(A/N):
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Edward had already stepped toward the back room to gather their things when Tanya's voice cut through the cabin like thin ice cracking.
"Edward."
He stopped.
Not because she raised her voice.
Because she didn't. That tone carried weight.
When he turned, Tanya's expression had lost all elegance.
It was sharp. Calculating.
"Carlisle and the others are already on their way," she said. "They're moving fast."
Edward's jaw tightened.
"Then we move faster."
"No,"
Tanya replied immediately shaking her head.
The word landed heavy.
Bella looked between them.
"...."
Tanya stepped closer, lowering her voice.
"If you relocate again right now, you'll create a new trail."
Edward didn't answer.
She continued.
"They've already tracked you across states. That means they're not guessing anymore. They're following patterns."
Edward's mind spun.
"And if I stay?" he asked coldly.
"Then there is a chance they might have already found our werebouts."
Bella crossed her arms over her stomach unconsciously.
Tanya's eyes shifted there. Deliberately. Slowly.
Edward followed her gaze. He understood.
"If you move suddenly," Tanya said carefully, "and they intercept you mid-transition…"
She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't need to.
Bella's hand pressed gently over her belly.
"...."
"...."
Edward's eyes darkened.
The unborn life inside her was fragile. Even with his protection.
A moving target was easier to ambush. A stationary fortress could be defended.
"You think they're waiting for us to panic," Edward murmured.
Tanya nodded once.
-Nod
"They want you in the open."
Snow brushed against the cabin windows in soft streaks.
Bella stepped closer to Edward.
"I'm not fragile," she said softly, though her fingers trembled slightly.
"But she is."
Edward looked at her, conflict flashing across his golden eyes.
Every instinct screamed at him to run. To vanish.
To remove Bella from every possible threat.
But running blindly could expose them more.
Tanya added quietly,
"Carlisle wouldn't have contacted us unless he was already moving. Trust him."
Silence stretched.
"...."
"...."
"...."
Edward exhaled slowly. He hated standing still.But he hated risking Bella more.
He turned back toward her and placed both hands gently on her shoulders.
"We stay," he decided.
Bella searched his face.
"For now?"
"For now."
Tanya relaxed slightly.
"We'll widen the perimeter," she said. "If anyone approaches, we'll know."
New York...
High above the restless city, inside a glass-walled office that pierced the night skyline, an old man stood in silence as the phone pressed against his ear carried unwelcome news.
"...."
"Contact lost," the voice on the other end reported.
"All five units. Signal dead. Ninety percent probability they were neutralized."
The old man didn't respond immediately.
Below him, traffic lights blinked like veins pulsing through concrete arteries.
"And the target?" he finally asked.
"No visual confirmation. But movement analysis suggests the Cullens remain active."
The name tasted like poison.
He lowered himself slowly into his chair.
On the desk, beside a closed laptop, lay a framed photograph.
A young man.
Mid-twenties. Confident smile. Alive.
The old man's fingers tightened around the phone.
"They confirmed it," the voice continued carefully.
"The family we're tracking… they're not human."
Silence.
"...."
"...."
"...."
"Vampires."
The word echoed softly in the office.
The old man's jaw clenched. He remembered that day.
The police report.
Animal attack, they had said. Massive blood loss.
No suspects. No answers. But he had seen the body.
The puncture wounds. Too precise. Too deliberate.
He had not believed in monsters.
Until grief gave him nothing else to believe in.
"They're in Forks," the voice pressed.
"They were," the old man corrected coldly. "They're cautious."
"And our men?"
"Should be dead."
The word didn't shake. It settled.
The old man stood and walked toward the window, staring out over Manhattan's glittering horizon.
"Hire professionals," he said calmly.
A pause.
"What level?"
"Highest."
There was hesitation on the line.
"Those circles are expensive. And dangerous."
His grip tightened further.
"Do it."
"You're talking about real vampire hunters."
"I know exactly what I'm talking about."
He looked down at the photograph again.
"My son didn't die to folklore."
A long silence passed on the other end.
"Understood."
The call ended.
The old man set the phone down slowly.
He reached for the photograph, thumb brushing over the glass.
"They'll pay," he whispered.
In the reflection of the window, the city lights flickered behind him.
In another state, snow fell around a hidden cabin.
In Forks, ancient predators watched the woods.
And now—Somewhere in the darker undercurrents of the world—True hunters were being summoned.
Not reckless men with rifles. Not amateurs with rituals. But specialists.
Men and women who had dedicated their lives to killing the things that hid in shadows.
The old man turned back toward his desk and opened the laptop.
On the screen, a single encrypted message was already loading.
Subject line:
Black Order Contract Inquiry.
His face hardened.
"End them," he murmured.
Outside, New York glittered, unaware that a private war had just escalated.
Four Months Earlier...
Anchorage, Alaska...
His name was Victor Hale.
To the world, Victor Hale was a titan of fashion.
Founder of Hale & Crest, a luxury outerwear empire known for elite winter coats, high-performance expedition gear, and signature black trench lines worn by politicians, celebrities, and military contractors alike.
