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Cretierfield’s horizon extended before Koral’s right eye like an inversion of home. Unlike Punta Luzbel, where the elite retreated to their hillside villas and seaside mansions to leave the streets to fester with common filth, this city crammed most of its wealth into one massive dick-measuring contest at its center. A concrete beehive of corporate decay, desperation accumulating in rings around its edges.
She snorted, watching the Genessier towers pierce the distant evening sky. Different wrapper, same garbage inside. These tyrants were no better than the Cartel she knew so well —just hiding the blood money behind stock options and suits.
Still, it was certainly impressive how far the cartel’s arms could reach, tracking targets across borders like it was nothing. Then again, Valerica’s drive for betrayal and revenge could probably fuel a small country, something Koral recognized for how similar it was to hers.
This one particular grudge went back a good handful of years before Koral’s four ones of post-graduation employment —if an attack dog could be called an employee anyhow.
Four damn years of playing fetch, and here she was again, chasing some cleaning division dissenter named Kiel Adcar who thought he could ghost La Medula and live to brag about it.
A car horn blared somewhere below, scattering a flock of pigeons into the dusk. Their wings caught the dying light as they fled, Koral’s left eye throbbing with a dull ache as she contemplated the waxing moon overhead. A familiar sensation, a reminder of the promise she so often forgot while playing along with Valerica’s games, taking orders from the very bastards who’d stolen everything from her —all in the name of survival.
Even if her orders were to take him back alive, she had no doubt she was going to kill this bastard. To control her urges in the heat of the moment was as impossible as filling the empty space left behind by her sister, and so her boss had stopped expecting her to perform a task that complex.
Her intel suggested Adcar had woven himself quite the cozy safety net in this asphalt shithole, though she suspected it was with the help of someone within the cartel. No way a crew of bottom-feeding thugs could dodge La Medula this long on their own, especially not an Accursed like her.
The smart play would be to act fast and silently. Get in, get it done, and disappear before whoever that protected Kiel could react. Any more in-depth ploy than that was very likely out of her skillset —and her care.
But honestly… Koral gave absolutely zero fucks about all of that. She hadn’t come all the way here just to be an efficient well-behaved soldier about it. This was her solo travel, her personal little vacation seasoned with just the right amount of scum-culling.
Roaring back to life between her thighs, her bike left rubber scars on the pavement as her dual-toned hair whipped in the wind, aiming herself toward the city proper.
So what if they heard her coming? Wouldn’t that make it even more exciting? To let the trash gather itself before disposal? More targets only meant more fun, and time to kill she had in spades.
Escaped or not, Adcar was cut from the same cloth as the bastards who’d taken Kirana. Even if Valerica’s vendettas didn’t perfectly align with her own goal, this still worked. One less cartel dog poisoning the world with their existence.
Koral grinned, an expression sharp enough to cut. Thought he could wash his hands clean and build a new rosy life for himself? Funny fucker was about to learn. Some sins don’t fade away, no matter how far you run.
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And she was real good at reminding people of that fact.
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Evening drizzle streaked the windshield of Cole’s civilian SUV as he guided it towards the Vaspasiano-Merleto Reformatory. His promotion to lieutenant still felt like borrowed skin, the unfamiliar weight of a new badge bringing both doubt and hope alike. It also served him as a reminder of how much everything had changed in just four years since that fateful day.
Naive as it might be, sometimes he caught himself imagining Claude watching over him from the other side. It was a foolish comfort, perhaps, but one he clung to nonetheless. If the detective were still alive, Cole was certain he’d know exactly what to say about all of this to make it better.
Reports from the center’s staff haunted the passenger seat like unwanted company, and the clinical language did little to sanitize the darkness it contained. The self-destructive behavior that often landed Ethan in the infirmary, the confiscated remains of animal corpses hidden inside his room, and the violent outbursts followed by periods of unsettling calm. His anemia had worsened too, though Cole suspected the condition was only a physical manifestation of wounds far deeper.
Hard to blame them for documenting everything, including the painful. Between the tabloids willing to ruin a boy’s life to sensationalize the Seagrave incident, and the string of youth centers that had already rejected Ethan’s custody after repeated misconduct… This place ended up being the only one left offering help, even if their methods felt cold.
To read between the lines of their documents was enough to make Cole’s guts twist, making him fear for the shadows that escaped the boundaries of ordinary trauma. The way Ethan sometimes spoke about his mother’s death, of his own role in it… It was all too painful, echoes of an experience the lieutenant swore never to forget.
He couldn’t see them, the Punishers like —not like Jagdhund could. But if Ethan was capable, then… To prevent tragedy, he had no choice but…
Cole’s knuckles whitened around the steering wheel. He’d been too young back then, too uncertain of his ability to provide the stability a child like him needed. So he’d settled for regular visits, watching helplessly as Ethan withdrew further into himself with each passing month. The teenager’s father had tried to kill him, yes, but the lieutenant sometimes wondered if his own hesitation had been an even worse betrayal.
There was nothing to rely on in his remaining family. They were all useless. A senile grandfather unable to claim custody, and a pack of relatives who’d circles like vultures until Ethan’s inherited mansion was taken by his father’s debts. All of them vanished not long after after.
A social worker had pulled him aside during his last visit, commented about another incident, and how Ethan kept asking for him in the aftermath. ‘There’s only so much we can do.’ She’d said with her eyes heavy in exhaustion, and worse than that, genuine fear. ‘He needs more than what we can give.’
The wipers squeaked across the glass, momentarily clearing his view of the Reformatory’s looming brick facade. Now, it was different. Perhaps he’d never be the perfect guardian, but he refused to let the brat face his demons alone any longer. Ethan’s darkness didn’t scare him —if anything, it only strengthened his resolve. Someone needed to show him that his value wasn’t measured in suffering. That he was worth fighting for despite the scars he carried.
With a thud of the door, Cole stepped out into the rain, peace lilies clutched in one hand —a parting gift for the receptionist who helped him with the adoption paperwork. Water soaked into his shoulders as he gathered some courage.
Tonight’s challenge wasn’t in signatures or legal documents. It was in finding the right words to tell Ethan he was finally coming home.
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