The faint rustling of fabric and a low groan broke the stillness of the living room. Mr. Thompson, seated in the worn armchair beside the couch, glanced up sharply as Alastor stirred, his breaths shallow but steady. The man's pale face twitched slightly, his eyelids fluttering as though struggling to open.
"Alastor?" Mr. Thompson leaned forward, his voice careful but firm. "You awake, kid?"
Alastor's eyes cracked open, his vision swimming with blurs of light and shadow. He blinked a few times, his breath hitching as the room came into focus. The weight in his chest felt unbearable, like an anchor pinning him down.
"Where..." Alastor's voice was hoarse, barely audible. "Where am I?"
"You're safe," Mr. Thompson said, relief evident in his voice. He stood, his tall frame casting a shadow over the couch. "Emily's apartment. You've been out for hours."
Alastor tried to shift, but a sharp pain lanced through his chest, forcing him to stay still. His hand instinctively moved to the bandages wrapped tightly around him, the dull ache of his wound pulling him fully into reality.
"Rachel! Emily!" Mr. Thompson's voice cut through the apartment, loud and urgent. "He's awake!"
From down the hall, the sound of hurried footsteps followed. The door to Emily's bedroom creaked open, and moments later, Rachel and Emily rushed into the living room, their faces a mix of relief and concern.
"Alastor!" Rachel's voice was the first to break through, her tone steady yet edged with worry as she knelt beside him. Her hand hovered over his arm, unsure if she should touch him. "How are you feeling?"
Alastor's gaze flicked toward her, his expression strained. "Like… I got hit by a freight train," he muttered, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. "But I'll live."
Rachel's shoulders relaxed slightly, though her eyes remained sharp, scanning him for any sign of worsening. "You scared the hell out of us," she said, her voice softening.
Emily stood a few steps back, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She avoided his eyes, unsure how to broach the subject of the fight—or the kiss. "Do you remember what happened?" she asked finally, her voice quieter than usual.
Alastor's brow furrowed, his gaze growing distant as he tried to piece together the fragmented memories in his mind. "Bits and pieces," he admitted, his tone heavier now. "It's… fuzzy. The fight. The blades. That damned weapon…" His voice trailed off, his hand brushing over his chest where the Starbreaker had struck. "Something's still… wrong. I can feel it."
"What do you mean?" Rachel asked quickly, her concern deepening.
Alastor hesitated, his expression unreadable. "The Starbreaker. It didn't just pierce me—it's left… something behind. I can feel it. Weakening me."
Emily's eyes widened slightly, but before she could speak, Mr. Thompson cleared his throat, drawing the group's attention. "Alright, someone needs to fill me in. What the hell happened last night?"
Rachel glanced at Emily, who shifted uncomfortably under the weight of the question. "It's complicated," Emily began, her voice hesitant.
Alastor's hand rose slightly, cutting her off. "I've got it," he said, his voice steadier now, though each word seemed to cost him. "There was… a fight. A group of masked men. They stormed the bar, armed and looking for trouble. Things escalated fast."
Mr. Thompson's gaze darkened, his arms crossing over his chest. "Masked men? Were they connected to that cult? The Eclipsed Order?"
"I don't know," Alastor admitted, his voice carefully neutral. "They didn't say much. Just started attacking."
Mr. Thompson's frown deepened, but he didn't push further. "And the fight? What about Jack? Was he involved?"
Emily hesitated again, her lips parting as if to speak, but Alastor's steady gaze silenced her. "He got caught in the crossfire," Alastor said evenly. "Tried to help, but it was a mess. He took a hit to the shoulder, but he'll be alright."
"And you?" Mr. Thompson's voice softened slightly, his concern evident.
Alastor exhaled, his eyes closing briefly. "Took worse," he admitted, his tone tinged with dry humor. "But I'm still here, aren't I?"
Mr. Thompson studied him for a long moment, his jaw tightening. Finally, he nodded, his voice gruff. "Damn lucky, if you ask me. I'm just glad you're okay."
The room fell silent again, the tension lingering like a storm cloud. Emily glanced toward Rachel, who had remained unusually quiet, her gaze fixed on Alastor. Whatever conflict churned inside her, she kept it hidden, her expression carefully composed.
For now, the unspoken truths between them remained just that—unspoken. But the weight of the night's events hung heavy in the air, a reminder that none of them could escape the shadows of what had happened.
