The cold river bit into Damon's skin like a thousand needles as he plunged into the icy current. The mansion was a smoking ruin behind them, Victor long gone into the depths of darkness. There had been no time to mourn, no time to bury their dead, not even Callie. The sound of sirens and the whirring blades of drones forced them into the wild like hunted animals.
Damon's muscles screamed as he pulled himself up onto the muddy bank. His chest heaved for air, the wet soil clinging to his body like death's hands. Jasmine staggered up beside him, blood dripping from her forehead, her eyes empty and hollow.
Marcus followed, half-carrying a barely conscious Seraph. Adrian stumbled last, carrying nothing but rage in his clenched fists.
They collapsed in a miserable heap beneath the dark canopy of the forest.
No words.
No promises.
Just survival.
And the knowledge that everything they'd fought for was crumbling like sand through their fingers.
—
The abandoned train yard reeked of rust and old oil. Rats scurried along the tracks, bold and fat, feeding on scraps left behind by a world too tired to care.
It was the only place Damon could think of where Victor's reach wouldn't find them immediately.
Seraph lay stretched out on an old mattress, her breathing shallow, her face grey. Adrian knelt beside her, hands trembling, trying to stop the bleeding with dirty bandages.
"She's not going to make it like this," he rasped.
Damon's jaw tightened.
"What do we do?" Jasmine asked.
There was desperation in her voice—a fragile crack that hadn't been there before.
Damon forced himself to think, even though every part of him wanted to curl into the dirt and never move again.
"We need a doctor," he said. "Off-grid. Someone who won't turn us in."
Marcus cursed under his breath. "We don't even have enough cash for food. Let alone black market surgery."
Silence.
Heavy. Suffocating.
Until Seraph opened her eyes, barely a slit, and whispered:
"There's one... East side... warehouse district... ask for Monroe…"
Her voice faded into a raw cough that left bloody foam on her lips.
Damon nodded grimly.
He had no idea who Monroe was.
But he knew there was no choice.
—
The warehouse district was a graveyard of forgotten steel and broken dreams.
Damon and Jasmine moved like ghosts through the alleys, weapons hidden under their ragged clothes. Every face they passed looked hollowed out, every shadow hid a threat.
They found Monroe's den behind a shipping container rusted almost clean through. Inside, the air stank of antiseptic and despair.
A woman stood there, wiping blood from her gloved hands, a cigarette dangling from her lips. Her hair was buzzed short, her arms sleeved in tattoos of angels fighting demons.
She looked them up and down without fear.
"You look like hell."
"We need help," Damon said, voice steady despite the way his heart hammered.
Monroe blew smoke into the air.
"Help costs."
"We'll pay," Jasmine said quickly.
Monroe smirked. "Funny. I didn't hear any coins jangling in your pockets."
Damon stepped forward, pulling a small silver locket from around his neck. It was old—his mother's. The last piece of a life that had been ripped away years ago.
"Take it," he said.
Monroe's eyes sharpened. She took the locket, flipping it open, studying the faded picture inside.
Something changed in her face.
Something almost...human.
"Fine," she said, snapping the locket closed. "Bring her. I'll do what I can. No promises."
No promises.
The story of their lives.
—
The surgery was brutal.
Damon and Jasmine sat outside on crates, listening to the wet, horrible sounds as Monroe worked on Seraph inside.
Every scream twisted Damon's insides tighter.
"She's strong," Jasmine whispered. Maybe to him. Maybe to herself.
"Not enough," Damon muttered.
He stared at the cracked concrete beneath his boots, wondering how it had come to this.
How they had fallen so far.
How he had let them fall.
Jasmine reached for his hand again.
This time, he didn't pull away.
—
Seraph survived.
Barely.
She drifted in and out of consciousness, feverish and mumbling in languages none of them understood. But Monroe nodded grimly and said she would live if they kept her warm, fed, and hidden.
It was a small victory.
But after the storm they had weathered—it was a miracle.
Damon slumped against the wall that night, the rain pounding the tin roof overhead, the bitter wind creeping through every crack.
He watched the others sleep, what was left of them.
Marcus curled like a broken soldier.
Adrian sitting cross-legged, staring blankly at nothing.
Jasmine sleeping fitfully, her hand still stained with dried blood.
And Seraph, pale and still, but breathing.
Damon squeezed his eyes shut.
It wasn't enough.
Victor was still out there.
Still winning.
Still laughing.
Damon pressed the barrel of his pistol against his forehead, the cold bite of metal grounding him.
He wanted to pull the trigger.
Wanted to end the guilt, the fear, the endless bleeding.
But he didn't.
Because someone had to end Victor.
And there was no one left but him.
—
The next day was grey and brittle.
They scavenged for food, Monroe slipping them scraps when she could. The gang that ruled the warehouse district began sniffing around, sensing weakness like wolves around a wounded deer.
Damon knew it was only a matter of time before they came in force.
They had two choices:
Run deeper into the ruins of the city.
Or fight and die here.
Neither was good.
But Damon was sick of running.
He stood before the others as the sun died behind poisoned clouds.
"We fight," he said simply.
Jasmine looked up at him, her face bruised but blazing.
Marcus grunted approval.
Adrian didn't speak, but he didn't argue either.
And Seraph… even delirious, managed a crooked smile.
War it was.
—
They set traps.
Rigged explosives from old propane tanks and car batteries.
Sharpened rebar into makeshift spears.
Prepared to bleed for every inch of dirt they called theirs.
When the gang came at midnight, screaming and laughing and firing wildly into the dark, they met a wall of fire and steel.
Explosions ripped through the alleys.
Concrete rained from the sky.
Bodies fell, torn apart.
Damon moved like a ghost, silent and lethal.
Jasmine fought like a demon, every bullet she fired a prayer for the fallen.
Marcus roared as he swung his bat, splintering skulls.
Adrian planted bombs with dead-eyed precision.
Seraph lay hidden, a blade clutched in her weak hand, ready to kill anyone who got close enough.
They fought.
And for once—
They won.
—
At dawn, the warehouse district was silent.
The gang was broken, the survivors fleeing into the mist, leaving behind their dead and their weapons.
Damon stood among the rubble, blood dripping from a gash on his temple, his hands shaking.
It wasn't victory.
Not really.
But it was survival.
And sometimes—
Survival was enough.
Jasmine came to stand beside him, her face streaked with soot and tears.
"You did it," she said softly.
"No," Damon whispered.
We did it.
For the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself a small, broken smile.
There was still a long way to go.
Victor still ruled the heights.
But Damon and his family—yes, his family—had proved one thing:
They would not go quietly into the dark.
They would fight.
And when the final reckoning came—
Victor would see their faces.
And he would know fear.
—