The Hollow Society didn't strike back quietly.
They wanted a message—a loud one.
So they picked someone they thought was expendable.
They picked Vira.
It started with a missing signal.
Vira was supposed to check in every morning at 8 a.m. sharp. Routine. Clean. She always did—never a minute late. But this time, nothing.
No message. No digital ping. No fallback beacon.
Balen tried twice. Kastiel tried once.
Alaric didn't try at all.
He already knew something was wrong.
They found the footage an hour later.
Grainy surveillance from a street camera near one of Vira's safehouses. She was ambushed by three men in business suits—too well-trained to be thugs, too coordinated to be freelancers. She held her own. Fought hard. But they used an old paralyzing injection, dropped her in a black SUV, and vanished off the grid.
No ransom.
No demands.
Just a symbol left spray-painted on the alley wall:
A crescent moon—split in half and bleeding.
A defiled Vane sigil.
Kastiel clenched his fists. "They think she's a pawn."
Balen growled, "They're daring you to react. Daring you to be reckless."
Alaric stood by the window of the lounge, the city sprawled out before him.
"They made a mistake."
By noon, Alaric had the location.
Kastiel traced the SUV's tire patterns to an old meat-packing warehouse repurposed into a private holding facility. No guards out front. No public records. Just three names on a property deed—all tied to Hollow shell corps.
Vin Drake arrived with five men before sunset.
Armed. Silent. Loyal.
Alaric didn't order the rescue.
He led it.
They breached at dusk.
No hesitation.
The front door collapsed under Vin's shoulder. Smoke bombs rolled into the hallway. Alaric moved through the chaos like a whisper, every movement precise, every strike disabling without mercy.
Kastiel took the rear, eliminating two guards before they could raise their weapons.
Inside the holding room, Vira was chained to a metal chair. Bruised, bleeding—but alive.
Alaric broke the lock with a single downward strike, his hand wrapped in cloth. Vira blinked up at him, dazed but conscious.
"You shouldn't have come," she rasped.
"I told you," Alaric said, lifting her gently, "you're not alone anymore."
They left a body behind.
One of the three men who took her had been left alive—on purpose. Alaric made sure of it. He had whispered something into the man's ear before they let him crawl out of the building, half-conscious and shaking.
By morning, the Hollow Society received their second message.
It wasn't a note.
It wasn't a death.
It was fear.
Because now they knew: Alaric Vane wouldn't just defend his own.
He would come for anyone who tried to break them.
Not with bluster.
Not with chaos.
But with silence that smothered, and strikes that cut at the roots.
That evening, Vira sat on the hospital bed, her arm wrapped, her face freshly bandaged.
"You didn't have to come yourself," she said softly.
Alaric stood at the window, arms crossed. "Yes. I did."
"Why?"
He turned to her.
"Because if I don't protect the people who believe in me, I'm no better than the men who let the Vanes fall."
She stared at him—really stared.
And she finally understood.
This wasn't about vengeance.
This was about restoration.
About building something that could never be broken again.
Back in the Astoria, Balen reviewed the latest reports from his network.
The Hollow Society was reeling.
Two moves.
Two humiliations.
And Alaric hadn't even revealed himself publicly yet.
Balen leaned back, exhaled, and muttered under his breath:
"They still think he's the storm on the horizon.They don't know... he's already here."