On the other side, the dim glow of flickering fluorescent lights bathed the underground hideout in a pale, sickly hue. The space was vast, cavernous, its cold concrete walls reinforced with steel beams that spoke of its purpose: secrecy. Deep beneath the bustling streets of New Jersey, hidden from prying eyes, the masked men regrouped.
The muffled hum of machinery filled the air, punctuated by the sharp, angry voices of the group. Around a long metal table, a cluster of men, their masks now discarded, argued heatedly.
"That was a disaster," one man spat, his fist slamming onto the table with a metallic clang. His sharp features twisted in frustration as he glared at the others. "We had Solvaris Tharion in our grasp, and we blew it."
Another man, his face gaunt and pale, leaned forward, his knuckles pressing against the table. "You think I don't know that? He was stronger than we anticipated. He destroyed the Starbreaker blade—do you even understand what that means? That weapon wasn't supposed to fail!"
A third man, stockier and with a deep scar across his jaw, growled, "The plan was solid. The execution wasn't. You froze, Marcus. You should've taken him out when you had the chance."
Marcus's eyes flashed with anger as he straightened, pointing a finger at the scarred man. "Don't put this on me, Ridley. If you'd done your part, we wouldn't even be having this conversation."
Their argument escalated, voices overlapping in a cacophony of blame and frustration, until a sharp, commanding voice cut through the chaos.
"Enough."
The men fell silent, their eyes snapping toward the source of the voice. The real leader stepped forward—or rather, his shadow did. The dim light cast his figure into obscurity, leaving only the silhouette of a man radiating authority. His voice was calm, measured, and yet it carried a weight that demanded attention.
"You're wasting energy pointing fingers," the leader said, his tone smooth yet firm. "We failed because we underestimated him. Solvaris is no ordinary target. He's weakened, yes, but he's still dangerous. And if we continue this way, we'll lose more than just a fight."
The men exchanged uneasy glances, their earlier bravado and anger fading into reluctant submission.
The leader continued, his voice taking on a chilling edge. "We wait. We watch. Let him think he's safe. Let him believe we're gone. And when the time is right, we'll strike. This time, there will be no mistakes."
The men nodded in agreement, their defiance replaced with determination. Ridley muttered, "Understood," while Marcus gave a curt nod, his jaw tightening.
Deeper within the hideout, the air grew colder, the hum of machinery louder. A labyrinth of sterile hallways led to a secured room, its walls lined with reinforced glass and intricate machinery. The faint glow of green light illuminated the space, casting eerie shadows.
Inside, suspended in a cylindrical chamber filled with a viscous, glowing liquid, was Maltad.
The shapeshifter's form was distorted, his alien biology shimmering faintly as he floated in the chamber. Tubes and wires snaked into the tank, connecting him to a sprawling console monitored by two technicians. Maltad's once-menacing presence was subdued, but the faint ripple of energy surrounding him hinted at his potential.
One of the technicians, a wiry man with a nervous demeanor, glanced at the readings on the console. "Stabilization holding steady," he reported, his voice shaky. "His vitals are… improving faster than expected."
The second technician, broader and more composed, adjusted a dial without looking away from the chamber. "Good. He's going to need all his strength if we're to finish what we started."
The wiry man hesitated, his fingers hovering over the console. "Do you think… he remembers? What Solvaris did to him?"
The broader technician smirked faintly, his tone tinged with malice. "Oh, he remembers. Maltad doesn't forget. And when he's ready, he'll make sure Tharion regrets ever crossing him."
Inside the chamber, Maltad's form stirred. His eyes snapped open, glowing orbs that pierced through the green liquid. His gaze fixed on the technicians, and for a moment, the hum of machinery seemed to grow louder, the air heavier.
The wiry technician swallowed hard, his voice trembling. "He's awake."
Maltad's lips curved into a faint, predatory smile, his form shifting slightly within the tank. The glow from the chamber intensified, casting long, jagged shadows across the room.
From a speaker above, the leader's voice crackled through the intercom. "Let him rest. Let him recover. Maltad will lead us when the time comes. And Solvaris Tharion… will fall."
The technicians exchanged uneasy glances before turning back to their monitors. Maltad's smile lingered, his glowing eyes unblinking as he floated in the viscous liquid.
In the shadows of the underground hideout, plans were being forged, alliances strengthened. The masked men weren't retreating—they were preparing. And their target, Solvaris Tharion—Alastor Faramir, would soon learn that this was far from over.