Chapter 315 — Wrong Answer
6 min read ·
The receptionist was still at her desk.
She’d pressed herself back in her chair like she could make herself invisible.
Her eyes tracked Damian as he approached, wide with terror.
Then recognition clicked into place.
The blood-covered face, the crimson eyes, the features she’d seen on every news broadcast.
’Oh god... Oh god, that’s...’
Damian stopped in front of her desk.
He reached out slowly, his blood-covered hand moving toward her face.
She flinched but didn’t pull away, frozen like a rabbit that had just spotted a predator and knew running would only trigger the chase.
His hand touched her cheek, the gesture almost gentle despite the gore coating his fingers.
"Do you recognize me?"
His voice was soft and almost kind.
She swallowed hard, her voice coming out in a trembling whisper.
"D-Damian Valcor?"
She’d seen him on television, the famous teenager who’d survived that portal massacre. He’d been all over the media for days, interviews and news segments and analysis pieces.
A hero.
That’s what they’d called him.
A hero.
"You have a good memory."
Damian smiled.
Then his other hand moved faster than she could track.
The pen she’d been using to fill out paperwork previously, drove through her eye socket and into her brain.
SHLK
Her head snapped back, body going rigid for one frozen moment. Her mouth wide open...
Then she fell backward, the chair tipping over, her body hitting the floor with a dull thump.
Damian looked down at her for a moment, watching the light fade from her remaining eye.
He shook his head slowly.
"Such a waste."
His voice carried something that might have been regret if you didn’t know better.
They continued moving, leaving her body behind like everything else.
Just another piece of evidence that would tell a story he had no intention of letting anyone read.
****
The prisoners in their cells watched as the masked men moved through the detention center.
Some of them had seen Damian’s face clearly during the massacre, caught glimpses through the bars when he’d removed his sunglasses, seen those distinctive crimson eyes.
Those ones died quickly with blades or bullets ending them before they could shout for help.
The others, the ones who’d only glimpsed a suited figure in the chaos or hadn’t seen him at all, found their cell doors opening.
"Run."
The masked Mafia members stepped back, weapons lowered.
The prisoners didn’t need to be told twice. They poured out of their cells and fled into the night, scattering in every direction like roaches when the lights came on.
Damian watched them go, his expression calculating.
’Let them run... The city police will waste hours rounding up escaped convicts... By the time they finish sorting through the chaos, our work will be done.’
It was a simple misdirection. A prison break would dominate the narrative, pull resources in a hundred different directions, buy them the time they needed.
Before leaving, the Mafia members moved to the main wall of the detention center.
Using blood from the fallen officers, they painted a massive symbol.
SC
The letters stretched ten feet high, dripping and stark against the concrete.
Let the Shadow Council explain why their mark was painted at the scene of a massacre they didn’t commit.
Outside, sirens wailed across Norrington City. Red and blue lights strobed through the streets, converging on the detention center from multiple directions.
Strong presences were approaching from the headquarters, powerful awakeners responding to the emergency.
Brian emerged from the building, still carrying Ming with careful gentleness.
Two Mafia members waited by the exit, a van idling behind them with its engine running.
"Take him."
Brian’s voice was rough as he carefully transferred Ming into their arms.
He turned back to where Damian stood, Davies’s unconscious body draped over his shoulder like a hunting trophy.
The Mafia members vanished into the shadows, moving through pre-planned escape routes.
Damian and Brian disappeared down a separate path, taking Davies with them.
By the time the reinforcements arrived, the detention center was empty except for corpses, released prisoners, and a blood-painted message that would raise more questions than it answered.
****
Davies woke to the sound of crying.
His eyes cracked open, vision blurry and pain radiating from his shattered limbs and broken core.
’Where...’
He tried to move and immediately regretted it as agony shot through his body.
Then his vision cleared enough to see where he was.
His living room.
The couch where he and his wife watched movies, the coffee table they’d picked out together, the photos on the wall showing their life together.
And his wife.
She was tied to a chair, her face streaked with tears, eyes wide with terror.
"Your wife is indeed a beauty."
The voice came from his left.
Davies’s head snapped around, the movement sending fresh waves of pain through his neck.
His breathing stopped, then came back in sharp and ragged gasps.
Damian sat on the armrest of the couch, one leg crossed over the other, looking completely relaxed. His crimson eyes caught the light as he watched Davies with interest.
Brian stood near the door, his massive frame blocking the only exit. His hands were clenched at his sides, knuckles white beneath the gloves.
"M-Mirah..."
Davies’s voice cracked on her name.
His wife’s eyes found his, fresh tears spilling over.
"James, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, they just came in and–"
"Shh."
Damian’s hand touched her shoulder, the gesture gentle but the threat unmistakable.
She went silent immediately, trembling.
Davies tried to push himself up, his broken arms collapsing beneath him.
"Please!"
The word came out strangled.
"Please, she doesn’t know anything! She has nothing to do with this! I never told her, I swear, she doesn’t even know about the Shadow Council!"
His voice was rising, panic bleeding through every syllable.
"You want information?! I’ll tell you everything! Names, locations, whatever I know! Just let her go! Please, just let her–"
"We know you’ll tell us everything."
Brian’s voice cut through the pleading.
He moved closer, his footsteps heavy on the floor.
"But there are things that don’t make sense to me."
He crouched down so they were at eye level.
"I’ve been hunting the Shadow Council for months, killing their operatives, following all the leads... And I can’t find anything real. No bases, no operations centers, just some low-rank idiots who think they’re fighting for some noble cause."
His hands clenched tighter.
"Where do the real members operate from? Where do they hide?"
Davies’s eyes stayed locked on his wife.
"I don’t... I was never given that kind of–"
"Wrong answer."
Damian stood up from the armrest.
He walked to the kitchen with unhurried steps, opened a drawer, examined the contents. He selected a knife, the kind used for cutting vegetables.
The blade caught the light as he turned it over in his hands.
Davies’s breathing accelerated, chest heaving.
"Wait, wait, please, I’m telling the truth! There are levels to everything! People at my level don’t get real information!"
Damian walked back toward Mirah.
"NO! WAIT!"
Davies tried to crawl forward, his broken limbs dragging uselessly.
"I’ll tell you what I know! Whatever you want! Just don’t–"
SHLK
The knife came down.