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."
"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.
But Alastor's mind was made up. "I can't change what's happened. But I can do this. It's the least I can do. Let me fix this."
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.
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. How you never let her down, even when she's been at her lowest. 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.