Manhattan's skyline at 6:00 AM was a jagged, grey blade cutting into a bruised sky. The city didn't care about the smoke rising from the Nightwood ruins; it only cared about the next transaction.
Evelyn walked through the Meatpacking District, her bare feet tucked into a pair of discarded construction boots she had found in a dumpster two blocks away. The oversized cashmere sweater—Silas's sweater—was still wrapped around her, but it no longer felt like a sanctuary. It felt like a shroud. The scent of him—bitter coffee and dark wood—clung to the fibers, mocking her with every breath of cold, soot-laden wind.
She was no longer the "Disgraced Heiress." She was no longer "Mrs. Nightwood." She was back to being a ghost, but this time, the ghost had a name written in blood: Mercury.
She didn't take a cab. She didn't use the subway. Every camera in this city was a potential eye for Silas or Victor Thorne. Instead, she descended.
Near an abandoned pier on the Hudson, she found the entrance to "The Circuit"—a subterranean network of service tunnels, abandoned subway lines, and cold-war bunkers that the rich forgot existed. The air here was different. It didn't smell of the ocean or the rain; it smelled of ozone, rotting paper, and the low-frequency hum of a thousand illicit servers.
This was the "Static." The place where data went to hide, and where people went to die.
In the Chelsea loft, the silence was a physical pressure.
Silas lay on the cold concrete floor, his fingers clawing at the stone where Evelyn had stood only minutes ago. His legs were useless, a heavy weight of lead and agony that anchored him to his failure. The 9mm lay discarded near the kitchen island, a useless piece of steel in a world that had just been rewritten by a silver drive.
Marcus stood by the window, his silhouette a dark, jagged shadow against the rising sun. He didn't offer to help Silas up. He knew better.
"She's gone, Sir," Marcus said, his voice a flat, hollow echo. "She didn't take the elevator. She used the fire escape. By now, she's off the grid."
"Find her," Silas hissed, his voice a guttural, animal sound of pure desperation. He pushed himself up with his arms, his chest heaving, the scars on his torso glowing red in the grey light. "I don't care if you have to burn every server in this city. Find her before Victor does."
"Victor won't find her in the light, Sir," Marcus replied, turning back to look at his Master. "My father doesn't hunt in the light. He owns the Static. And if Evelyn has gone where I think she's gone... then she's already in his house."
Silas let out a roar of frustration, slamming his fist against the concrete. The pain in his hand was nothing compared to the void in his chest. He looked at the empty bed, the rumpled sheets still holding the ghost of the heat they had shared in the shower.
The intimacy of the night before—the touch of her skin, the way she had looked at his scars—it all felt like a trap now. A beautiful, agonizing trap designed to make him vulnerable just as the world collapsed.
"The Rose Foundation," Silas whispered, his eyes narrowing with a dark, lethal focus. "She'll need funds. She can't hack Victor without power, and power in the Static costs more than gold. Watch the foundation's hidden accounts. The moment she pings for a single cent, I want a tactical team on the coordinates."
"And what if she doesn't use your money, Sir?" Marcus asked. "What if she uses the Mercury?"
Silas went still. The Mercury. The drive that contained his father's sins and Evelyn's mother's genius.
"Then God help us all," Silas said, reaching for his cane with a trembling hand. "Because a ghost with an antidote is a god. And I've never known a god who was merciful."
Evelyn reached the "Terminal"—a windowless, concrete room buried three levels beneath a laundromat in Chinatown.
It was a hacker's cathedral. The walls were lined with jury-rigged cooling fans and stacks of processors that looked like they had been scavenged from a graveyard. The only light came from a dozen mismatched monitors, casting a sickly green and violet glow over the occupant.
"Ratchet," Evelyn said, her voice a sharp, cold command.
A man spun around in a swivel chair that looked like it had been salvaged from an old office. He was thin, with skin the color of parchment and eyes that were perpetually dilated from too much blue light. He looked at Evelyn—the soot-stained sweater, the bruised lips, the brilliant, terrifying blue eyes.
"V?" Ratchet whispered, his voice a dry, rasping sound. "The word on the dark web was that you were dead. Burned up in that Nightwood fire two hours ago."
