Chapter 6 - The Cracks in the Mask
The next night,
there was no porridge.
Tristan sat in the dark,
the silence of the hallway feeling like a physical weight.
He knew she was there—he could hear the occasional rustle of paper,
the sound of her shifting in bed—but she didn't knock.
She was traumatized,
broken by the world he had helped create.
He realized then that protecting her from the shadows wasn't enough.
He had to change the world itself.
He called Knox.
"I want the name of the man who runs the Vipers,"
Tristan said.
"And I want the location of the sister,
Maya."
"The Vipers are run by a man named 'Razor' Rossi,"
Knox answered.
"He's a mid-level thug for Marcus Webb. As for the sister... she's being held in a 'work-house' in the industrial district. It's a front for Webb’s money laundering."
Tristan’s eyes narrowed.
Webb.
Everything led back to the man who had stolen his life.
"Prepare a strike team,"
Tristan ordered.
"But I don't want them to know it's me. Use the 'Ghost' signatures. Burn the work-house to the ground,
but get the girl out first."
"And the money?"
Knox asked.
"Give it to the families of the people held there. Leave a note. Tell them the King sends his regards."
Knox paused.
"Boss,
you're attracting a lot of attention. Webb is going to know someone is moving against him."
"Let him wonder,"
Tristan said.
"I want him to feel the walls closing in. I want him to look under his bed every night."
After hanging up,
Tristan felt a surge of the old power.
It felt good to move the pieces on the board again.
But when he looked at the door,
the feeling vanished.
He wheeled himself to the door and knocked.
"Elara?"
Silence.
"Elara,
it's me. Your neighbor."
He heard her move,
the slow,
heavy steps of someone who had lost hope.
"I don't have any food tonight,"
she said through the door,
her voice dull.
"I lost my job at the bakery. They said... they said I was too much trouble after what happened in the hall."
Tristan’s heart sank.
The Vipers hadn't just attacked her;
they had stripped her of her survival.
"I don't want food,"
Tristan said.
"I want to tell you something."
"What?"
"Things are going to get better. I know it doesn't feel like it,
but the wind is changing."
She let out a bitter,
wet laugh.
"The wind doesn't change for people like us. It just blows harder."
"Trust me,"
he said,
the word feeling heavy with the weight of his hidden empire.
"I have a feeling your luck is about to turn."
He went back to his bed,
his mind racing.
He had to be careful.
If he gave her too much,
she would get suspicious.
If he gave her too little,
she would starve.
He was playing a game of balance,
with a girl’s life as the stake.
That night,
Tristan didn't sleep.
He spent the hours thinking about Celeste,
about the way she had looked at him with that cold,
beautiful smile.
He compared her to Elara,
who gave away porridge when she had nothing.
The world was a cruel,
vicious place,
but for the first time,
Tristan saw the light in the cracks.
And he knew,
May you like
with a certainty that chilled his blood,
that he would burn all of Chicago to keep that light from going out.
