Chapter 1 – Viviana
Dock 7 doesn’t look like it wants to be found. It broods behind chain-link and gravel, crouched between the edge of the lake and a warehouse graveyard. Mist covers the water like a second skin, thick enough to turn lamp posts into blurred halos. The GPS on my phone gave up two blocks ago. Now it’s just instinct and bad decisions.
My boots scrape across uneven concrete. There’s water somewhere to my left—slapping rhythm against rusted hulls—but the mist blots out the source. Damp clings to my jeans. My coat does nothing to stop the cold pressing through.
I keep walking.
The slip is a stiff edge in my pocket. My fingers graze it once, then again, as if it might change shape. Red Thorn. Dock 7. 9PM.
It’s 8:53.
I reach the mouth of the dock. Faded paint on the corrugated metal says No Entry. The chain-link gate is cracked open. Not wide, but enough.
A single floodlight stutters above, casting more shadow than light. I duck under the chain, heart ticking hard now, each step dragging up questions I already buried.
Metal groans in the wind. A gull cries once and falls quiet. My breath is icy cold.
I round a rusted container.
He’s standing still as a statue.
Broad shoulders. Dark coat. One hand loose at his side, the other hidden. His head tilts as I stop.
For a second, I think I’ve hallucinated him from the fog. Then the light catches his face. He’s real.
And watching me.
“Early,” he says. His voice is rough velvet, low but clear. “That’s bold.”
My spine locks.
“I could say the same.”
He steps forward slowly. No aggression. Just confidence wrapped in patience. His features sharpen in the light—lean cheekbones, strong brow, hair cut close on the sides. Attractive in that way you don’t want to admit right away. Dangerous in ways that don’t need naming.
“You’ve got nerve,” he says, eyeing me from boots to collar. “Most people don’t walk alone into Caldera territory unless they’ve got a death wish.”
My pulse skips but I don’t move.
He looks like he means it.
Still, I meet his eyes. “I walk where I want.”
He laughs. Not loudly. It was a small, surprised sound, more amusement than threat.
“You’re not Caldera,” he says, almost admiring. “But you’re not stupid either. So, which are you—lost or armed?”
My lips tug into a line. I move closer, just enough to hold ground. “You’re stalling.”
“No.” His head tilts slightly. “I’m checking.”
The mist thickens between us. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shift.
Then his tone shifts, cooler. “What’s the name?”
My throat tightens, but I don’t hesitate. I reach into my pocket and hold up the slip.
“Red Thorn.”
Everything stills. The weather, the street, him.
His eyes fix on the paper. Then on me.
“Where did you get that?” His voice is flat now. All charm gone.
“It was delivered.” I keep my hand steady. “To my shop.”
He takes two steps closer. I don’t move.
“Do you know what that means?” he asks.
“No.”
Another beat. His fingers brush the slip, then stop short.
“I didn't think you did.”
“Then explain it.”
He doesn’t answer.
From the haze behind us, a crash breaks the air—wood splitting, metal slamming. I whip around.
Footsteps hammer the ground. A man lunges out of the dark, gun drawn, yelling a word I don’t catch.
The stranger moves fast—grabbing my arm, yanking me against a shipping crate. I hit it hard. His body covers mine a second later.
Gunfire cracks. Once. Twice.
Then silence.
“You brought a tail, Dario!” His shout slashes through the night. “She’s not Caldera!”
Dario shoves me behind the crate and steps into the open, hands bare. There’s no pause, no parley. The man lunges, swinging hard.
Dario sidesteps, fast and focused. His hand flashes. A blade. It wasn’t there a moment ago.
The first hit lands with a crack—elbow to throat. The attacker stumbles. Dario doesn’t wait. He moves in, drives the knife beneath the ribs, then up.
The man lets out a sharp, wet grunt.
Another twist. Blood sprays. It hits the crate. My boot. My cheek.
I can’t move.
The man gurgles, clawing at his neck as Dario tears the blade free. Bone crunches. A final gasp, then nothing.
The body crumples to the ground. Twitches once.
Dario breathes evenly.
My knees shake. I’m pressed flat to the crate, breath caught in my chest. Warmth trickles down my neck.
Blood.
His. Mine. Both.
I look up.
Dario crouches beside the body, checking the pockets with smooth, practiced efficiency. He wipes the blade clean on the dead man’s jacket. Then he stands, gaze shifting to me.
There’s no shock on his face. No regret. Just calculation.
He watches.
I inch backward. My boot catches on a bolt. I stumble, palms scraping against the concrete. Blood smears on impact.
He doesn’t follow.
“You shouldn’t have come here, Red Thorn.”
His voice is quiet now. Not cruel. Not kind. Just a statement.
I stare at the corpse. At the blood painting the dock.
This isn’t real.
I stagger to my feet and run.
The cold wind wraps around me. My boots pound wet pavement, lungs burn, jacket whipping behind me. The pier twists left, then right. My breath hits sharp angles in my chest.
Metal creaks. Water crashes below. I keep running.
A flare hisses to life behind me. Red smoke curls through the mist.
The image is seared into my head—the last thing I saw before bolting.
Dario standing tall over the corpse. Blood on his hands. Flare at his feet. Calm.
He looked like death itself.
And I couldn’t look away.