"The world is wrong," Evelyn said, walking toward the central hub. She didn't ask for permission. She sat in the chair, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. "I need a dedicated line. T-1, unencrypted, routed through a dead-drop in Zurich. And I need it now."
"That kind of juice costs, V," Ratchet said, his eyes darting toward the silver drive she had placed on the desk. "And you look like you haven't got a cent in your pocket."
Evelyn looked at him, and for a second, the 'V' mask slipped, revealing the raw, adult fury that was simmering beneath the surface. She reached out and grabbed Ratchet's collar, pulling him toward her until their noses touched.
"I have the Mercury," she hissed, her breath smelling of the river and the cold morning. "And if you don't give me that line in thirty seconds, I will make sure your digital footprint is the only thing that ever exists of you again. Do you understand?"
Ratchet swallowed hard, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and admiration. "Thirty seconds. Starting now."
As the monitors began to flicker with the familiar waterfall of code, Evelyn felt a strange, hollow sensation in her chest. For the first time in her life, she was truly alone. No father to obey. No Silas to challenge. No Marcus to watch her back.
She was a ghost in the Static.
She began the search. Not for "Victor Thorne"—that was too easy. She searched for the "Clockwork" frequency. She searched for the heartbeat of the city—the automated systems that controlled the harbor, the power grid, and the hidden elevators of the billionaire elite.
But as she worked, a window popped up in the corner of her screen.
It was a chat request. Private. Secure.
Sender: The Third Shadow
Evelyn's heart stopped. She looked at the flashing cursor, the green light reflecting in her dilated pupils.
Message: The daughter is in the Static. The Master is in the loft. But where is the mother, Evelyn?
Her fingers froze over the keys. Where is the mother?
She typed back, her pulse thundering in her ears. She's in a grave in New Jersey. I saw the wreckage.
Message: You saw what Marcus wanted you to see. You saw the accident. You didn't see the recovery. Look at the coordinates I'm sending. And ask yourself... why does a dead woman have a heart rate?
A set of coordinates appeared on the screen. They pointed to a private clinic in the Catskills—a place owned by a subsidiary of the Nightwood International.
Evelyn stared at the numbers. The room felt suddenly too small, the hum of the servers sounding like a scream.
Was Silas hiding her mother too? Was the entire "marriage" just a way to keep the "key" close while the "treasure" was kept in a different cage?
She felt a hand on her shoulder.
"V? You okay?" Ratchet asked, his voice sounding distant. "Your heart rate is spiking. You're going to trigger the noise-canceling sensors."
Evelyn didn't answer. She stood up, the silver drive already back in her pocket. She looked at the monitors, then at the dark, damp exit of the Terminal.
The "underground world" wasn't just a place to hide. It was a labyrinth of mirrors. And she was just beginning to realize that every person she had ever loved was holding a shard of the glass.
"Ratchet," she said, her voice a low, jagged whisper. "I need a bike. And a gun. A clean one."
"V, you're not going to—"
"I'm going to the Catskills," she said, her eyes turning into shards of ice. "And if I find what I think I'm going to find... then the fire at the estate was just the beginning."
Back in the Chelsea loft, Silas had managed to pull himself into the wheelchair. He sat by the window, the 9mm resting in his lap, his gaze fixed on the burning horizon.
"Marcus," Silas said, his voice a soft, terrifying rasp.
"Yes, Sir?"
"The Mercury drive... it has a GPS tag, doesn't it?"
Marcus went still. "Your father didn't mention it, Sir."
"My father didn't mention a lot of things," Silas said, a dark, predatory smirk spreading across his face. He tapped a key on his private phone—the one he had kept hidden from Evelyn.
A single, red dot appeared on a map of Manhattan. It was moving. Moving toward the George Washington Bridge.
"She's heading North," Silas whispered, his eyes burning with a mix of fury and a strange, desperate hope. "She's heading for the clinic."
"Sir, if she finds her..."
"If she finds her," Silas interrupted, his voice turning into a cold, clinical stone. "Then she'll finally understand why I had to lock her in that room. And she'll never forgive me."
He looked at the red dot, his fingers tightening on the armrests of his chair.
"Get the car, Marcus. We're going to the Catskills. And this time... we don't use the masks."
The hunt had moved from the shadows to the open road. But in the Static, the ghosts were already one step ahead.