The faint hum of the city beyond the apartment walls seemed distant, almost muted, as Alastor's footsteps echoed down the hallway. He paused in front of the door, hand hovering over the knob, and glanced at Rachel. His eyes, a shadow of their usual vibrant gleam, betrayed the weight of the night they'd just survived.
"You're going to keep my secret, right?" His voice was steady, but there was an undercurrent of something—maybe caution, maybe a quiet plea.
Rachel glanced back at him, a reassuring smile tugging at her lips despite the emptiness gnawing at her insides. "Your secret's safe with me," she said softly, her tone as firm as she could muster. "I understand."
Alastor's gaze softened for a brief moment, his hand still resting on the doorknob. "Just... call me Alastor," he said quietly, as though the weight of his real name was something he could no longer bear to carry here, not now. "Please."
Rachel nodded, understanding more than he knew. The weight of what he'd shared with her, of his true identity, was still settling within her, but she understood why he preferred the alias—why Alastor felt safer, less burdened. "Of course," she agreed, her voice gentle. "I won't say your real name again."
Alastor gave a single nod, the brief flicker of relief in his eyes almost imperceptible. With a final glance toward her, he turned the knob, the door creaking open to reveal Mr. Thompson standing just inside. The sight of him was almost a relief, like a tether to the world they'd left behind, the chaotic storm of cults and battles far from this haven.
Before Alastor could step inside, Mr. Thompson's gaze shifted toward Rachel, his face lighting up with relief. "Rachel!" he exclaimed, his voice full of unrestrained joy. He rushed forward, arms open wide, and embraced her tightly.
"Thank God you're okay," Mr. Thompson murmured, his voice thick with emotion. He turned to Alastor, his eyebrows raised in surprise. "And you... how did you—?" He glanced back at Rachel, a look of curiosity on his face. "How did he manage to bring you back?"
Rachel stiffened slightly at the mention of Alastor, but quickly masked her unease with a forced chuckle. "Oh, you know," she began, trying to sound casual, "I found my way out, and Alastor found me. We... uh... beat the crap out of those cultists. Took down Levanzo, too. Actually, it was... Maltad. He's no more."
Alastor stifled a soft laugh at her lie, though his smile was too small to truly convey amusement. "Quite the story," he muttered under his breath, and Rachel caught a flicker of something in his eyes—something that didn't quite fit with the tale she'd spun.
Mr. Thompson gave a relieved laugh, shaking his head. "Incredible," he said, his voice laced with disbelief but filled with gratitude. "I knew you'd be okay. But how did you... find her, Alastor?"
Alastor's expression turned somber, the usual gleam of his eyes dimming slightly as he recalled their 'adventure.' "I came across a cult member," he said, voice steady but his gaze far away. "Took him down and... persuaded him to tell me where she was. He said she was at an old warehouse. I went there, and sure enough, found her."
Rachel narrowed her eyes, confusion swirling inside her. The story didn't quite add up—not in the way she remembered things happening—but she didn't press him. Not now.
Mr. Thompson looked relieved, though his brow furrowed in thought. "And then what?"
Alastor's lips curled into a tight smile. "Called the authorities. They'll take care of the cultists, investigate the rest. Eclipsed Order won't be a problem anymore."
Rachel's stomach churned at the mention of Eclipsed Order, a name that still clung to her thoughts like a shadow. She wanted to believe that it was over, that the nightmare was truly behind them—but then, there was Tommy. She thought he was dead, but now she knew the truth, and the emptiness inside her only seemed to grow.
Mr. Thompson nodded, seeming satisfied. "Well, that's a relief, then. I knew you'd handle things."
As they exchanged words, Mr. Thompson's gaze shifted to Alastor's side. His sharp eyes caught the way Alastor moved—stiff, careful, with one hand brushing against his ribs more often than not. His expression turned from relief to concern.
"You're hurt," Mr. Thompson said, stepping closer. "Let me take a look at that."
Alastor raised a hand, waving him off with a faint shake of his head. "It's fine," he said, his voice tight.
"That doesn't look fine," Mr. Thompson countered, his tone firm but not unkind. "What happened?"
Rachel subtly placed a hand on her uncle's arm, sensing the tension rising in the room. "It's okay, Uncle," she said softly, attempting to keep the situation calm. "We both got hurt while dealing with Levanzo and his cult. But we can handle ourselves."
Mr. Thompson's brow furrowed, his concern deepening, but he didn't press further. Instead, his gaze turned to Rachel, and his sharp eyes picked up the slight wince she tried to hide.
"And you?" he asked, turning to Rachel.
She offered a weak smile, hiding the ache in her ribs where Tommy had kicked her. "I'm fine. Just a few bruises. Nothing we can't handle."
Mr. Thompson studied both of them for a moment, still unsure, but he finally sighed and stepped back. "If you're sure. But don't hesitate to let me help if you need it."
Alastor nodded gratefully but didn't say much more. He and Rachel exchanged a brief glance before Alastor turned to retreat to his room, his movements still slow and cautious.
