Peter
The neon sign for The Gilded Cage flickers through the downpour like a dying heartbeat, casting jagged streaks of electric pink and bruised purple across the flooded gutters.
It’s a shithole wrapped in sequins, the kind of place where secrets are traded for cheap gin and the air always feels like it’s ten percent cigarette ash.
Hook doesn’t slow down. If anything, he guns it.
The SUV hits a massive puddle, sending a wall of muddy water over the sidewalk as we roar toward the main entrance.
My heart is a frantic bird hitting the cage of my ribs.
Every neon pulse feels like a strobe light to my brain, showing me flashes of Wendy—her eyes wide, her mouth open in a silent scream, her body being handled by men who don’t know she’s the only thing keeping the world on its axis.
“You ready?” Hook asks. He’s not looking at me. He’s adjusting his grip on the steering wheel, his surgical steel hook glinting as it reflects the pink neon. He looks like a demon coming home to collect.
“I’ve been ready since the moment she disappeared,” I snap, checking the safety on my sidearm. My hands are steady, but my mind is a fucking riot. I want to pull the walls of this building down. I want to find Silas and turn his guts into streamers.
Hook doesn’t park. He doesn’t even pull into a spot. He swerves the SUV straight onto the curb, the tires screeching over the concrete, and stops ten feet from the heavy, brass-plated double doors.
“Stay behind me,” Hook says, his voice dropping into that terrifyingly calm, silken tone. “And Peter? Try not to get blood on my leather. It’s a bitch to clean.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. He’s out of the car before I can even unbuckle, moving through the rain with a predatory grace that makes the two bouncers at the door freeze.
They’re big guys, necks thicker than my thighs, but when they see the hook and the arctic-blue madness in James’s eyes, they reach for their waistbands.
They never make it.
Hook is a blur. He doesn’t even use the gun yet.
He swings the hook, the steel whistling through the rainy air, catching the first bouncer across the forearm.
The man screams, a wet, jagged sound, as Hook follows up with a brutal kick to the other one’s kneecap. A sickening crack echoes in the alley.
“Step aside, boys,” Hook murmurs, his voice almost pleasant over the rain. “I’m having a bad night, and you’re the only things in my way.”
He reaches into his tactical vest and pulls out a small, palm-sized block of C4. He’s whistling. The motherfucker is actually whistling a low, haunting tune as he slaps the explosive onto the centre of the brass doors.
“Whoa, whoa!” I yell, catching up to him, shielding my face from the rain. “James, what the fuck?”
“I like to make an entrance, Peter,” he says, clicking the detonator. “Goes with the brand.”
“Get back!” I dive behind a concrete pillar just as he presses the button.
BOOM.
The explosion isn’t just a sound; it’s a physical punch to the chest. The brass doors don’t just open—they are erased, turned into jagged shrapnel that whistles into the lobby of the club.
Glass shatters for a block in every direction.
The pink neon sign above us shorts out with a shower of sparks, plunging the entrance into a strobing, smoky darkness.
I scramble up, my ears ringing, the smell of cordite and burnt carpet stinging my nose. Through the smoke, I see Hook walking into the ruins of the foyer like he’s strolling into a gala.
I reach the threshold, stepping over a piece of twisted brass. I look at the doorframe. The locking mechanism is still intact on the jagged remains of the wall. I reach out and turn the handle on the piece of wood that’s left hanging by a hinge.
It clicks. It turns.
“James,” I cough, waving away the smoke. “The handle. It was unlocked. The door was literally open, you psychopath.”
Hook pauses in the middle of the debris-strewn lobby. He turns his head slowly, looking back at me over his shoulder. A dark, jagged grin cuts across his face, his eyes gleaming with a manic, beautiful chaos.
“I know it was open, Peter,” he says, adjusting the strap of his rifle with his hook. “But an open door is an invitation. An exploded door is a declaration. I don’t want them to invite us in. I want them to know that I’ve arrived to burn the house down.”
He turns back to the inner club, where the music has died and the screaming has started.
“Now,” he growls, the silk finally snapping to reveal the iron underneath. “Let’s go find the man who knows where your girl is.”
The smoke from the breach rolls into the club like a physical weight, carrying the scent of burnt carpet and ozone. The house music is still thumping, a deep, synthetic bass that rattles my teeth, but the rhythm is fracturing under the weight of the screaming.
