The library smelled of old paper, burning wood, and something sweeter, more sentimental, like lilies left too long on a grave.
Gazelle stood near the entrance, her boots sinking into the thick rug. The room was cavernous, the ceiling lost in shadows where chandeliers flickered like dying stars. The walls were lined with books, thousands of them, but Gazelle knew without looking that their pages were likely blank or filled with nonsense. This was a dreamscape, after all. The books were just texture. Props for a King who pretended to know everything.
Reagan Morgan did not move from his spot by the fire. He stood with his back to them, his silhouette thin and jagged, like a scarecrow stuffed with razor blades.
"Welcome home," he had said. The words still echoed in the room, bouncing off the dark wood paneling.
Alexander stepped forward. He adjusted the cuffs of his suit, a nervous tic masquerading as vanity.
"I brought you the girl, Father," Alexander said, his voice smooth. "Just as you asked. She tried to hide in the Northern District. A foolish attempt."
Reagan turned slowly. Seen up close, he was terrifying.
He was severely gaunt, his face a sharp map of bone beneath pale, tightly stretched skin that spoke of age and intense, consuming focus. His eyes weren't empty shadows; they were incredibly dark pools of cold, calculated intelligence that seemed to dissect Gazelle instantly. They were the eyes of a man who had seen everything and felt nothing.
When his thin lips curled into a humorless smile, the firelight caught the predatory gleam of silver teeth, a flash of artificial wealth in an otherwise ascetic face. He didn't look like a corpse; he looked like a man kept alive not by blood, but by sheer, pure will and cruelty.
He didn't look at Alexander. He looked past him, straight at Gazelle.
"Come closer, my dear," Reagan rasped.
Raven stiffened beside her. His hand twitched toward his empty belt where his knife should have been. Gazelle felt the heat radiating from him, a silent, desperate warning. Don't go.
But she had to. That was the writing.
Gazelle forced her legs to move. She walked past Alexander, past the Twins who were leaning against a bookshelf, looking bored, and stopped a few feet from the King.
Reagan studied her. He tilted his head, his black, slicked-back hair shining in the firelight.
"You are smaller than I expected," he mused. "To hold so much chaos in such a fragile vessel... it is a design flaw."
"I am not a vessel," Gazelle whispered. Her voice shook, but she held his gaze. "And you are not a King."
Reagan laughed. It was a dry, rattling sound. He finally turned his gaze to his son.
"You did well, Alexander. To capture the Creator... that requires a certain lack of sentimentality. I was beginning to think you were too... soft."
"I did what was necessary. Now, the deal. You promised me the Labyrinth. You promised me a purpose."
"Ah, yes," Reagan said, walking over to a heavy oak desk. He ran a skeletal finger along the wood. "The deal."
The room went quiet. The rain lashed against the tall windows, a chaotic rhythm against the stillness inside.
Reagan looked up, his eyes narrowing.
"Vermont."
The green-haired man stepped forward from the shadows near the door. His face was unreadable, his scholarly demeanor intact. He still held the gun, though it was lowered now.
"Yes, sir," Vermont said.
"Tell me," Reagan asked softly. "Did my son capture the girl? Or did she walk into my car willingly?"
Time seemed to freeze.
Gazelle's heart hammered against her ribs. She looked at Alexander. He looked confident, arrogant, waiting for his lieutenant to back him up.
Vermont looked at Alexander. For a brief second, there was a flicker of something in his eyes. Regret? Pity? But then, it vanished, replaced by the cold, hard steel of duty.
Vermont had been raised in this manor. Reagan had plucked him from the gutters of the subconscious city, fed him, educated him, and given him a place in the hierarchy. Alexander was just a prince; Reagan was the architect of his survival.
"It is a trap, sir," Vermont said clearly.
Alexander froze. The color drained from his face, leaving him looking more like a wax figure than a man. "Vermont?"
"They conspired in the penthouse," Vermont continued, his voice void of emotion. "The Fighter suggested a bait strategy. They intended to use the girl to gain access to the Labyrinth, kill the guards, and seize the Sword. Alexander agreed to betray you."
Raven moved.
It was an explosion of motion. He didn't go for Reagan; he was too far. He went for Vermont.
Raven lunged, tackling the green-haired man to the ground. The gun skittered across the floor. Raven's fist connected with Vermont's jaw with a sickening crunch.
"Kill them!" Reagan barked.
The Twins, Sebastian and Julian, pushed off the bookshelf. They didn't look angry. They looked delighted.
"Finally!" Sebastian giggled, pulling a butterfly knife from his sleeve.
"Playtime," Julian deadpanned.
Raven scrambled up, putting himself between Gazelle and the chaos. He was unarmed, bruised, and exhausted, but he fell into a fighting stance instantly.
"Run, Gazelle!" he shouted. "Get to the door!"
"No!" Gazelle screamed. She couldn't leave him. Not again.
