The rain fell like shattered glass, cutting the night into slivers of cold agony. Damon stood on the rooftop of the crumbling warehouse, the city stretching out before him like a dying giant gasping for air. His jacket clung to his skin, soaked through, but he didn't move. Couldn't move. Not yet.
Below, the others tried to patch themselves up—Callie groaning in her sleep, Marcus pacing like a caged wolf, Adrian furiously trying to reroute stolen communications through battered equipment. Seraph, as always, was nowhere to be seen when it mattered most.
Damon felt the weight of failure settle deeper into his bones.
Every move they made, Victor was two steps ahead.
Every battle they fought, they lost more than they gained.
And still, he couldn't stop.
He wouldn't stop.
Because if he did, everything they had suffered—every death, every betrayal—would be for nothing.
A low voice broke his thoughts.
"You're thinking about giving up."
Damon turned to see Jasmine approaching, her hair plastered to her face from the rain, her eyes fierce and beautiful even in the storm.
"I'm thinking about a lot of things," he said hoarsely.
She came to stand beside him, close enough that he could feel the heat of her despite the cold.
"You don't have to do this alone," she said. "You never did."
The ache in Damon's chest tightened, raw and violent. He wanted to believe her. God, he wanted to lean into her and forget about the war, the blood, the endless loss.
But he couldn't afford dreams anymore.
Dreams got people killed.
Instead, he forced a smirk. "I'm not alone. I've got you crazy bastards."
Jasmine laughed, a sound so pure it almost shattered him.
"You're an idiot," she said warmly.
He let himself believe, just for a moment, that maybe—maybe—there was still something worth fighting for beyond revenge.
Maybe there was still something left to save.
—
Morning was a grim affair.
The rain stopped, leaving the city slick and glistening like a wounded animal. The crew gathered around a makeshift table where Seraph laid out their next move.
"This is it," she said, tapping the map. "Victor's stronghold. Not his public empire. His real empire. The beating heart of his operation."
A photo slid across the table—an ancient-looking mansion, half-swallowed by forest, guarded by a private army.
Marcus whistled low. "Looks like Dracula's summer home."
Adrian scowled. "This is suicide."
Seraph ignored them, eyes locked on Damon. "You want to end this? You hit him here."
Damon studied the photo. Every instinct screamed against it.
But he knew she was right.
Strike now, or watch everything they loved be buried under Victor's boot.
"We'll need help," Jasmine said quietly.
"No one's coming," Seraph said coldly. "We are all we have."
It wasn't a rallying cry. It was a death sentence.
And yet—no one backed down.
Not even for a second.
They all knew the stakes.
They all chose to fight anyway.
—
The drive to the mansion was hell.
The roads wound through endless woods, the mist curling around the tires like ghostly fingers. The SUV bumped and rattled over potholes, every shadow feeling like a loaded gun aimed at their hearts.
In the back seat, Callie loaded her pistol with grim efficiency despite her wounded leg.
Marcus sharpened a knife against his boot.
Adrian muttered calculations under his breath like a prayer.
And Damon sat behind the wheel, gripping it so hard his knuckles turned white.
Beside him, Jasmine reached over and touched his hand lightly.
"You don't have to be perfect," she said softly.
Damon didn't answer.
He couldn't.
If he did, he might break into a thousand pieces.
—
The mansion loomed out of the mist like a nightmare come to life.
Black gates. High stone walls. Guards patrolling in tight, lethal circles.
Damon killed the engine a few hundred meters away. They moved on foot, the mud sucking at their boots, the woods swallowing them whole.
Every step forward was a prayer.
Every breath, a countdown to war.
They split into teams—Damon, Jasmine, and Marcus flanking right; Callie, Adrian, and Seraph flanking left.
No room for mistakes.
No second chances.
Damon's heart pounded a savage rhythm in his ears as they slipped through the outer defenses, dispatching guards silently, efficiently. The weight of what they were about to do bore down on him like a tidal wave.
When they finally breached the mansion's courtyard, alarms screamed into the night.
So much for stealth.
Gunfire erupted, vicious and wild.
Damon fired until his hands went numb, ducking behind pillars, dragging Jasmine to safety when a bullet grazed her shoulder. Marcus unleashed hell with his shotgun, clearing a path to the main doors.
They slammed into the building, panting, bleeding, desperate.
And standing there, at the top of the grand staircase, was Victor.
Waiting.
Smiling.
"Welcome home," he said, voice dripping with mockery.
Damon's blood turned to ice.
—
The fight was chaos.
Victor's men swarmed from hidden passages, shadows with guns and blades and death written into every step. The marble floor turned slick with blood as the two forces collided.
Damon lost track of time—lost track of everything except survival.
He fought like a man possessed, every punch, every shot fueled by rage and grief and the desperate need to end this once and for all.
Jasmine fought beside him, brutal and beautiful, a force of nature.
Adrian and Callie covered the exits, laying down suppressive fire.
Marcus carved a path toward Victor with bloody determination.
And Seraph—Seraph disappeared into the shadows, her own agenda hidden behind those cold, calculating eyes.
They reached the staircase, battered and bruised, standing just a few feet from Victor.
"You really think you can kill me?" Victor said, laughing, the sound echoing off the cavernous walls.
"No," Damon said, raising his gun. "I know I can."
He fired.
But Victor was faster.
He twisted sideways, the bullet grazing his arm instead of his heart.
And then he threw something—something small and silver—at Damon's feet.
A grenade.
Damon barely had time to tackle Jasmine behind a pillar before the world exploded into fire and agony.
—
When he came to, everything was smoke and screams and the stench of burning flesh.
He staggered to his feet, vision swimming.
Callie was down—bleeding out, her body twisted unnaturally.
Marcus was pinned under rubble, coughing blood.
Adrian was nowhere to be seen.
And Victor was gone.
Vanished into the smoke like the devil he was.
Damon wanted to roar. To tear the world apart with his bare hands.
But there was no time for grief.
He dragged Marcus free with Jasmine's help, cradled Callie's broken body, fought through the haze and the horror.
They stumbled out of the mansion just as backup sirens howled in the distance—too late, as always.
The mansion burned behind them, a pyre for their shattered hopes.
—
They regrouped at the edge of the woods, battered and broken.
Adrian staggered in from the trees, carrying Seraph in his arms—her body limp, blood pouring from a wound in her side.
Damon collapsed to his knees, the weight of failure pressing down like a mountain.
They had come for victory.
They had left with nothing but ashes.
—
Later, as the night dragged on and the wounded groaned in restless sleep, Damon sat alone by the fire they had built from broken branches and shattered dreams.
He stared into the flames, seeing Victor's smile burned into every flicker, every spark.
He clenched his fists so hard his nails cut into his palms.
This wasn't the end.
It was only the beginning.
Victor thought he had won.
But Damon still breathed.
And as long as he breathed—
There would be war.
Not for revenge.
Not for glory.
For survival.
For redemption.
For the shattered pieces of the crown Victor had tried to steal from them all.
And Damon would make damn sure the final victory was carved into Victor's bones.
—