“Check your six,” Hook says, his voice cutting through the ringing in my ears like a razor through silk. He isn’t even looking at the chaos yet. He’s adjusting his cuffs, pulling the black wool of his sleeve down to meet the edge of the surgical steel.
“I’m more worried about my twelve,” I shout back, stepping over a pile of shattered glass. “Especially since you decided to use a tactical nuke on a door that was unlocked. My ears are bleeding, James.”
“Dramatics, Peter. They build character,” he quips, his eyes finally lifting.
The lobby opens into the main floor, a cavernous room bathed in strobe lights that make every movement look like a series of jagged, disconnected snapshots.
It’s a fucking nightmare in high-definition.
Strippers in nothing but glitter and five-inch heels are scrambling off the poles, their faces masks of pure, unadulterated terror as they slip on spilled champagne.
One girl trips over the edge of the stage, her ankle snapping with a sound I can hear even over the music.
She doesn’t scream—she just crawls toward the shadows, sobbing.
Security is coming out of the woodwork now. Six of them, clad in cheap suits and wearing expressions of “I don’t get paid enough for this.”
“Silas’s office. Upstairs,” I grunt, nodding toward the velvet-lined balcony.
“You take the left. I’ll take the right,” Hook says, a dark, hungry tilt to his head. “Try to keep the mess off the upholstery. I actually like this velvet.”
The first guard reaches for a submachine gun tucked under his arm.
I don’t give him the chance. I lunge across the space, the adrenaline making the world slow down until I can see the individual beads of sweat on his forehead.
I jam the barrel of my handgun into the soft meat under his chin and pull the trigger.
The muffled thump sends a spray of crimson and grey across the white-tiled bar. He goes down like a sack of wet cement.
To my right, Hook is a fucking artist of the macabre.
He doesn’t fire a shot. He weaves through the strobe lights, a shadow among shadows.
He catches the second guard by the throat with his good hand, slamming him back against a pillar.
The man gasps, his eyes bulging, but before he can even choke out a plea, the hook comes up.
Hook slides the curved steel into the man’s shoulder, right behind the collarbone, and pulls.
The man’s scream is lost in the bass of the music, but I see his mouth open wide, a silent, jagged hole of agony.
Hook isn’t killing him yet; he’s unmaking him.
He leans in close, whispering something into the man’s ear while the blood soaks into his black suit, turning the fabric a heavy, glistening purple.
“James! Focus!” I yell, snapping a shot into the chest of a guard trying to flank us from behind the bar. The man collapses into a shelf of top-shelf bourbon, the glass shattering in a golden, boozy rain.
“I am focused, Peter,” Hook calls back, finally twisting the hook and letting the guard slump to the floor in a heap of shredded muscle. He looks at his sleeve and tics his tongue. “Dammit. I got a spot on the cuff. You’re right, I should have used the door handle.”
“Glad we’re in agreement while we’re being shot at,” I snap, my chest heaving.
The air is thick with the smell of gunpowder and the metallic tang of fresh blood.
It’s sickeningly human—the way the guards die, the way they gurgle and twitch on the floor.
No movie shit. Just the raw, ugly reality of men being turned into meat.
We hit the stairs together, moving in a synchronised dance of violence. A guard at the top of the landing tries to bring a shotgun to bear, but I’m faster. I put two in his throat, and he tumbles down the stairs, his boots clattering against the wood in a frantic, dying rhythm.
We reach the heavy oak door to the VIP lounge. The music is muffled here, replaced by the frantic sound of furniture being moved inside.
“Silas,” I breathe, my hand on the handle. “He’s in there.”
Hook stands next to me, his breathing barely elevated. He taps the hook against the wood of the door—tap, tap, tap. A mocking, polite little knock.
“Silas, darling,” Hook calls out, his voice back to that terrifying, silken velvet. “Open up. Peter is in a terrible mood because I blew up your front door, and honestly, I’m starting to feel a bit unappreciated.”
The silence from the other side is deafening.
“I’m counting to three,” Hook continues, his eyes locking onto mine, the arctic blue glowing with a deranged, obsessive light. “On three, I stop being polite. And you know how I get when I’m impolite.”
Hook doesn’t wait for three. He doesn’t even wait for two.
He kicks the door with a violence that shatters the frame, the heavy oak splintering like matchsticks. The room inside is a sharp contrast to the neon blood of the club—all mahogany, leather, and the cloying, expensive scent of Cuban tobacco.
