The next morning, the city began to buzz with news of the Brooklyn Brew café's destruction. The fire had burned through the building, leaving behind a blackened skeleton of what had once been a thriving hub. The police had arrived just as the flames died down, their investigations still in the early stages. The questions came thick and fast—what had caused the explosion? Why had no bodies been found? Who was responsible for this?
Outside the wreckage of the café, Mr. Thompson stood with a solemn expression, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket as he stared at the charred remains. People approached, asking questions he couldn't answer, their faces a mix of curiosity and suspicion. He remained silent, his heart heavy, the guilt gnawing at him.
"I didn't do this," he muttered to himself, his voice hoarse with emotion. His gaze flickered to the others, standing just behind him. Emily, Jack, and Alastor were all close, but none of them said anything. They knew the weight of this loss—this wasn't just a building, it was a part of Mr. Thompson's life. His past. And now it was gone.
Alastor stood nearby, his body still aching, every part of him screaming for rest. But he couldn't. Not yet. He had to find Rachel. He owed her that much.
"I'm going alone," Alastor said, his voice steady, despite the storm raging inside him. "I'll go after her."
"Alastor, you're barely standing," Jack snapped, stepping forward. "You can't go. You'll get yourself killed."
Alastor's face was pale, his jaw tight from the pain, but there was something else there—something that hadn't been visible the night before. The bruise from where the Starbreaker had hit him was no longer a deep, angry purple, but a faded yellowish hue. His breathing was less labored, his movements a little more fluid. Despite the exhaustion still evident in his eyes, there was a gradual return of strength to his frame. It was as if the wound was healing at an unnatural pace, and the others couldn't help but notice.
"I have to," Alastor replied, his voice low, the regret in his eyes impossible to ignore. "It's my fault she's in there. I should've told you all the truth. I've put everyone in danger. Rachel... she's in there because of me."
Mr. Thompson's eyes flickered with something—pain, fear, understanding. "I'm not going to lose anyone else," he said, his voice breaking slightly.
At those words, Jack visibly flinched. His jaw tightened, and he turned his back on the group, staring at the twisted remnants of the café. He hadn't known Sarah Lee personally, but she had been a beacon of inspiration to him—a voice that spoke to something deep inside him. She had always seemed larger than life, untouchable, someone who could weather anything. But now she was gone, her light extinguished.
"I admired her," Jack muttered, his voice low but trembling. The others turned to him, but he didn't meet their eyes. "She gave everything for what she believed in. She wasn't just an artist—she was a fighter. And now she's gone because of... because of them."
Emily's face softened, and she took a hesitant step toward him. "Jack—"
"I didn't even know her," Jack cut her off, his voice cracking. "I never got the chance to tell her what her work meant to me. And now I never will." He clenched his fists, his shoulders shaking. "She deserved better than this. They all did."
A heavy silence fell over the group. Jack's words hung in the air like a weight none of them could bear to lift.
Alastor's gaze softened as he looked at Jack, understanding the pain that gripped him. "Jack," he said quietly, his voice steady despite the turmoil within him, "she fought for what she believed in. And now it's our turn to do the same. We can't let them take anything more from us."
Jack looked at Alastor, his eyes filled with anguish, but there was something else there too—a flicker of resolve. He nodded slowly, though his fists remained clenched.
Emily, meanwhile, stood a step behind the others, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She didn't want to think about Sarah, or what Jack was feeling. Every time she did, her thoughts drifted to Derek. She still couldn't reconcile it—the idea that he was gone, that he had been gone for years, and that Levanzo had been wearing his face the entire time.
How could I not have known? The question ate at her, twisting in her gut. She had always prided herself on being perceptive, on reading people. But with Derek, she had been blind. She had let herself believe he was still the same person she had known in high school, the same boy who had once stayed up all night helping her study for finals, who had been there through her worst days.
He's dead. The thought hit her again, as raw and brutal as it had been when Levanzo first said it. And I didn't even know.
Her hands tightened into fists at her sides. She wanted to scream, to lash out, to make Levanzo pay for what he had done—for what he had taken from her. But she couldn't afford to fall apart now. Rachel needed them. She needed to stay strong.
"I'm fine," Emily said suddenly, her voice cutting through the silence. She met Alastor's gaze, her eyes hard and determined. "We don't have time to dwell on this. If we're going to save Rachel, we need a plan. Sitting here feeling sorry for ourselves isn't going to help."
Alastor gave her a small nod of acknowledgment. "You're right. But this... it's going to take more than just a plan. We need to be ready for anything."
Jack eyed him warily, his concern still etched on his face. "You sure you're okay, Al?" he asked, his voice softer now.
Alastor nodded, though it was clear he wasn't fully recovered. The healing process had started, but the effects of the previous night were still visible—the slight wince in his steps, the subtle tremble of his hands. Yet, there was a spark in his eyes, a fire that hadn't been there before. He wasn't just physically healing; he was mentally preparing for whatever came next.
Emily watched him with a mix of curiosity and worry. She had been watching his every move since they'd left the wreckage, and she noticed the change, too. "You look… better," she remarked softly, almost unsure of herself. "You were... worse off last night."
Alastor gave her a tight smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm healing," he said, and there was a strange finality in his tone. "But it's not enough. I still need to find Rachel."