Alastor took a slow breath, preparing to turn away, but before he could, Mr. Thompson approached him. His footsteps were quiet, measured, and when he reached Alastor, he placed a hand on his shoulder, his voice soft yet sincere.
"Thank you," Mr. Thompson said, his tone filled with gratitude. "For everything. I... I don't know what we would've done without you."
Alastor didn't respond right away. His gaze shifted briefly to Rachel before returning to Mr. Thompson, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something—something that lingered between them, a shared understanding. Then, Alastor gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
"Just doing what's right," he said quietly, his voice as cool as ever, though there was something deeper there, something unspoken.
Mr. Thompson held his gaze for a beat longer before giving a final nod, his hand lingering on Alastor's shoulder for just a second before stepping back.
The room fell into a brief silence, the weight of everything that had happened settling in the air between them.
Rachel stretched out on the couch, her eyes heavy with the exhaustion of the day. The cushions creaked slightly beneath her, but she welcomed the stillness, wrapping the blanket her uncle had offered tightly around her shoulders.
"You can take my room if you want," Mr. Thompson said softly from the doorway, his voice warm but insistent. "I'll be fine here."
Rachel shook her head, managing a small smile. "Thanks, Uncle, but the couch is fine. Really. I just need some sleep."
He hesitated, studying her with concern, but relented with a nod. "Alright. If you're sure."
As Mr. Thompson moved to settle into the recliner across the room, Alastor retreated to his own space. The door to his room clicked shut behind him, and the weight he'd carried all evening seemed to collapse onto him at once.
He sank onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his frame. His hand instinctively brushed against his ribs, where the starbreaker knife had found its mark not long ago. The pain was dulled now, but the memory of its sting lingered like a ghost in his bones.
Alastor exhaled shakily, the sound barely audible in the quiet room. His age was catching up to him—he could feel it in the ache of his joints, in the way exhaustion crept into his every movement. For now, though, he let himself fall back against the pillows, his body giving in to the pull of rest.
The faint hum of the city outside became a distant lullaby as his eyes drifted shut, his mind retreating into the welcome void of sleep.
Meanwhile, Rachel, feeling the weight of the evening pressing on her, gathered a first aid kit from the bathroom and headed toward Alastor's door. She knocked lightly, intending to offer her help in treating his injury.
There was no answer.
She knocked again, a little louder this time. Still, nothing. Hesitantly, she turned the doorknob and peeked inside. The room was dimly lit, and the soft sound of snoring drifted from Alastor's bed. He had already fallen asleep.
With a quiet sigh, Rachel stepped back and closed the door gently. There was no point in waking him now. She placed the first aid kit away, deciding that some rest was what they both needed more than anything.
She returned to the couch, her body sinking into the cushions as exhaustion finally took hold. Mr. Thompson settled into his recliner, and for a moment, the three of them were wrapped in the stillness of the apartment, the weight of the past night slowly easing into a tentative peace.
The city beyond continued its quiet hum, and sleep wrapped its arms around them all, offering a brief respite before the storm that was sure to follow.
By the following morning, the ache in Alastor's body had lessened but was still present—a stubborn residue of his body's adjustment. His movements were slower, deliberate, and though he masked his weakness well, Rachel caught the faint winces and stiffness in his posture.
The five of them sat together in the living room of Mr. Thompson's apartment—Rachel, Alastor, Emily, Jack, and Mr. Thompson, who was busy cooking in the kitchen. They watched the news on the television, but it felt as though nothing had changed. Almost.
The anchor's voice echoed through the room. "Breaking news: Authorities have confirmed the dismantling of a dangerous cult, the Eclipsed Order, which has been linked to a series of mysterious deaths and disappearances across the city. Police have arrested several members, and investigations are ongoing into their extensive network of criminal activities."
The screen cut to footage of police officers outside a nondescript building, detectives inspecting documents, and crime scene tape cordoning off an area.
"Authorities report that last night, police responded to a disturbance and encountered several members of the Eclipsed Order at a secluded location in the city. While the specific circumstances remain unclear, officers observed signs of unusual behavior, including signs of intoxication or possible drugging, as cult members attempted to flee the scene. A number of individuals were taken into custody, though authorities have yet to determine the exact cause of the disarray."
The news cut to another anchor, who spoke with a hint of skepticism. "Investigators are still piecing together the events leading to this intervention, but sources say a large portion of the cult's leadership was taken down. The group is believed to be behind multiple high-profile incidents, including the disappearances of several individuals. Authorities are continuing their investigation into the group's activities."
The anchor continued, shifting to a new topic. "It has also been confirmed that among the victims was renowned artist Sarah Lee, whose disappearance had sparked widespread concern. Cult members apprehended during the raid admitted to her tragic death, along with those of countless other individuals who had been reported missing. The reasons for their deaths remain under investigation, but officials suspect that the group's activities involved acts of ritualistic violence."
