The leather bag thudded against Isidore's thigh as he descended the sweeping marble staircase. Each step was sharp, deliberate, echoing through the hushed house like a funeral march. His breath came tight and shallow, but his resolve never faltered.
Behind him, Zayn's voice echoed, urgent and pleading.
"Davenant, stop. Think this through. Please."
Isidore didn't slow. The weight of the bag dragged on his arm, but his grip only tightened. His pale hair spilled over his shoulder, shimmering faintly in the chandelier's dim light. His jaw was locked, eyes fixed on the shadowed hallway below.
Then the shrill ring of the landline shattered the silence.
The sound sliced through his chest like glass. His heart clenched violently, seizing in his ribcage. For a moment, his legs faltered—but only for a moment. He dropped the bag heavily onto the floor, the snap of leather against marble sharp as a gunshot. His trembling fingers seized the receiver, and he pressed it to his ear.
"…Hello?" His voice cracked.
The reply was low, deliberate, steeped in menace.
"Bring the money. Abraham Station. Next to the abandoned building."
Isidore's hand shook so hard he pressed it tighter against his cheek, desperate to keep the line steady.
The kidnapper's voice continued, each word knifing into him.
"And listen carefully. No tricks. Only one person comes. And that person is you. If you bring anyone else—"
Isidore's pulse stuttered. His knees weakened.
"—then don't think of your child at all."
The words slammed into him. His free hand clutched at the edge of the table, knuckles white. His throat burned as he forced the words out.
"No… I won't bring anyone. It will be just me. But—please—promise me, don't hurt my child. Don't do anything to him."
There was silence on the other end, heavy and cruel.
His voice broke again, smaller now, pleading.
"Can… can I talk to my child? Just once? Just to hear him—"
"No," the man barked. "He's sleeping. Don't waste my time. Be there. Immediately."
The line clicked dead.
Isidore stood frozen, the silence ringing louder than the call. The receiver trembled in his hand before he placed it back onto the cradle with shaking fingers. His heart was hammering so hard he thought his chest might break.
Behind him, Zayn's voice returned, low but desperate.
"Davenant, listen to me. Stay here. Rest. I'll go in your place. I'll bring Julian back."
But Isidore ignored him. He bent, lifted the heavy leather bag, and drew it close to his chest. His eyes were wild now, haunted, his lips pressed into a trembling line.
"I will come back with my child," he whispered fiercely, almost to himself. "I can't wait. My Julian is waiting for me."
His voice cracked on the boy's name, but his determination hardened into stone.
He strode forward, his steps sharp and unrelenting. Zayn followed quickly, voice breaking against the storm.
"Davenant! Please—listen, just once—"
But Isidore never turned. His gaze was fixed, his soul chained to the thought of his son.
At the bottom of the stairs, Leon stood stiffly beside the car, hands clasped behind his back. His sharp uniform gleamed faintly under the hall light, but his eyes flickered with unease.
"Master," Leon began cautiously, "please allow me—"
"Step away," Isidore cut in, his voice steely, brooking no argument.
Leon hesitated. His jaw tightened, but he bowed his head, muttering, "But, Master…"
"Step away."
Reluctantly, Leon obeyed, his boots scraping the marble as he shifted aside.
Isidore wasted no breath. He yanked the car door open, tossed the heavy bag onto the passenger seat, and slid behind the wheel. His pale hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles bone-white.
"Davenant, wait!" Zayn's voice broke, higher now, as panic bled through. He rushed forward, his hand striking the window. "Stop this! Don't go alone—you'll walk into their trap!"
Isidore's silken hair fell over his cheek as he bent forward, key twisting in the ignition. The engine roared to life, drowning out Zayn's desperation. His eyes were unblinking, fixed on the gates beyond, on the path that would lead him back to Julian.
"Davenant!" Zayn shouted again, slamming his palm against the door. His breath fogged the glass, his lilac eyes wide with terror. "Please—listen!"
But Isidore didn't hear him. His heart was too loud, his desperation too sharp. He shifted the car into gear, his hands trembling, his jaw tight.
The tires scraped against the gravel. The car lurched forward.
Zayn stumbled back, watching in horror as the vehicle rolled away, taillights vanishing. Leon stood frozen beside him, his posture stiff, his face twisted in helplessness.
The gravel settled into silence.
Zayn's breath came ragged, his chest heaving as if he'd been struck. His hands fisted in his hair, tugging hard at the pale strands, his words rasping out in a broken whisper.
"Think of something, Maverick. Come on. Think of something."
But the street was already empty.
And Isidore was gone—driven by desperation, by love, by a grief too sharp to bend.
He was walking straight into the lion's den, with nothing but a bag of money and the aching fire of a mother's heart.
The car tore across the road. Isidore's pale hands gripped the wheel, knuckles bloodless. The leather bag sagged on the passenger seat beside him, bulging with money. His jaw was rigid, eyes wild, fixed only on the horizon.
The city blurred—as he drove the car by speed. His mind repeated the same vow with every passing second: Julian. My son. My Julian.
The tires hummed, merciless, as the car carried him toward Abraham Station.
---
Far ahead of him, in the abandoned building near the rusted tracks, shadows were already moving. Tristan Ashford's men slipped quietly through the broken doorway, their boots crunching faintly on scattered glass.
One of the men adjusted his gloves, his voice a low whisper.
"Tell me again—why did Master Tristan order us to take out the kidnappers and burn the place down?"
His companion smirked faintly, eyes scanning the darkness.