Silas is there, but he’s not behind the desk.
He’s standing by the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks the rain-slicked city, holding a trembling waitress by the hair.
He has a jagged piece of a broken crystal decanter pressed against her jugular.
The girl’s eyes are rolled back in her head, her breath coming in tiny, pathetic wheezes.
“James,” Silas gasps, his face a sickly shade of grey. “Stay back. I swear to God, I’ll open her up.”
Hook doesn’t stop. He walks into the room with his hands down at his sides, stepping over a fallen chair. He looks bored. He looks like he’s checking the time.
“You’re shaking, Silas,” Hook says, his voice a low, melodic thrum. “It’s embarrassing. You’re getting sweat on that very expensive rug, and honestly, the girl isn’t worth the dry cleaning bill.”
“I’ll do it!” Silas screams, the glass nicking the girl’s skin. A single, bright red bead of blood blossoms against her throat.
I raise my gun, the barrel levelled right between Silas’s eyes. My vision is tunnelling. All I see is the blood on that girl’s neck and all I feel is the phantom weight of Wendy’s ghost. “Where is she, Silas? Give me a name and I might let James kill you quickly.”
“I don’t know!” Silas shrieked, backing toward the window, dragging the girl with him. “Viktor handled the transfer himself! He said she was special—high tier. He didn’t put her on the manifest!”
Hook stops three feet away. He tilts his head, the light from the city silhouetting him into something jagged and inhuman. “Special,” he repeats, the word tasting like poison. “High tier.”
Then, without a word of warning, Hook moves.
He doesn’t go for the gun. He doesn’t go for the girl. He lunges forward and drives the surgical steel of his hook straight through Silas’s bicep.
Silas howls, a sound so raw it vibrates the glass in the windows. The decanter shard falls from his hand, shattering on the floor. Hook doesn’t let go. He uses the hook like a meat cleaver, wrenching Silas away from the girl and slamming him face-first onto the mahogany desk.
“Peter, get the girl out,” Hook says, his voice silken in total, terrifying calm.
I grab the waitress by the waist, hauling her toward the door. She’s sobbing, her legs giving out, but I shove her into the hallway. “Run. Don’t look back. Just fucking run.”
I turn back to the room. Hook has Silas pinned. He’s pulled the man’s hand flat against the desk, and he’s slowly, methodically, tracing the tip of the hook over Silas’s fingernails.
“James, we don’t have time for the theatrics,” I growl, my heart hammering. “He said Viktor handled it. We need Viktor.”
“Viktor is a ghost,” Hook whispers, leaning down until his lips are brushing Silas’s ear. “But ghosts have shadows. Silas, tell me… did the man who bought her have a name? Or just a bank account?”
“He—he didn’t use a name!” Silas sobs, his forehead pressed against the wood. “Just a mark! A black coin! Please, James, I have kids—”
Hook’s face contorts into a dark, jagged grin. “Kids. How sweet. I hope they’re better at talking than you are.”
He raises the hook, the steel glinting with Silas’s blood. “The black coin, Silas. That’s the auction. Which one? The one in the city or the one in the woods?”
“The woods!” Silas screams. “The old estate! Please!”
Hook stands up straight, his eyes meeting mine. The arctic blue is gone, replaced by a flat, dead white. He doesn’t look like my friend. He looks like a monster that’s finally been let off its leash.
“The woods,” Hook repeats.
He doesn’t kill Silas. Not yet. He just looks at the man’s hand on the desk, then looks at me.
“Peter,” Hook says, his voice light, almost conversational. “Do you think Wendy would prefer him with or without the fingers? I’m trying to be thoughtful.”
“I don’t give a fuck about his fingers,” I snap, my voice breaking. “I want to go. Now.”
Hook sighs, a sound of genuine disappointment. He turns back to Silas and, with a flick of his wrist that is so fast I almost miss it, he drags the hook across the desk. Silas’s scream is cut short as Hook slams the man’s head into the mahogany, knocking him cold.
“Fine,” Hook says, wiping the blood onto Silas’s expensive silk shirt. “We go to the woods. But Peter?”
He pauses at the door, the neon light from the hallway hitting the scars on his face.
“Don’t expect a rescue. Expect a funeral. Because if she’s at that estate, the man who bought her isn’t looking for a wife. He’s looking for a sacrifice.”