CHAPTER THREE: ASHES IN THE RAIN

The sky wept.

Dark clouds loomed over the cemetery, and rain fell in steady sheets, drumming against black umbrellas and soaking into the fresh earth of Naomi Logan's final resting place.

Rows of mourners, dressed in black, stood solemnly as the priest's voice echoed through the storm.

Victor Logan stood apart from them all.

No umbrella. No movement. Just a statue of grief, his broad shoulders squared, his black suit clinging to his rain-drenched frame. His tinted glasses concealed his eyes, but his clenched jaw and the rain dripping from his exposed bald head told the truth was his punishment.

For failing to protect her.

His bruises and stitched wounds from the fight with the Hiroshima Twins burned under the cold rain, but nothing hurt more than the sight of Naomi's coffin being lowered into the Earth.

The priest, an old man with silver hair and tired eyes, stood at the head of the grave, Bible in hand. His voice carried through the storm.

"For everything, there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven-" "A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to uproot what is planted." (Ecclesiastes 3:1-2)

The mourners bowed their heads, but Logan's eyes never left the coffin.

"Naomi Logan was a daughter, a sister, a friend. A bright soul extinguished too soon. The Lord tells us in Psalm 34:18_" 'The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit."

Crushed. That was what Logan felt.

Raindrops ran down his face like tears he refused to shed. Naomi had always been his light, the one good thing in his world of violence. Now, that light was gone.

The priest closed the Bible. "Would anyone like to say a few words?"

A tall woman, Naomi's best friend, Evelyn, stepped forward, holding back sobs. "She was-she was kind. Smart. She wanted to change the world. She always believed in people. Even when they didn't deserve it. "Her voice broke. "I just... I just wish she had more time."

She stepped back, burying her face in a handkerchief.

Silence followed. No one else dared to speak.

Logan took a step forward.

People shifted uncomfortably as he approached the grave. They knew who he was. What he was.

He stared down at the coffin, fingers curling into fists. When he spoke, his voice was low, raw.

"I should've been there."

That was all he could say.

No poetic words. No long-winded goodbyes. Just guilt and pain, plain as day.

The priest gave a final prayer, and mourners began tossing dirt onto the coffin-the final goodbye. One by one, they turned away, umbrellas shielding them from the storm as they drifted back toward the parked cars at the cemetery entrance.

Victor didn't move.

Even when the grave was filled, even when the cemetery began to empty, he stood in the rain, staring at the fresh mound of dirt as if willing Naomi to rise from it.

That was when he heard a familiar voice.

"You look like hell, brother."

Logan turned.

Damien Cole.

He hadn't seen him in years, but he hadn't changed much. Tall, rugged, with a sharp jawline and piercing green eyes. Dressed in a black trench coat, hands in his pockets, he stood beside Logan without an umbrella, letting the rain soak into his dark curls.

Logan scoffed. "Hell would be an improvement."

Damien let out a dry chuckle. "Yeah, I get that." His eyes flickered to the grave. "I'm sorry, Logan. She didn't deserve this."

Logan's jaw tightened. "No, she didn't."

A tense silence settled between them. They weren't the type to talk about grief- just violence.

Damien finally sighed. "Word on the street says Kane put the hit out. You know that, right?"

Logan didn't respond. He just stared at the grave.

Damien studied him for a long moment. "What's the plan?"

Logan removed his tinted glasses, revealing the fire burning in his bloodshot eyes. "I take him apart."

Danien smikred. "Piece by piece?"

"Piece by piece."

Logan turned, finally walking away from the grave.

The rain still poured, but he no longer felt it.

All he felt was Vengeance.