesitated, then answered.
"Hello?"
For a moment, only static. Then a voice—tentative, weary.
"…Chloe."
Her eyes narrowed. She didn't respond.
The voice tried again, stronger this time. "Hi, Chloe. It's Aubrey."
Silence. Chloe tapped her fingers against the phone. She finally muttered, "You've got to be kidding me."
"I know," Aubrey's voice rushed, almost breathless. "I'm the last person you want to hear from. But this is important."
Chloe rolled her eyes, leaning her weight against the balcony doorframe. "What do you want?" Her tone snapped like brittle glass.
"I just…" Aubrey faltered. "I need to know if you've been having any trouble lately. Anything strange happening?"
"No," Chloe snapped. "I'm fine. Better than fine."
"And… Lucian?"
At the name, Chloe stiffened. "Why are you asking me about that psychopath?" Her voice rose, loud enough for Elijah to pause mid-dance. He mouthed, Aubrey?
Chloe nodded, sighing with boredom. "It's her."
Elijah strode over, snatched the phone from her. "Aubrey?"
The line quivered with silence.
Elijah's voice cracked with something deeper than anger—grief. "Why now? After nearly five years, why call us?"
"Eli—"
"Don't. Don't say my name like that. You were gone. You disappeared. I was your best friend, Aubrey. Me and Casey." His voice faltered. He almost dropped the phone. His free hand wiped tears from his face. "Casey…"
Aubrey stayed quiet, letting the storm settle. When she finally spoke, her voice was softer. "I made mistakes. I ran. I wasn't there for you. But I can't undo that. What I can do is tell you something has started again. Something we thought was buried."
Chloe leaned in, trying to grab the phone back, but Elijah held firm.
Aubrey's voice quickened, almost desperate. "It's come back. The same thing. The same nightmare—but this time, it's after me."
Elijah and Chloe exchanged a look, fear flickering under their arrogance.
"I'll send you proof," Aubrey continued. "And a place. A safe place. We need to meet. All of us. Survivors, together. Please."
Chloe finally barked, "If it's only happening to you, Aubrey, then leave us out of it."
"No," Aubrey shot back. "This isn't just me. Chloe—you're a Halvern. Your family is tied to this, whether you admit it or not."
That stopped Chloe cold. Her lips pressed shut.
"I'll send you the location," Aubrey whispered. "Don't ignore this. If you do, it'll be worse than you can imagine."
The call ended.
For a long moment, Chloe and Elijah just stared at each other. Then her phone buzzed again. A notification: New Message.
Elijah checked it. His face twisted, beautiful features darkening. Chloe leaned over his shoulder.
On the screen:
Breaking News – Azaqor Killings Return to Crestwood
Victims: Victoria Lockridge (2 months ago), Marlene Wynter (recent). Both killings show Azaqor-style ritual markings.
Chloe's hand flew to her mouth. "No…"
Elijah's jaw tightened. "She was telling the truth."
Before they could speak again, a maid burst in, eyes wide with panic.
"Miss Chloe!"
Chloe spun. "What is it?"
The maid stammered. "It's bad… Lucian Freeman. He's escaped."
Elijah froze. Chloe gasped so hard she nearly choked.
The TV screen lit up with a flashing Breaking News banner. A young reporter, Janet from WELB 7, appeared, her voice crisp with urgency.
"Crestwood County Jail officials confirm that Lucian Freeman, prime suspect in the Ever Thorne College massacre, has escaped custody. Freeman, long suspected to be the original Azaqor killer, is believed to have outside help. Authorities warn that Freeman may be attempting to resume his killing spree—or rejoin an accomplice who has already committed recent murders in Crestwood."
The camera panned to a photo of Lucian: calm, unsmiling, eyes that could burn through the screen.
The report looped, each word heavy. Chloe collapsed onto the couch, bikini straps glinting in the TV glow, her face pale.
Elijah knelt before her, still shirtless, kissed her forehead. "Breathe. It's going to be okay."
But the tremor in his voice betrayed him.
Chloe's phone buzzed again. She flipped it open with a sigh, more dramatic than afraid.
"Who is it?" Elijah asked.
"My mom." Chloe rolled her eyes. "She never stops. Always trying to control me."
Elijah took the phone from her, set it on the table. "Forget her. Forget everything right now."
He kissed her. Harder this time. She let herself melt into it. Their fear dissolved into hunger, their hands finding each other in urgency. They were both pretending—the world was burning outside, and they clung to each other like a drug.
The TV droned on: "Lucian Freeman remains at large…"
But the penthouse filled only with the sound of their lips, their breathing, the thud of Chloe's phone buzzing unanswered against the glass table.