“Vengeance may tempt you with a promise of satisfaction and peace, but it will not deliver.” ― Richelle E. Goodrich

  * * * *

  Blackpool was a city that breathed the scent of gunmetal and the tang of blood into its stonework. Its skyline was jagged, angular, choked with thick, blackened smoke stacks from hunter munitions factories and government compounds.

  Unlike the other towns of Eldario, it had never been just another city. It was a fortress wrapped in steel and silence, bred for war and sharpened by hatred. And within its choking heart lay the Entertainment District—a gaudy vein of light and perfume and shallow laughter, where bloodstained men came to forget what they had done.

  That night, the sky was bruised with storm clouds, but no rain fell. Just an unnatural stillness—one that came before a purge or a declaration, or worse, a massacre.

  The largest of the district’s pleasure houses sat draped in red lanterns and amber-glass windows, a decadent relic from an older era. It bore a name whispered with caution even by the most hardened hunters: The Velvet Lure.

  Its madame, Ysara DuPont, was an iron-willed woman with a spine like tempered steel and a reputation that made even Blackpool’s ranking officers pause before crossing her.

  Though the years had silvered her hair and lined the corners of her sharp eyes, Ysara radiated an elegance more dangerous than youth—a wolf draped in silk and perfume.

  The doors creaked open with the moan of old hinges. In strode Lieutenant Garret Rhose, a man known well throughout Blackpool, especially among Nicolosi’s inner guard.

  He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a square jaw covered in days-old stubble and dark circles under eyes that had long since stopped recognising the difference between war and peace. His armour was dark, standard hunter-issue, but with a private insignia sewn in crimson thread along the shoulder—signifying his status as one of Nicolosi’s personal enforcers.

  “Well, well. Back again?” Ysara drawled from her perch near the velvet-lined staircase, one brow arched as she observed the man. Her voice was smooth, with the faintest hint of amusement. “Your coin spends easy, but your timing is impeccable. You’ve already visited once this week.”

  Garret barely glanced her way. “Amy available?” he grunted, his voice hoarse, soaked in fatigue and irritation.

  A slow smirk touched Ysara’s lips. “For you, Lieutenant Rhose? Always.” She lifted a hand and gestured vaguely toward the upper floor. “Third level. Room Nine. The usual.”

  He said nothing, only gave a grunt of acknowledgement as he stalked past her. The other courtesans lounging nearby—men and women in scant silks and shadowed makeup, watched him with wary eyes, but none dared speak.

  Rhose was a man with a temper sharpened by Nicolosi’s doctrine and made unpredictable by years on the field. A man who smiled only when blood was spilled.

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  His heavy boots thudded up the steps, brushing past whispers and perfume.

  Room Nine awaited him, lit in warm golden tones, the air heavy with the scent of jasmine and red wine. Inside stood Amy, the house’s most coveted prize. One night with her would cost most people a month’s salary. But not Rhose.

  Amy was already dressed in a thin silk gown of ivory white, the delicate material clinging to the contours of her hourglass frame. Her long chestnut hair cascaded down her back, and her lips, painted the same shade as crushed rose petals, curved into a smile when she saw Rhose.

  “Second time in two weeks?” she asked with practiced warmth, already lifting the crystal decanter. “You’re getting greedy, Garret.”

  Rhose let out a snort, tugging off his gloves with the same absentmindedness as a man shedding armour. “Had a long week. Needed something to take the edge off.”

  Amy poured the wine into two crystal glasses, her fingers steady, her expression unreadable. “Then let me help.”

  He took the glass and tossed the first sip down his throat like a shot of whisky. “Damn good wine.”

  A flicker of something passed behind Amy’s eyes, like the glint of a blade just before it cut. But she only smiled, tilting her head. “Only the best for you.”

  The evening passed in slow degrees. He drank one glass, then another, then three more. Amy never refilled too quickly, never enough to make it suspicious, just enough to loosen his tongue.

  At first, their conversation was innocuous: complaints about new hunter recruits, griping about the weather in Blackpool, and even offhand remarks about pleasure house gossip. But as the wine dulled his reflexes and muddled his thoughts, his mask began to slip.

  “They’re not even human,” he muttered at one point, dragging a hand through his hair. “The Gifted. Freaks. Every one of them.”

  Amy pretended to frown in curiosity, swirling the wine in her glass. “All of them?”

  “They’ve got powers. That’s enough.” Rhose took another swig. “I’ve seen what they can do. Tear through a battalion in minutes. Rip buildings apart with their minds. You let one live, ten more rise.”

  Amy set her glass down gently. “And that’s what Nicolosi believes?”

  Garret let out a bark of laughter. “Nicolosi’s a visionary. People don’t see it now, but they will. Blue Pandora—” He hiccuped, “—that’s his legacy.”

  Amy raised a delicate eyebrow. “The miracle drug, right?”

  “That’s right.” Rhose leaned back against the headboard, his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. “Don’t know how he got it. Don’t know what it’s made from. But it works. Turns any sorry bastard into something more. Stronger. Better.”

  Amy’s voice was light and teasing. “I suppose someone like you knows where it’s made, hmm?” She leaned forward, her hand brushing against his chest, soft and unthreatening, her silk robe falling half off her shoulders, revealing her generous assets. “Won’t you tell me? I promise I won’t tell.”

  Rhose smirked, his eyes half-lidded, as his gaze went towards Amy’s opened robe. “Not the formula. No one knows the formula. But the manufacturing facility… Heh. The place is real. Our secondary base in Kald. Hidden level. Level 3. You won’t find it on any map. Not unless you’re on Nicolosi’s list.”

  Amy tilted her head, stroking his chest as she whispered. “That sounds important.”

  “It is,” Rhose slurred, his eyes fluttering. “Those Gifted bastards will never find it.”

  Amy said nothing, only smiled, and letting him drift off into a wine-heavy slumber. She didn’t move until his breathing slowed and deepened, his hand slipping away from her waist as unconsciousness claimed him.

  Only then, with the shadows of the room holding their breath, did she rise.

  She moved like a whisper, slipping from the bed, drawing her silk gown over her bare skin with fluid, practiced ease. The fabric shimmered against the low light, but her movements made no sound. She crossed the room and entered the private bathroom, locking the door behind her with a soft click.

  Inside, under the glow of the single vanity light, Amy leaned against the sink and let out a slow breath she hadn’t dared release in hours.

  From the pocket of her gown, she pulled out a slim burner phone—no fingerprint scan, no GPS tracking, just an old-world device with a single line of encryption. She tapped out a number memorised long ago.

  It rang once. Twice.

  “Ethan.”

  Her voice was quiet. But steady.

  “I got what you asked for,” she said simply.

  Silence answered for a moment. Then Ethan’s voice came, calm and edged with tension. “Details?”

  “I’ll send them in a bit. Base is in Kald. Their secondary base. Level Three. Hidden below ground. He’s high-ranking. No reason to doubt it.”

  “…Understood.”

  Amy stared at herself in the mirror for a moment. The reflection that looked back was beautiful, composed, and unreadable. And exhausted.

  “Tell Aegis…” Amy whispered, her voice cracking ever so slightly, “…Tell them my thoughts and prayers are with them. Just… Just end this nightmare for us. Please.”

  There was no response. Just the quiet click of the call ending.

  Amy stared at the screen for a moment longer before sliding the phone back into her gown and bracing herself on the counter.

  Outside, through the frosted glass, the faint sound of Garret Rhose’s drunken snores echoed. And from beyond the pleasure house walls, the city of Blackpool slumbered in cruelty and steel, unaware that one of its own had just opened a door that might never close again.