The Brooklyn Brew's loft felt colder than usual, the low hum of the coffee machines below doing little to ease the tension. Mr. Thompson sat hunched at the edge of the couch, clutching a glass of water with trembling hands. His face was pale, his wide eyes darting toward Alastor, who leaned against the far wall in his usual brooding silence.
"I... I don't understand," Thompson stammered, his voice still hoarse from the ordeal. "How did we get out? Last thing I remember—those two cultists... they had me."
Alastor didn't move, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond Thompson. "You're alive. That's all that matters."
"No, it's not all that matters!" Thompson's voice cracked, louder now. "One second, I'm being dragged to God knows where, and the next, I wake up here! What happened, Alastor? How did you—"
"I handled it," Alastor cut him off, his tone sharp. "That's what I do."
The room fell silent, save for the faint clinking of Thompson's glass against the table. Emily and Rachel exchanged glances, their unease growing.
"You handled it?" Rachel finally spoke, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. "That's your explanation? You're acting like this was just another Tuesday."
Alastor's jaw tightened, but he didn't answer.
Emily stepped forward, her voice softer but no less pointed. "Thompson deserves to know what happened, Alastor. We all do."
"Do you, though?" Alastor's eyes flicked toward her, cold and unyielding. "Because every second we waste rehashing the past is a second we're not preparing for what's coming."
"That's a convenient excuse," Rachel muttered.
"Convenient or not, it's the truth," Alastor shot back.
Thompson let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. "I... I remember something. There was this... light? It was so bright, it felt like it was burning through me. Was that—?"
"It was nothing," Alastor interrupted. "Just adrenaline and your mind playing tricks on you."
Emily frowned, stepping closer, her suspicion deepening. "You know, Alastor, I've been curious about you for a while now." Her tone softened slightly as she crossed her arms. "Remember how I told you that I'd figure out much more about you? Don't think I forgot about that."
Alastor's gaze flicked toward her, but his expression gave nothing away. "You haven't exactly been subtle about it."
"I don't need to be," Emily replied. "You're hiding something—something big. And while you might be able to brush it off with cryptic answers, that doesn't mean we'll stop asking."
From the corner, Jack observed quietly, his thoughts racing. He always brushes things off, Jack mused, his suspicion deepening. But no normal person could've sounded as calm as he did during the concert disaster. He knew exactly what to say—exactly how to keep me grounded. And then somehow, it all just stopped? A part of him refused to let go of the theory that Alastor had superpowers—possibly the very ones that had saved everyone that night.
"Is that why you look like you've just seen a ghost?" Emily's voice broke through Jack's thoughts, her eyes still on Alastor.
Alastor didn't answer, turning away and pacing toward the window.
"Unbelievable," Rachel said, throwing up her hands. "You're hiding something, Alastor. You've been hiding something since the beginning. And I'm not the only one who's noticed."
Emily nodded reluctantly, her gaze fixed on Alastor's back. "She's right. You're not telling us everything."
Thompson looked between them, his anxiety mounting. "If he knows something that can help us stop these people, he needs to tell us. Please."
Alastor's shoulders tensed, but he didn't turn around. "What I know would only distract you. Focus on the mission, not me."
Rachel's laugh was humorless. "Oh, sure, because putting blind faith in the guy who won't answer a straight question has worked so well so far."
Emily stepped between them, her voice steady but firm. "Enough. We don't have time for this. Alastor's right about one thing—we need to focus. But that doesn't mean we're dropping this conversation for good."
Derek, who had been quietly observing from the corner, took the opportunity to redirect the group's attention. "While you all were busy arguing, I found something." He held up his notebook, revealing sketches of the symbols etched into the cultists' robes.
Emily and Rachel moved closer, while Thompson stayed seated, still visibly shaken.
"These symbols," Derek began, flipping through the pages, "are a blend of ancient Sumerian and something older. I couldn't translate all of it, but the parts I could decipher mention a prophecy."
"A prophecy?" Emily asked, her brow furrowing.
"Something about cycles, renewal, and sacrifice," Derek said, his tone uneasy. "It's vague, but one thing's clear—they're building toward something. And Thompson's involvement isn't random."
Thompson looked like he was going to be sick. "Why me? I'm just a... just a guy. I don't have anything to do with ancient prophecies or cults."
Alastor finally turned back to the group, his expression unreadable. "It's not about who you are. It's about what they need. You fit the criteria for their ritual. That's all."
"And you know this how?" Rachel pressed, her voice dripping with suspicion.
"Because it's obvious," Alastor replied evenly.
"Is it?" Rachel countered, her eyes narrowing. "You know what else is obvious? You haven't been honest with any of us. I remember you telling me a while back about how the symbol, the name 'Levanzo,' was connected to your past. You wouldn't tell me what that meant then, and you still won't. What is it, Alastor? What's your connection to Levanzo?"
Alastor remained silent, his face a mask of unreadable tension. His lack of response only deepened the growing chasm between him and Rachel, and the strain rippled through the entire room.
Emily placed a hand on Rachel's arm, silently urging her to back down, but the doubt was already there, festering between them.
In the background, Derek's fingers brushed absentmindedly against the small silver pendant hidden beneath his shirt, the symbol of the Eclipsed Order glinting faintly in the dim light.