Avond Brightwell was tired, but this fatigue felt unfamiliar.
Beyond the weariness of his body, it was as if his soul needed rest, burdened by ignored worries that had piled up over time.
Now, he was haunted by the shadows of faces and words from his past, flickering through his mind like the changing channels of an old TV.
As he sat by the Cape River, he felt the weight of a burden he could no longer ignore. He had always told himself to "carry on," "move along," and "press onward," but now, moving forward felt impossible.
It had taken him longer than it should have, but Avond could finally admit to himself that he felt lost and trapped. And with that realization, he gazed silently at the steady waters.
It was past midnight, and the last party boat had reached its final destination, leaving only slow-moving cargo vessels beneath the massive bridge. The wind, which carried the warmth of yesterday's sun, had dropped to a chill that cut through his stained black leather jacket.
The city that never sleeps continued its lively buzz, full of promises and temptations. Avond had embedded himself so deeply in this life that he moved with it, if not against it.
This lifestyle came with a tremendous amount of responsibility—one he never expected, and one that, if it weren't for his own foolish heart, might have felt lighter.
Over the years, Avond had done everything in his power to silence the voice that whispered in his ears. But it hadn't worked. Instead, it came back stronger—a nagging complaint that scolded him viciously, tugging at his heartstrings like a pro.
And now, it was there again, accompanied by a young face—no older than twenty, his life drained from him, his focus lost in his eyes. He was dead. For what? Avond thought, closing his mouth with his visibly shaking hands.
For a man who didn't even know he existed? Who just needed some fool to take a bullet while his "cargo" was transported to its destination? Who would pay him in a life of slavery to a miserable existence derived from violence and emptiness, ending either in lifetime imprisonment or, worse, death.
Dead he was.
"Avond." A male voice called out to him in a somber tone. "We didn't get the items transported."
The voice came from Lionel Mathews, stepping closer to stand beside him. His police uniform, though undercover, was dirtied and torn.
Avond took his time to reply. He already knew it would happen this way.
"What can we do?" Avond said, his voice tinged with weary resignation. He didn't feel like discussing it any further.
"Avond, I know you're tired. I am, too, but we need you. I need you. So please," Lionel said slowly, almost painfully. "The sergeant is young. He's still learning."
But Avond didn't reply.
Lionel threw himself down on the ground next to him. "What do you want me to do?" he demanded, noticing blood on his shirt. He tried to wipe it off, but to no avail.
"Nothing. Just nothing." Avond shook his head. "We'll catch them eventually. Only one crime syndicate can stand in this country." He said it with conviction—he knew it well, better than anyone. Nothing went on without his say-so.
"Here," Lionel said, handing him a photo. It was a picture of a girl no older than 20—beautiful, full of life, with exotic Eastern features.
Avond stared at it cautiously.
"A woman came in today, crying at the station. She reported her daughter missing. Last seen two months ago, with her boyfriend. Who's also missing."
Avond leaned back on one elbow. "Is she sure they didn't just run off together?"
Lionel nodded. "The number of disappearances is increasing by the hour. Newcomers, girls who can't speak the language..."
Avond sighed, throwing his head back. He was exhausted.
"It's trafficking," Avond said. Lionel nodded, anger flickering in his eyes.
These were the things the Sharks—his people—needed to know. They maintained the darkness within the boundaries the city had drawn. There would always be drugs, prostitution, arms dealing, gambling, black markets, money laundering, and so on—regardless of the laws.
He was supposed to make sure nothing like this happened.
"I'll make sure to look into it."
"I sure hope you will. The people are starting to notice the disappearances. The city is starting to feel unsafe," Lionel reminded him.
To this, Avond didn't reply. He knew better than anyone what this meant. The illusion of safety was cracking.
His phone rang again—tonight, for the eighth time. Avond ignored it, staring at the screen where Wouter's name blinked. Whatever it was, it must have been important for him to call so many times.
When he looked up, Lionel was still watching him, his weary face looking ten years older than it should.
"Don't worry. Whoever's behind this, they're carefully choosing their targets. Before the city wakes up, the problem will be solved," Avond said, shrugging off the older man.
Lionel, taking the hint, nodded his goodbye and left, leaving the picture of the girl behind.
Avond called Wouter back.
"What? Did someone die?" Avond asked, ready to head home.
"Erm, no, not exactly. But someone will die when you hear about this," Wouter said, sounding tired on the other end. "You know that girl, Celeste Everhart?"
Avond's ears perked up at the sound of her name, and his body froze mid-motion. He sucked in a breath.
"Celeste? Why? What happened?"
"I saw her today on Main Street. She went into a love motel by herself. I found her inside the room—three guys... you get the message."
Wouter paused. "Can you come to the center basement? She's down here."
Avond started sprinting up the stairs, passing Lionel, who watched him curiously.
"I'm on my way," Avond said, as calmly as possible—though inside, it felt like a heavy burden was settling on his chest. If anything happened to her, he wouldn't know how to feel. Only that, for certain, it would hurt.
"Is everything alright?" Lionel called out.
"Yes, just home problems," Avond said, quickly putting on his helmet before jumping on his motorcycle.
The engine roared to life as he gunned the bike toward the basement.
By the time Avond reached the central basement, the first hint of dawn was showing in the crevices of the city's skyscrapers. He took off his helmet just as a figure opened the door, revealing a feminine face.
"Avond? Is that you?"
"It is. How is she?" Avond asked, stepping down the stairs to the lower floor. Jade stepped back as he passed her, entering the familiar gray walls of the Sharks' back rooms. The smell of cigarette smoke, alcohol, and people followed him as he entered a larger living area where three men sat around a card game.
Wouter, busy shuffling a deck of cards, noticed him immediately.
"Oh, you're here!"
"Next time, send a message if I don't answer," Avond said, already walking toward the cells. "Where is she?"
"Nine. Don't worry, she's comfortable," Wouter replied, sitting back down to continue his game. The two men beside him glanced at each other in curiosity.
Avond wasn't sure when the last time was that he'd felt his heart beat like this, but it hit him all at once. Everything fell away around him, blood rushing to his ears, and all he could hear was the sound of his own heartbeat. He felt as if he might explode.
There, on the small one-person bed at the end of the cell, was Celeste Everhart, covered by a thick blanket. He carefully opened the door, making sure not to wake her if she was still unconscious.
Avond remembered the first time he'd seen her again after all those years—unsure of himself. He rarely let himself be caught off guard, with a million things swirling in his mind, but when he saw her, it was as if the whole world had come to a sudden stop, just to look at her. All the voices, sounds, and images silenced.
Now, that beautiful, ethereal face was marred by a large, bluish bruise covering one side of her face. His heart ached at the sight. His eyes traced the soft rise and fall of her chest, unaware that his hand was reaching out to touch her bruise.
A newfound sense of guilt washed over him, and he stopped himself. It was far too tempting, and it felt too good to do. He knew that if he gave in, he would want more.
"Avond?" Celeste whispered.
Avond's lips parted in surprise. There she was—awake. And now, he could no longer run away.