"Hmmm. From my point of view… Master Tristan wants the child safe. But not with a simple rescue. No. He wants to make a statement. His own kind of… technique."
The first man let out a short breath, half a laugh.
"Ohhh… I see. You mean—he wants to surprise Isidore Davenant."
The other shrugged, expression unreadable.
"Maybe. But you know our master. His surprises are never gentle."
They advanced deeper into the building. The air reeked of mildew and rot, and somewhere in the silence, a pipe dripped steadily, a hollow echo. Their steps were careful, patient, like predators closing on prey.
They reached the final hallway. The light was dim, a single bulb swinging from the ceiling. Behind one cracked door, voices murmured faintly.
Inside, the kidnapper sat slouched on a broken chair. His hair clung to his forehead as he scowled across the room at the child curled on a pile of old blankets. Julian's chest rose and fell in the rhythm of sleep, his little fists clutching the ear of teddy.
The man's lip curled. His companion dozed lazily beside the boy, snoring faintly.
The first kidnapper's thoughts seethed, his gaze dripping with bitterness.
"So shameful," he muttered under his breath. "All this—just for a child? How many things has he ordered already? We're keeping him for ransom, for wealth. And this fool makes us poor with his endless demands."
He sighed heavily, dragging himself toward the door. His fingers curled around the knob—lazy, careless.
The moment it cracked open, a sudden kick slammed into his gut.
He choked, the air punched from his lungs. He staggered back, gasping, but before he could draw another breath, gloved hands twisted his arms behind him. Rope cinched his wrists tight. A thick cloth gag muffled his curses.
The first spy brushed his hands off casually, his voice low and edged.
"One is done."
His companion glanced down with cold disdain.
"They weren't even strong. And yet—they dared to steal the child."
Together they pushed into the room. The second kidnapper was still sprawled on the floor, half-asleep, his mouth open in a snore. He didn't even stir when the rope bit into his wrists, when the cloth sealed his mouth. His head lolled uselessly, too lazy, too ignorant to understand his fate.
Then silence reigned again—except for the steady, fragile breaths of Julian.
The spies exchanged a glance. For a fleeting second, something soft passed through their eyes. The boy was impossibly small, fragile as glass, cheeks flushed with warmth. His lips parted faintly as he dreamed.
The first man bent carefully, sliding his arms beneath the child. Julian stirred only slightly, curling instinctively against the warmth of his chest. The teddy kidnaper bought slipped from his hand, dangling limply.
The spy adjusted his hold, whispering more to himself than to anyone else.
"Too delicate. This is what Master Tristan wants…"
His companion pulled a phone from his pocket, dialing swiftly. The line rang once before it was answered.
"Master," the man said, bowing his head though Tristan could not see him. "It is done. The kidnappers are restrained. The boy is safe. The only task left is to burn the room."
On the other end of the line, Tristan leaned back in his seat. His lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. His crystalline eyes gleamed, sharp as cut glass.
"Good," Tristan drawled. His tone was velvet stretched over a blade. "Do it immediately. I'm on my way."
"Yes, Master."
The call cut.
The second spy tucked the phone away, then pulled a lighter from his pocket. He flicked it open, the small flame licking at the stale air. His partner tightened his grip on the sleeping boy, pulling him closer against his chest.
The lighter flared brighter. Shadows leapt against the crumbling walls.
"Come on," the man said. His voice was quiet, final.
"Let's finish this."
The fire kissed the broken furniture first—an old chair, a ragged mattress. Flames bloomed hungrily, curling upward, devouring rot and filth alike. The heat surged, painting the cracked walls in molten orange.
The kidnappers had already been driven away, gagged and bound, their furious muffled voice fading into nothing. All that remained behind was silence and a single room set ablaze.
The fire wasn't wild, not the sort that devoured entire buildings—it was deliberate, contained. One room only, its broken windows spitting sparks as orange light throbbed behind the blackened glass. The flames hissed against the damp wood, climbing the walls in quick tongues, swallowing the last traces of the men's squalid lair.
One of Tristan's men leaned against the frame of a half-shattered door, arms folded, the glow dancing across the sharp angle of his jaw. He watched the fire carefully, almost clinically.
"It's enough," he murmured. "The rest of the building will stand."
But the spies didn't flinch. They turned their backs, carrying the child out of the room.
Julian stirred faintly, his lashes fluttering, but he did not wake.
Behind them, the abandoned building room began to burn.
And somewhere on the road, Isidore drove faster, heart clutched by fear, unaware that by the time he arrived, there would be nothing left but ashes.
On the other side the spy nodded, drawing his himself tighter as smoke curled upward in thin coils. "Master didn't want the whole place gone. But only their nest. Just by few minutes, this room will be nothing but ash."
"And the rest?"
"Untouched. Let Davenant arrive to see the blaze. It will be… effective."
The first man's lips curved into something that was not quite a smile. "He'll believe, for a moment, that the boy was lost in that fire. Imagine the terror in his chest before the truth comes."
The second spy tilted his head, eyes narrowing on the flames that snapped against the ceiling beams. "Cruel. But Master Tristan has his methods."
A beam cracked and fell inward with a dull thud, embers sparking like scattered stars across the dirt floor. The men said nothing more. They only watched the fire work, erasing every filthy trace of the kidnappers' hold without touching the rest of the building. It was precision—surgical destruction, nothing more.
Then, through the smoke and air, the low hum of an approaching engine trembled across the silence. Tires hissed over gravel.