Chapter 98

The club existed in a pocket of half-light, forgotten by the city and deliberately ignored by the future. Smoke clung to the ceiling like a second skin. Somewhere behind the bar, a tired bulb flickered, turning glasses into dull mirrors and men into silhouettes.

Makizal sat alone, his back curved, not from age, but from the weight of unfinished things. A glass of whisky rested in his hand, amber and still, untouched for long minutes at a time. The bandage beneath his shirt pulled every time he breathed. The bullet had kissed his abdomen, nothing more, yet pain had a way of exaggerating memory.

“So, this is where you drown your sorrows.”

Makizal froze.

The voice was familiar in a way that hurt.

Without turning his head, he watched the reflection in the mirror behind the bottles: Romaric, pale and gaunt, his hand pressed instinctively against his midsection.

“So, you’re still among the living,” Makizal said, his voice a low, dry rasp. He offered a thin ghost of a smile.

Romaric exhaled through his nose. “Disappointed?”

“Relieved,” Makizal replied. “But don’t flatter yourself.”

“Well.” Romaric sank into the stool beside him, the movement drawing a sharp, hissed breath through his teeth. “I had to see this for myself. How does it feel to be shot by the love of your life?”

It was a bitter truth. Romaric had been left for dead, abandoned to Makizal’s new recruits, wolves in training who thought they were ready to take on the alpha. But Romaric had annihilated them with the ruthless efficiency of an ancient god, leaving Makizal’s elite mercenary so broken that they were expelled from the program. That effort, however, had come at a high price.

“A scratch,” Makizal lied, sliding the bottle toward his mentor.

They sat in a silence heavy with the ghosts of the women who had unmade them.

“How is she?” Romaric asked. “Williams.”

Makizal’s fingers tightened around the glass. “No idea.” He stared into the liquid as if it might answer for him. “After she shot me, she turned on my men and tried to kill them. We did our best to restrain her, carefully, but the police arrived before we could move her somewhere safe.”

He paused.

“She’s institutionalized now.”

Romaric’s jaw tensed.

“You were right,” Makizal added quietly. “She wasn’t well. I should have listened to you that day.”

“Yes,” Romaric said without cruelty. “You should have.”

Makizal shook his head slowly. “What I don’t understand is how precise she was when she unravelled orders. It was hyper-strategic and calculated. How does a mind stay that sharp while the soul is burning?”

“She always was,” Romaric replied. “Hyper-strategic. Brilliant. But that doesn’t contradict illness. It hides it.”

Makizal nodded. He understood that better now than he ever wanted to.

Without asking, Romaric took Makizal’s glass and drank. The familiarity of the gesture struck harder than the alcohol.

“I spent years protecting Miss Kai,” Romaric said. “I was the ghost in the corner of her conferences, the silent wall during her strolls. I studied every hand that reached for her, every eye that lingered too long. I became a scholar of obsession.”

He swallowed.

“And somewhere along the way, I realized I had become the very thing I was hunting.”

Makizal didn’t interrupt. He took his glass back, his eyes narrowing.

“One day,” Romaric continued, “a man lunged at her from a crowd. A split second of inattention on my part. He grabbed her. He didn’t hurt her, but the breach was enough. The next day, she reassigned me. Pushed me away.”

“Wasn’t it because you kissed her in the rain?” Makizal remarked, his tone somewhere between a taunt and a eulogy.

Romaric let out a short, mirthless laugh. “When a woman looks into the eyes of a man who desires her, she doesn’t need words. She saw the hunger. The reassignment was her way of telling me I had become too human for the job.”

Makizal felt a sharp pang of déjà vu. He thought of Williams, the way her eyes had looked right before she pulled the trigger, that terrifying mix of recognition and absolute clinical distance.

“But,” Romaric said, turning to look at Makizal with sudden, searing intensity, “you were right about one thing. I’m not the man I used to be. And you? You’ve surpassed every cold-blooded expectation I had for you.”

“To the point where I’m no longer in your league?” Makizal provoked, his ego flaring even in the wreckage.

“Arrogant as ever.” Romaric smiled. “But I think I believe in destiny now, Makizal.”

Makizal studied him. “You?”

“Yes.” Romaric’s voice softened. “Evelyne, or Esther. She searched for Williams for years. Just as she was giving up, she went to a hospital for a routine consultation and conceived a child there. Only later did she realize it was the very hospital of the woman she was searching for.”

Makizal’s thoughts raced. He had suspected Dr. Marz’s hand in it, a calculated error designed for blackmail and profit. But as he looked at Romaric, he saw a different pattern. Perhaps Marz was just the tool, and the error was the universe’s way of stitching two severed lives back together with a golden thread.

“If that’s destiny,” Makizal said bitterly, “then Miss Kai was destined for Ralph. Even if you both almost kissed.”

Romaric’s expression didn’t change, but the light in his eyes flickered out. He didn’t answer.

“So,” Makizal sighed, “what are you really doing here, Romaric?”

“I came to tell you Miss Kai wants to see you.”

Makizal scoffed. “Don’t tell me you’re her errand dog again.”

Romaric stood, the movement slow and pained. He buttoned his coat, masking the red stain beginning to seep through his shirt. “No. I’m leaving, Makizal. For good.”

“What?”

When Ralph had called Romaric in a panic after the shooting, Romaric had returned one last time, not to reclaim his position but to apologize for his failure. Miss Kai hadn’t held a grudge. She had looked at him with a pity that hurt more than a bullet. He had told them the truth: if they wanted to survive the coming trials, they had to trust Makizal.

Romaric was setting sail. He was turning the page on a life written in blood and shadow, searching for a place where he didn’t have to be an “Iron Man.”

“I’m done.” He patted Makizal’s shoulder, a gesture of benediction from one monster to another. “Thanks to you, I finally understood that once you let feelings in, you can never kill cleanly again.”

Makizal didn’t move.

Romaric realized, as he walked toward the door, that he had lost the ability to kill in cold blood the moment he started imagining the scent of Miss Kai’s perfume in his sleep. When you open the door to feelings, tactical decisions become emotional burdens. You stop fighting the enemy outside and start fighting the man in the mirror.

“Adios, Romaric,” Makizal whispered after the man turned away. “One day, we’ll meet again.”

As Romaric disappeared into the night, Makizal finished his drink and stood.

For the first time since this story began, he was going to step into Miss Kai’s mansion as a wanted guest.

Perhaps he realized then that his weakness for Williams wasn’t just desire, but a terrifying admiration for power. For women who ruled with intelligence sharp enough to wound the world.

And this time, he would not look away.

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