Alexander stood paralyzed in the center of the room. He stared at Vermont, who was wiping blood from his lip.
"You..." Alexander whispered, his voice breaking. "I trusted you."
Vermont looked at him from the floor, his eyes sad but firm. "You are hollow, Alexander. You change with the wind. I chose the side that stands."
Then, a sound cut through the noise. Sharp. Rhythmic. Slow.
Reagan Morgan was applauding. He just stood there, clapping slowly, with a look of utter, crushing disappointment.
"Enough," Reagan said. He didn't shout. His voice was quiet, raspy, and dangerously calm. But it hit the room like a whip crack.
Instantly, the Twins froze. Sebastian's knife hovered in mid-air. Julian stopped mid-step. Even the mercenaries by the door stiffened. This was Reagan's true power. Everyone in this room had been broken and rebuilt by him. His word was not a request; it was a trigger.
Raven hesitated, sensing the shift in the atmosphere. The Master had pulled the leash.
Reagan lowered his hands. The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. He walked slowly toward Alexander. Alexander didn't back away. He looked broken. The betrayal had shattered the fragile purpose he had just found.
Reagan stopped inches from his son. He studied him like one might study a cracked vase. "You wanted a soul, my boy?" Reagan whispered, his voice dry as dust. "You wanted a story?"
He raised his hand and backhanded Alexander across the face. It was a harsh blow. Brutal, humiliating, and dismissive. The strike sent him sprawling to the floor.
"You are nothing," Reagan spat, wiping his hand on a handkerchief as if touching his son had dirtied him. "You are a failed draft. A sketch I should have crumpled up and thrown in the fire years ago."
He looked at the Twins. "Take him to the isolation cells. Let him rot in the dark until he remembers who pays for his suits."
Sebastian and Julian grabbed Alexander by the arms. He didn't fight. He hung limply in their grip, his eyes staring blankly at the floor. The Hollow Prince was truly hollow now.
"And the Fighter?" Julian asked, nodding at Raven.
Reagan looked at Raven with distaste.
"He is resilient. Annoyingly so. Take him to the Doctor," Reagan ordered. "The Scientist has been asking for a new subject. Let him see what makes a savior tick."
"No!" Gazelle screamed, fighting the pressure in her chest. "Let him go! Take me! I'm the one you want!"
Reagan turned his skeletal face to her.
"Oh, I am taking you, Creator," Reagan said smoothly. "But not to a cell. You are my guest."
He gestured to the open door, where Regina Morgan was now standing. The Broken Queen watched the scene with eyes that were hard as flint. She saw her son being dragged away. She saw Raven being subdued by Vermont. But she said nothing. Her face was a mask of icy indifference.
"Regina," Reagan said. "Take our guest to the East Wing. Give her a fresh notebook and a pen. It is time she wrote a masterpiece... for me."
Raven lunged one last time, shouting Gazelle's name, but Vermont struck him from behind with the butt of the gun. Raven collapsed, unconscious.
Gazelle sobbed, reaching out as the Twins dragged Raven's limp body out one door, and Alexander out the other. The team was shattered. The plan was ash.
Reagan loomed over her.
"Your world is a tragedy, little girl," he whispered, his silver teeth glinting. "Did you really expect a happy ending?"
Regina stepped forward. Her hand clamped onto Gazelle's shoulder. Her grip was cold, but unlike Alexander's, it wasn't possessive. It was guiding.
"Come," Regina said flatly. "Do not make him say it twice."
Gazelle was marched through the corridors of Morgan Manor.
The house was a labyrinth of shadows. The portraits on the walls seemed to sneer at her. The floorboards groaned like dying things.
Regina walked beside her, silent as a ghost in her blood-red dress.
They reached a heavy wooden door in the East Wing. Regina opened it.
The room inside was luxurious, with velvet curtains, a four-poster bed, and a vanity table with a large mirror. But the windows were barred with iron, and there was no handle on the inside of the door.
It was a gilded cage.
Regina pushed Gazelle inside.
"Wait," Gazelle pleaded, grabbing the doorframe. She looked at the older woman. "He's your son. Alexander... he's your son. How can you let him do this?"
Regina paused. For a moment, the mask slipped. A flicker of agonizing pain crossed her face, the pain of a mother who had watched her family be consumed by a monster she couldn't fight.
"My son died a long time ago," Regina whispered, her voice cracking. "The man in that cell... he isn't Alexander. He is just a hollow shell Reagan forged from the pieces of a broken boy."
She looked at Gazelle, her eyes softening just a fraction, wet with unshed tears. "Reagan didn't need magic to destroy him. He just needed time. You should not have come here... in this house, love is just a weakness to be exploited."
"Help me," Gazelle begged. "Please."
Regina pulled her hand away. The mask slammed back into place, sealing away the grief. "I cannot help you. I have no power here."
She closed the door. The lock clicked, a heavy, final sound.