Chapter 88 Morgan
Morgan
The silence after Damian left was the hardest part.
I sat at the small table by the window, watching the pines sway in the morning breeze.
Ruby curled up in the chair opposite me, knees hugged to her chest, a blanket wrapped around her like armor.
She hadn’t said much since he walked out with his rifle slung across his back, but her eyes hadn’t stopped following the door.
“He’ll come back,” I said softly, more for myself than for her.
Ruby’s chin tipped up, her voice quiet but sharp. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s true.” I pushed a steaming mug toward her, the smell of chamomile drifting between us. My hand lingered on the table, waiting. A beat later, she stretched out from under the blanket and slid her fingers into mine.
Her grip was tighter than I expected. Desperate. “What if this is the time he doesn’t?”
Ruby’s eyes shimmered, but she nodded, swallowing hard. Her faith in me wasn’t just faith—it was survival. And I realized then that every promise I made to her carried the same weight as the ones Damian made to me. She was scared of someone taking her again.
Let’s set on the couch. Together we sat, listening to the quiet tick of the clock, the hum of the refrigerator, the ordinary sounds that felt foreign against the storm raging just beyond these walls.
And in the hollow of my chest, I prayed again. Not just for him to come back. But for him to end this, once and for all.
Damian
The docks reeked of oil and salt, gulls screeching overhead as the tide lapped against rotting wood. The warehouse loomed ahead, corrugated steel painted in rust and shadows. Too quiet. Too staged.
I crouched behind a stack of shipping containers, Oliver beside me, his rifle steady. Gage’s voice crackled in my earpiece from the rooftop two blocks out. “Movement—two guards at the north entrance, armed but sloppy. No eyes on the south side yet.”
Cyclone’s whisper followed, calm but electric. “I’m in their system. Cameras looped. Comms scrambled. They won’t be calling for backup.”
“Good,” I muttered. My gaze tracked the side door where our entry point waited. “We hit hard, fast, and don’t leave survivors. Luthor’s network dies here.”
Oliver smirked, rolling his shoulders. “About damn time.”
I steadied my rifle, the night pressing in. Somewhere behind me—in the safehouse, in the silence I couldn’t afford to hear—Morgan waited. Her face burned into the back of my mind, sharper than any mission order.
I breathed deep, exhaled slow, and signaled the team.
“Move.”
And just like that, we were shadows slipping into the lion’s den, ready to tear it apart.