Silas stopped in front of the old cathedral, its spires cutting into the night like broken teeth. The stone was blackened with age, the stained glass hollow and shattered. He pulled the folded drawing from his pocket and held it against the moonlight. The sketch matched the building perfectly—down to the fractured bell tower leaning to one side.

  “This has to be it,” he muttered, the words barely louder than his breath.

  He pushed the heavy doors open. They groaned like something long dead refusing to move. The inside smelled of mildew and dust, the air thick and stale. Shadows pooled between the long church benches, swallowing corners whole. Silas stepped lightly, every sense tuned to the silence.

  “Look who it is,” a voice said from the darkness. Smooth, venomous. “Silas Thorne. The boy who thinks he’s better than everyone else.”

  A figure emerged—robes of dark red, a black mask covering his face. The way he stood was too calm, too rehearsed.

  Silas’s gaze sharpened, his voice low and even. “For the record, I don’t think I’m better than everyone. Just better than you.”

  The man didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. He simply let the silence stretch until it pressed in on the cathedral walls.

  “Where is she?” Silas asked, the words clipped and cold.

  A laugh cracked from behind the mask. “What are you going to do if I told you she was dead?”

  Silas’s brow twitched, the smallest shift in his expression. “Then I’ll have to return the favor.”

  The laugh deepened, rolling like mock applause. “Overconfident. Predictable. She isn’t dead. Not yet.” The figure stepped closer, boots echoing against stone. “With your sister, I can make you do anything I want. Even kill that short friend of yours.”

  A flicker—just the faintest—passed through Silas’s eyes. The man caught it, savoring it.

  “What do you want?” Silas demanded, voice edged with ice.

  “Start simple,” the man said. “Cut ties with your little friend. That’s your first task. If you obey, you’ll see your sister again. If not…” His head tilted, almost gentle. “She’ll say her last goodbyes.”

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  Silas’s jaw tensed. “How does that help you?”

  “If that won’t move you, I’ll kill you here. Tonight.”

  Silas raised his chin, gaze steady. “Alright then. You can try.”

  The man laughed once more, and in one fluid motion, unsheathed a sword from beneath his robe. Its blade glimmered like a fang under the moonlight.

  Silas flicked his wrist. A slim blade slid from his sleeve, catching the dim light. He didn’t hesitate. He moved first.

  Steel rang against steel, sharp and loud in the cathedral’s cavernous air. The man’s swings were broad, almost ceremonial—sweeping arcs that cut long shadows. Silas answered with precision, small and efficient strikes aimed at weak points. His style was sharp as glass, designed to end fights quickly.

  The clash became a blur. Silas ducked a high cut, spun low, and slammed the flat of his blade against the man’s wrist. The sword faltered. With a twist, Silas disarmed him. The weapon clattered across the floor, skidding into the dust.

  For a heartbeat, Silas had won. He held his blade steady, breathing controlled, eyes cold.

  Then—click.

  The sound was quiet but deliberate. Silas’s eyes darted to the floor—too late. Thin wires, nearly invisible in the dark, whipped up from beneath the church benches. They coiled around his legs, snapping tight with brutal precision. He kicked, sliced, struggled—but more cords shot out, cinching him in place.

  The man chuckled, unhurried. He retrieved his fallen sword with casual grace, as if Silas had only performed a rehearsal.

  “You fight well,” the man said softly, towering above him. “But you always forget—preparation wins wars, not skill.”

  Silas gritted his teeth, yanking at the cords until they cut into his skin. His blade scraped uselessly against them.

  The man leaned down, mask inches from Silas’s face. His voice dropped into a whisper. “You will obey. Or she will die screaming.”

  Silas’s stare was a dagger. “You’re not untouchable.”

  The figure tilted his head. “Neither are you.”

  With that, the man straightened, turned, and walked into the shadows. His robe whispered against the stone as the cathedral swallowed him whole. The great door creaked shut behind him.

  For a moment, all was silent except Silas’s ragged breathing.

  Then—calm. He forced his body to still, his mind replaying the trap. Wires. Tension. A spring-loaded mechanism under the benches. Slowly, with precise movements, he worked his blade’s edge against one cord, sawing until the fibers snapped. Then another. Then another. His skin burned, his muscles ached, but finally the last restraint loosened.

  Silas stood, brushing the dust from his hoodie, his expression unreadable.

  He looked around the cathedral once more, then whispered into the silence:

  “You’re wrong. Preparation isn’t enough. Because I’ll be ready too.”

  The killer’s words echoed in his head: Start by unfriending him.

  Silas clenched his blade and turned toward the door. Whatever game this man thought he was playing, Silas wasn’t planning on losing.

  Not when Elena’s life was the prize.