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"Still holding onto that piece of junk, Cross? I thought we stripped you of everything worth having," Jax spat, his boot grinding into the metal rim of Lucian's wheelchair.
Lucian didn't flinch, though the jolt sent a spike of phantom pain through a spine that hadn't felt a breeze in three years. He looked up, blinking through a smear of blood and grime. Jax was grinning, that wet, jagged smile that belonged on a shark. Behind him, three other enforcers blocked the exit of the alley, their shadows stretching like oil spills across the damp cobblestones.
"It's a family heirloom," Lucian rasped. His voice sounded like gravel in a blender. "Not that a gutter-rat like you knows what family is."
Jax laughed, a sharp, ugly sound. He reached down and ripped the silver locket from Lucian's neck. The chain snapped with a pathetic little pop.
"Family? You're a cripple in a slum, Lucian. You're not family. You're a fucking punchline." Jax held the locket up, dangling it like bait. "The Inquisition didn't just break your back. They broke your brand. Nobody wants a detective who can't even walk to the bathroom."
Lucian tried to shift, to pull back, but the wheelchair was jammed against a brick wall. He was pinned. Trapped in a cage of chrome and rusted bolts.
"Give it back," Lucian said. He didn't beg. He couldn't afford to beg.
"Or what?" Jax leaned in, his breath smelling of cheap synthetic gin and rotting teeth. "You gonna wheel-chair me to death? Maybe you can throw a wet noodle at me?"
One of the goons behind Jax chuckled. "I bet he still thinks he's on the force. Look at him. Still got that 'I'm judging you' look in his eyes."
Jax noticed it too. He sneered, then dropped the locket. It hit the grime with a metallic clink. Before Lucian could even breathe, Jax's heavy boot came down on it. He didn't just step on it; he ground it, twisting his heel into the silver casing, crushing the tiny portrait inside into the filth.
Something snapped in Lucian. Not in his spine—that had been gone for years—but something deeper. A cold, black void opened up in the center of his chest, and for the first time, the world didn't look gray. It looked... hungry.
"You just made a mistake," Lucian whispered.
"A mistake?" Jax stepped closer, his boot still pinning the crushed locket. "I'm the one holding the leash here, you little shit. You're nothing. You're a ghost that forgot to die."
Jax reached down, grabbing Lucian by the collar and hauling him halfway out of the chair. Lucian's useless legs flopped like dead fish. He was eye-to-eye with the man who had spent the last hour making his life a living hell.
"Tell me where the stones are, Cross. The Blood Stones. We know you kept a few from the evidence locker before the Inquisition purged you. Give them up, and maybe I'll leave you enough breath to crawl home."
"I don't have them," Lucian lied.
Jax's grip tightened. The fabric of Lucian's worn coat groaned. "Wrong answer. Let's try again. Where are the stones?"
"Go to hell," Lucian spat.
Jax didn't hesitate. He slammed Lucian back into the chair with enough force to rattle his teeth. Then he leaned in, his voice a low, dangerous hiss. "You know, I've always wondered if you can actually feel anything below the waist. Let's find out."
Jax reached for a heavy iron pipe leaning against the wall. He didn't go for the head. He went for the knees.
*CRACK.*
Lucian screamed, a raw, guttural sound that tore through the alley. But as the pain peaked, the darkness in his chest exploded. It wasn't a feeling—it was a presence. A cold, suffocating weight that rushed out of his skin like ink dropped into clear water.
*Hungry. So hungry.*
"What the hell is this?" Jax backed away, his eyes widening.
Shadows were no longer just shapes on the ground. They were rising. They were thickening, curling around the legs of the enforcers like living tar. The air temperature plummeted, turning their breath into white plumes of frost.
"What did you do, you freak!" the second goon yelled, swinging a fist.
He never connected. A lash of pure obsidian shadow whipped out from under Lucian's chair, snapping around the man's wrist. It didn't just grab him—it bit. The shadow teeth sank into the flesh, and the goon let out a shriek that sounded like a tea kettle boiling over.
"Get him!" Jax roared, swinging the pipe. "Kill the cripple!"
But they couldn't move. The shadows had locked their ankles, pinning them to the cobblestones. Lucian sat there, his chest heaving, his eyes no longer brown, but swirling vortices of midnight and violet. He could feel it now—their fear. It tasted like copper and ozone. It was the most delicious thing he'd ever known.
He didn't feel the wheelchair anymore. He didn't feel the cold. He felt like a god in a ruined body.
"My turn," Lucian whispered, and the voice wasn't entirely his. It was layered, echoing, as if a thousand dead things were speaking through his throat.
He raised a trembling hand. The shadows responded. A massive, clawed appendage erupted from the ground beneath Jax, slamming into his chest and lifting him five feet into the air. Jax gasped, his face turning purple, his legs kicking uselessly.
"Wait! Stop! I'll give you whatever you want!" Jax wheezed, his eyes bulging.
Lucian leaned forward, the shadows curling around his own shoulders like a royal cloak. "I want you to feel it. The weight of everything you've taken."
He tightened his grip. The shadows began to constrict, squeezing the air out of Jax's lungs. The other two enforcers were screaming now, trying to claw their way out of the ink-black mire.
Just as the shadows prepared to tear Jax apart, a sharp, metallic *click* echoed through the alley.
It was the sound of a hammer cocking back on a high-caliber revolver.
"Drop him. Now."
Lucian froze. The shadows hissed, swirling protectively around him. He turned his head slowly.
Standing at the mouth of the alley was a woman. She was wrapped in a weathered leather duster that had seen too many fights, her dark hair tied back in a messy knot. Her eyes were cold, calculating, and currently fixed right on Lucian's forehead. The barrel of the gun was steady, not a single tremor in her hand.
"I don't know what kind of freak show this is," she said, her voice a low, dangerous purr, "but if you kill him before I get the information I need, I'm putting a bullet between your eyes. And since you're already in a chair, I figure it'll be a short trip."
Lucian stared at her. He could smell the gunpowder and old rain on her. She wasn't scared. She was annoyed.
"Who are you?" Lucian asked, the nightmare voice fading back into his own raspy tone.
"The person who's about to decide if you're worth saving," she replied.
She stepped forward, the muzzle of the gun never wavering. She looked at the crushed locket, then back at Lucian's bleeding face. A small, almost imperceptible smirk touched her lips.
"Nice trick with the shadows, Cross. But let's see if you can handle a real conversation."
She raised the gun slightly, aiming not at his head, but at the wheel of his chair.
"Now," she said, "do we do this the easy way, or do I start breaking things?"