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. His posture remained unnervingly calm, as if the situation was of little consequence to him. "You're alive. That's all that matters."
"No, it's not all that matters!" Thompson's voice cracked, louder now. He clenched his fists around the glass, his knuckles white. "One second, I'm being dragged to God knows where, and the next, I wake up here! What happened, kid? How did you—"
"I handled it," Alastor cut him off, his tone sharp, almost dismissive. "That's what I do."
The room fell silent, save for the faint clinking of Thompson's glass against the table. The others exchanged uneasy glances, each of them feeling the weight of Alastor's cold detachment.
"You handled it?" Rachel finally spoke, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her voice edged with frustration. "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. She kept her gaze steady, as if she was attempting to get through to him. "Thompson deserves to know what happened, Alastor. We all do."
"Do you, though?" Alastor's eyes flicked toward her, cold and unyielding. His gaze lingered for a moment, like he was evaluating whether it was worth explaining further. "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, her frustration growing.
"Convenient or not, it's the truth," Alastor shot back, his voice unwavering.
Thompson let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his disheveled hair, his eyes wide with confusion. "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, his voice flat and matter-of-fact. "Just adrenaline and your mind playing tricks on you."
Emily frowned, stepping closer, her suspicion deepening. She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing as she sized him up. "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. His lips tightened in a near-imperceptible frown. "You haven't exactly been subtle about it."
"I don't need to be," Emily replied, her voice calm but unwavering. "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 locked on Alastor.
Alastor didn't answer, turning away with a quiet, almost imperceptible sigh as he paced toward the window. The tension in the room was palpable, but his indifference only seemed to fuel it further.
"Unbelievable," Rachel said, throwing up her hands in frustration. "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. His fingers tightened around the glass as if seeking some comfort from it. "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. His voice remained steady, unwavering. "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, cutting through the rising tension. "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, saw the opening and seized it. He straightened up and took a step forward, eager to redirect the group's attention before things escalated any further. "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, their curiosity piqued, while Thompson stayed seated, still visibly shaken and trying to steady his breath.
"These symbols," Derek began, flipping through the pages, his voice edged with unease, "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 as she examined the sketches.
"Something about cycles, renewal, and sacrifice," Derek said, his tone growing more uncomfortable. "It's vague, but one thing's clear—they're building toward something. And Thompson seems to be tied to it in some way."
Thompson looked horrified, his grip on the glass tightening. "What? Why me? I don't have anything to do with ancient prophecies or cults."
Derek shifted his gaze toward Alastor, who had been quiet up until now. "But I think Alastor might have more answers. I mean, he's the one who's been keeping all the secrets."
Alastor's expression remained calm as he turned to face the group, his eyes steely. "It's not about who Thompson is," he said, his voice cold. "It's about what the cult needs. Thompson fits the criteria for their ritual."
Rachel didn't back down. Her voice dripped with suspicion as she leaned forward, arms crossed tightly over her chest as if guarding herself against the truth. "And you know this how?"
"Because it's obvious," Alastor replied evenly, his eyes cold and unwavering.
"Is it?" Rachel countered, her eyes narrowing, her voice laced with disbelief. "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, which I understood but now... 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. The others exchanged uneasy looks, all of them acutely aware of the widening gap between them and the man who had once seemed like their ally.
Rachel's voice grew sharper, frustration tinged with confusion. "You say the cult is after 'who fits their criteria,' but that doesn't make sense. Why go after you, or Thompson? Hell, why go after me? Why would Levanzo even target my family in the first place?" Her voice trembled with disbelief. "And how does my brother fit into all of this? He's been dead for a long time—before any of us even met you! So how could Levanzo be after him, too?"
Her gaze locked on Alastor, desperate for some kind of answer. "How does that fit, Alastor? How does my brother's death fit into any of this? It doesn't make sense." The words came out quieter, more personal now, her confusion swirling into a deeper sense of betrayal.
Thompson's face twisted with confusion and fear. "I don't understand. Why me? Why this ritual?"
Alastor's gaze softened, just slightly, but his words were still direct. "The details aren't important right now. What matters is that we stay ahead of them—and that you stay alive."
Rachel's lips pressed together in frustration as she glared at Alastor. "How can you say that?" she snapped. "How can you still stand there, pretending like you're some kind of victim, when you've been hiding everything from us? First, you won't talk about Levanzo. Then you keep twisting the truth about why they're targeting us. You've never explained any of it—and now you expect us to trust you?" Her voice trembled with anger and hurt. "We deserve answers, Alastor. All of us. But especially me."
The group fell into an uneasy silence, the weight of Rachel's words hanging in the air. Derek, unwilling to let the conversation stall, spoke again, his voice a little sharper now. "We can't waste any more time. We need to move fast."
Rachel crossed her arms, eyeing Alastor suspiciously. "You don't get to tell us that. Not after everything you've kept from us."
Alastor's expression hardened, but he said nothing further. The tension in the room was palpable, and it was clear that whatever came next, it was going to require all of them to confront not just the cult, but the secrets they had yet to uncover.
Emily placed a hand on Rachel's arm, silently urging her to back down, but the doubt was already there, festering between them. Rachel's eyes flicked toward Emily, but she said nothing. She was done waiting for answers.
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.