As Alastor turned away, his mind replayed the words that had haunted him for days: Levanzo's video, the threats, the realization that his past had come back to haunt everyone around him. The weight of it crushed him, but he couldn't back down now. Not after Rachel had given everything.
Rachel's eyes snapped open, the harsh light blinding her as she was thrown into a cold, dark cell. The floor was damp, and the air smelled of mildew and decay. She struggled against her restraints, but it was no use. The ropes were tight.
Her hand instinctively went to her side, her fingers searching for the familiar weight of her gun—but it wasn't there. The holster was empty, and a cold rush of realization swept over her. Her weapon, her lifeline, was gone.
Levanzo's figure stood just outside the bars, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "You're not going anywhere, Rachel," he said, his voice smooth, almost comforting. "Tell me why you think you're so important."
Rachel's heart pounded, but she refused to show fear. "You'll never get away with this," she spat, her voice hoarse with rage.
Levanzo chuckled. "We'll see about that."
The shadows shifted behind him, and Rachel's breath caught in her throat. A figure moved within the darkness, barely visible, but something about it made her blood run cold. She didn't know who it was, but for a moment, she thought she saw a familiar face.
Her brother.
No, it couldn't be.
But the figure vanished before she could process it fully.
And then Levanzo's voice broke through her thoughts. "Tell me why your brother had to die."
Rachel's fists clenched, the rage inside her growing with each word. "You did this," she growled. "You're the reason he's gone."
Levanzo smirked. "We'll see if you're still so defiant when I'm done with you."
And as the darkness closed in around her, Rachel's resolve hardened. She wasn't going to break. Not now. Not ever.
Back in the apartment, Alastor was already moving, his body fighting him every step of the way. But there was no turning back now. Not after everything that had happened. Rachel's sacrifice wasn't going to be in vain.
He moved quickly, his eyes scanning the room, before his gaze fell on a small, intricate crystal resting on the edge of a shelf by his bed. It pulsed faintly, almost like it was alive, as if beckoning him. The Light Crystal. He hadn't needed it until now, but the urgency of the situation made it clear: it was time to use whatever tools he had left. Alastor's hand hovered over it for a moment before he grabbed it, feeling the familiar weight in his palm.
The crystal wasn't just any artifact—it was a relic of ancient magic, capable of more than just emitting light. Its true power lay in its ability to create portals, circles of light that acted as instant travel. A blink, a flicker, and you could be anywhere. The crystal's edges were sharp and dangerous, capable of cutting through anything that came into contact with them. A reminder of its unpredictable nature. Still, Alastor was more than familiar with its power. If he had to, it could get him to Rachel faster than anything else. He slid it into his pocket, hidden but ready to be summoned.
Mr. Thompson sat on the couch, still shaken, his fingers nervously tapping the armrest. His eyes were distant as he tried to process the whirlwind of events. "I still can't believe it," he muttered. "Last night… all of it. I get knocked down, dragged off who knows where, and then, suddenly, I'm back in the Brooklyn Brew. I thought I was losing my mind. But then... then the café gets attacked by the cultists, and everything went up in flames."
He ran a hand over his face. "And all of this... it's just been non-stop madness. It's like we've been caught in this whirlwind of chaos with no escape. The cult's been hunting us, and now Rachel's gone. I don't even know who to trust anymore. Derek—he's Levanzo. He's been part of this from the start. The whole time. I just… I can't make sense of it." Mr. Thompson's voice faltered for a moment as he shook his head. "And Rachel... she stepped forward. She offered herself up, all for us to escape. For all of us. She was willing to sacrifice herself."
The weight of those words hung in the air between them, and for the first time, Alastor's stoic exterior seemed to waver. He closed his eyes, his jaw tightening.
"I couldn't stop her," Alastor finally spoke, his voice strained. "I did what I could, but no. She insisted it was the only way."
Mr. Thompson leaned forward, his eyes filled with a deep, knowing concern. "She's always been like that. Always looking out for everyone else, no matter the cost. But you—Alastor—she trusts you. And you've always looked after her too."
Alastor's gaze darkened, but he said nothing.
Mr. Thompson let out a weary sigh, running a hand through his thinning hair. "I don't know what you're running from, kid. I don't know what you've been hiding all this time. But I've seen the way you've cared for Rachel. And right now, I need to ask you—what are you going to do? She's out there, and the cultists... they're going to try to finish what they started. She's in danger."
Alastor's eyes hardened, his fists clenched. "I won't let them take her."
Mr. Thompson's voice softened, his eyes never leaving Alastor's. "I've got a lot of questions about who you really are, kid. But right now, it doesn't matter. What matters is that you're still here, and Rachel needs you. Don't let her sacrifice be for nothing. I know you care. I've seen it."
Alastor took a slow, measured breath, his body still fighting against exhaustion and the weight of the past. "I'm not going to let her down," he repeated, his voice steady now, but the resolve in his eyes was undeniable.
Mr. Thompson gave him a firm nod. "Then be careful. Do whatever you have to do. And remember, you're not in this alone. I've got your back. Always."
Alastor looked at Mr. Thompson for a moment, his expression unreadable. "I won't forget it," he muttered, then turned toward the door. He knew what needed to be done. The world was crumbling around them, and he wasn't about to lose anyone else.
As Alastor stepped out, the weight of his responsibility pressed down on him. But this time, it was different. This time, he wasn't alone.