His brand symbolized resilience in harsh climates.
The irony never amused him.
Because the cold he truly served was not earthly.
Behind closed doors, Victor was not merely a businessman.
He was a devout member of an occult syndicate known as The Ascendant Veil.
A cult that believed prosperity flowed not from markets… but from sacrifice.
Their patron was no ordinary demon.
It was an ancient entity they referred to only as The Benefactor.
In return for wealth, protection, and influence, the Veil offered tribute.
And tribute required blood. Not random blood. Chosen blood.
Four months ago, Victor's only son, Adrian Hale, had insisted on proving himself worthy of succession.
The ritual required a pregnant woman.
Not for cruelty. For potency.
According to the Veil's doctrine, unborn life amplified spiritual resonance.
The moment between two heartbeats inside one body created a fissure thin enough for the Benefactor to "taste" this world.
Alaska had always been their preferred site.
Remote. Sparse population. Cold enough to silence screams.
That winter night, Adrian and three other initiates traveled deep into the snowbound forests outside Anchorage.
They carried ceremonial blades, ritual salts, and a bound victim drugged into submission.
Victor had not attended.
He had long since passed beyond field work.
He was leadership now.
But he had watched the live feed through a secured device.
He remembered the snow.
He remembered the circle drawn in black ash.
He remembered his son's voice trembling not from fear… but from ambition.
Then something changed. The chanting faltered. The temperature dropped sharply.
Adrian had looked behind him.
And the feed cut.
When Victor's private team arrived hours later, they found the clearing destroyed.
The circle was burned.
Three bodies were located. Drained.
The pregnant woman was gone.
Adrian was found twenty meters away. Bloodless.
Two puncture wounds at the neck.
No ritual blade in his hand. No struggle signs. Just terror frozen on his face.
Authorities ruled it an animal attack.
Victor did not believe in coincidences.
He began digging.
And that was when he learned the truth.
A coven.
Residing periodically in Alaska.
Vegetarian vampires, according to rumors.
And by investigation he found out about his son's clash with a vampire and a pregnant women.
They had interfered.
They had disrupted the ritual.
They had killed his son.
That was the story Victor built in his mind.
By spending money like a water he had finally found their picture and where they came from.
Grief does not require evidence.
It requires a target.
Over the next four months, Victor Hale tried every means aggressively.
But quietly, beneath fashion galas and investor meetings, he funded research.
Occult archives. Black-market weapon development.
Religious extremist hunters. He confirmed what he had once dismissed as superstition.
Vampires were real. And the Cullens were among them.
Then came intelligence reports of Edward Cullen traveling with a human woman.
A pregnant human woman.
Victor's hands had trembled when he saw that detail.
The same ritual he had lost his son attempting.
A pregnant woman.
Alaska.
Snow. His rage crystallized.
"They stole from me," he had whispered.
Now, standing in his New York tower years later, Victor Hale no longer looked like a grieving father.
He looked like a man who had sharpened his grief into a weapon.
Victor stiffened.
"...."
A sharp pressure bloomed behind his sternum, like an invisible fist tightening slowly inside his chest.
He froze mid-step. Not again.
The pain radiated outward, creeping into his left shoulder, crawling up his neck.
His breath shortened, measured and controlled out of habit.
He did not panic. He did not call for help.
He walked back to his desk with deliberate slowness.
Opened the top drawer.
Inside, beneath confidential contracts and encrypted drives, lay a small amber bottle.
He unscrewed it with steady fingers that betrayed only the faintest tremor.
Two pills into his palm.
Then a third.
He dry-swallowed one out of impatience, then grabbed the glass of water resting beside his laptop and washed the rest down.
His reflection in the window looked older tonight.
Grief had carved deep lines.
Ambition had hardened them.
He closed his eyes and leaned back into his chair, focusing on breath control.
"...."
Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
The pressure began to ease.
The stabbing sensation dulled to an ache.
He exhaled slowly, jaw tightening.
"Not yet," he muttered under his breath.
His cardiologist had warned him.
Stress. Age. Obsession.
Victor had dismissed it.
He could not afford weakness.
Not when vengeance was unfinished.
His gaze drifted back to the photograph of Adrian.
Young. Alive.
Unaware of how small he truly was in the food chain of the supernatural.
Victor's hand hovered over the frame.
"They took my heir," he whispered.
Outside, New York pulsed with indifference.
Inside, the medication stabilized his rhythm.
But something else beat beneath that fragile heart.
Not devotion to the Benefactor.
Not faith. Not even grief anymore. It was obsession.
And obsession, unlike heart muscle, did not weaken with time.
It sharpened. Victor straightened his tie slowly.
He was dying. He knew that. But he intended to make sure those two paid before his heart ever gave out.
And Victor Hale had just added his mortal clock to the equation trying to come up with a plan even if it requires his life.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
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(Author's POV)
(A/N):
[New Fan fic: Star Entertainment: Building An Empire. Check it out.
There will be two chapters a week(Monday and Tuesday)
If delayed I would post it on Wednesday or Thursday.]
Thanks for reading the chapter!
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