The room froze. Jack's breath hitched audibly, his hands gripping the edges of the couch. His eyes were glued to the screen, unblinking, as the anchor's words seemed to echo endlessly in his mind.
"No..." he whispered, barely audible. His voice cracked as he repeated, "No, not her."
Rachel, sitting beside him, glanced at him with concern, but Jack didn't look back. His jaw tightened, his face pale, his eyes glassy. He shook his head slightly, as if trying to reject what he'd just heard.
"I admired her," he muttered under his breath, his voice trembling. "She didn't deserve this. She didn't deserve to go like this."
Emily reached out a hand to him hesitantly, her own expression somber. "Jack—"
"I didn't even know her," Jack interrupted, his voice breaking. "But she inspired me. Her work… her voice… she gave people hope. And they—" His words caught in his throat as he leaned forward, his head in his hands.
The weight of the revelation hung heavily in the room. Rachel turned back to the screen, her stomach twisting as she imagined Sarah among the countless other victims, lost to the Eclipsed Order's cruelty.
The anchor continued, unrelenting. "Authorities believe the cult's leader, Levanzo, has died, though police have not disclosed the specifics surrounding his death. It's assumed that he may have taken his own life, though further investigation is underway. The police remain confident that the threat posed by the Eclipsed Order has been significantly neutralized."
Rachel stiffened at the mention of Levanzo's death, a hollow feeling expanding in her chest. She knew what they weren't saying—the details they had no way of knowing. Her brother, Tommy, was still out there, working with Maltad all along. The lie that the world was being fed, comforting as it may be to the public, felt unbearably cold to her.
Mr. Thompson, still busy with the cooking, barely acknowledged the room. His gaze was distant, his thoughts perhaps far away from the scene unfolding on the screen.
Emily, however, shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She had been quiet for most of the broadcast, her attention flickering between the television and her own scattered thoughts. As the anchor's voice trailed off, Emily glanced back at the screen. Her stomach twisted when the image of Levanzo flashed up—his face cold, still, his death now confirmed.
Her hand instinctively clenched in her lap, fingers twitching involuntarily. Derek's face surfaced in her mind, his familiar smile now replaced by the chilling reality of what had happened. She had never suspected. She had never known.
She swallowed hard, the question she hadn't even realized she was asking pressing in on her thoughts. How did Derek die? It lingered in the silence of her mind, unanswered. Her eyes flickered to Alastor, but he was focused on the screen, his expression unreadable. She didn't dare ask out loud, not with the weight of everything that had been left unsaid.
How had Derek died? She couldn't help but wonder.
She glanced at Rachel, then quickly turned her gaze back to the TV, her heart heavy. Rachel didn't seem to notice. Alastor, too, appeared absorbed in his own thoughts, his jaw tense, as if he was silently holding onto something—something he wasn't ready to share.
The silence stretched on, the question hanging between them. Emily's chest tightened, a pang of sadness settling over her heart. She wasn't sure how to process the grief that swelled inside her, or how to accept the fact that Derek's death had been hidden from her. How long had she been living with the lie?
"Authorities have also reassured the public that an in-depth investigation is underway, and no further cult-related incidents are expected in the immediate future," the anchor concluded, and the screen switched to footage of a police spokesperson holding a press conference.
Rachel stared at the television, the gnawing emptiness in her stomach only growing. The world seemed to take a collective breath, as if it had already moved on, as if everything had been neatly tied up. The world thought it was over.
But Rachel knew better. Tommy was still out there. Her brother—whom she had believed to be dead—had been working with Levanzo all along, and now, with the dust settling, she couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't the end. It couldn't be. Tommy would come back. She didn't know when or how, but she could feel it in her bones—it was only a matter of time.
Jack and Emily exchanged glances, the relief clear on their faces as they murmured how glad they were that Rachel was okay.
Alastor's expression remained neutral, but Rachel could see the flicker of tension in his jaw. His name hadn't been mentioned. They had all avoided that detail. The strange powers, the impossible feats, the truth about what had really happened—they'd kept it hidden. The news had only skimmed the surface, offering just enough to satisfy the world's curiosity.
As the media coverage continued, Rachel's unease deepened. Tommy was still out there, and she had no idea when or where he might strike next. She glanced at Alastor, but he didn't seem to notice her gaze, lost in his own thoughts, tangled in the web of secrets they'd all woven together.
The room buzzed with talk of how Rachel was safe, how Alastor had brought her back. But for Rachel, the weight of the lie—everything she knew but couldn't say—hung heavily in the air. For now, she'd let the world believe the story they had crafted.
The tension in the room began to lift when Mr. Thompson finished cooking, setting a spread on the table. There was chicken, lasagna, white rice, tender beef, and even a large pot of pozole. The smell was rich and comforting, a welcome distraction from the turmoil of the past days. Slowly, everyone gathered around the table, the simple act of sharing a meal easing their minds. Laughter and light conversation replaced the heavy silence, and for the first time in a while, the group let themselves relax, surrounded by food, friends, and the quiet comfort of normalcy. For now, it was enough.