PROLOGUE
The air reeked of blood and sweat. Dim, flickering light barely illuminated the damp walls of the abandoned warehouse, casting jagged shadows that seemed to dance with the trembling breaths of the man bound to the chair. His face was swollen, his right eye completely shut from the repeated impact of a fist. Crimson streaks ran down his temples, mixing with the sweat dripping from his brow. His breath hitched in ragged gasps as he struggled against the tight restraints biting into his wrists.
Across from him, a figure loomed—his presence suffocating. The man was tall, his posture deceptively relaxed as he wiped blood from his knuckles with a silk handkerchief. The contrast was almost amusing—pristine fabric absorbing the filth of violence.
"One last time," the tormentor spoke, his voice smooth yet devoid of warmth. "Tell me what I need to know."
The bound man coughed a weak, broken sound, before tilting his head up. Despite his shattered state, defiance still burned in his eyes. "Go to hell," he rasped.
A chuckle, low and cold. "I was born there."
With an almost bored expression, the figure stepped closer, the gleam of steel catching the dim light. A knife, wickedly sharp, traced a slow, deliberate line along the prisoner’s cheek. The bound man flinched but didn't beg. There was no point.
"Nyx Solmere," the tormentor murmured, his tone almost thoughtful. "Tell me everything you know about her."
The prisoner’s breath hitched, eyes widening for the briefest second before his face twisted in panic. His silence was answer enough.
The tormentor sighed as if disappointed. Then, without hesitation, he drove the blade deep into the man’s chest. A strangled gasp escaped before the body slumped forward, lifeless.
The figure pulled the knife free, wiping it clean before stepping back. "Dispose of him," he ordered the silent figures standing in the shadows. Then, he turned, walking away as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t just ended a life.
The name lingered in the air, barely above a whisper.
Nyx Solmere.
Nyx jolted upright in bed, a sharp gasp tearing from her lips. Her hand clutched the fabric of her tank top, her heart hammering against her ribs. The nightmare clung to her like a second skin—flash of crimson, the glint of a blade, a name spoken with chilling intent.
Her name.
She exhaled slowly, forcing herself to shake off the unease coiling in her stomach. It was just a dream. A byproduct of stress. Nothing more.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, pressing her bare feet to the cold wooden floor. The room was dark, but the city lights filtering through the window painted streaks of gold and silver across the walls. Still, the feeling of being watched prickled at the back of her neck.
With a weary sigh, she ran a hand through her tousled auburn hair and reached for the glass of water on her nightstand, taking a slow sip. The dream would fade, like all the others.
It had to.
Unbeknownst to her, beyond the glass of her bedroom window, hidden within the shadows of the night, a pair of icy blue eyes watched.
