the knife's edge

The old church creaked with the weight of secrets.

Located miles from the city's edge, forgotten by time and spared by chaos, it now served as their staging ground. Ivy had been rescued in time—barely—and was being cared for in a safe house. But Tom's message was clear: this was no longer a game.

He wanted an ending.

And Matthew was going to give it to him.

The wind howled through the shattered stained-glass windows as Matthew studied the table in front of him. Maps. Escape routes. Supply manifests. He'd drawn up the entire plan by hand, rejecting any digital trace that Tom could intercept. A candle flickered beside him, illuminating the tight line of his mouth and the sharp cut of his jaw.

Vinny watched from the doorway, arms crossed. "You haven't slept."

Matthew didn't answer.

"Cam's en route. Silas too. We've got backup now," Vinny said softly, approaching.

Still nothing.

"Matthew," Vinny tried again. "Talk to me."

Matthew's hand hovered above the map, fingers trembling just slightly. "This… all of this… it feels like history trying to repeat itself."

Vinny frowned, stepping closer. "What do you mean?"

And that's when Matthew told him.

He was thirteen when his father left. No note. No warning. Just gone.

His mother spiraled afterward—addiction, neglect, rage in bursts and sobbing apologies in between. The house became a cage of broken glass and unanswered questions. Matthew had learned early not to trust people. Not to count on them. They always disappeared.

Then came Kellan, his foster guardian. A man who promised safety but traded it for control. Kellan taught him how to fight. How to survive. How to manipulate. But never how to feel.

"Love was weakness to him," Matthew said, voice low and cold. "He told me that if I ever let someone in, they'd destroy me."

Vinny's eyes softened. "That's why you pushed me away in the beginning."

Matthew nodded, still not meeting his gaze. "I didn't know how to want someone without fearing them."

Vinny reached out slowly and touched his shoulder. "But you let me in anyway."

"Yeah," Matthew whispered. "And sometimes I still wonder if that was a mistake."

The silence between them was thick with honesty.

Then Vinny asked, "Do you regret it?"

Matthew looked at him. Finally. His expression cracked—not fully, but enough.

"No," he said. "Even if this ends badly. Even if Tom wins. You're the one thing I don't regret."

Vinny pulled him into a hug. No urgency. Just pressure and presence.

Outside, the wind howled like a warning.

An hour later, they assembled the team in the chapel's nave.

Cam leaned against a pillar, always dressed like he was stepping out of a noir film—coat collar up, silver rings on every finger, smirk never far from his lips.

Silas stood near the front, arms crossed, silent as a shadow. His presence alone screamed "battle-hardened."

Ivy was seated on a bench, bandaged but alert, her eyes scanning the room like a reporter still taking notes.

"We've got one shot at this," Matthew said, voice firm, steady. "Tom's luring us into a trap, but it's also his home turf. He's gotten too comfortable. We'll use that against him."

Vinny stepped in. "There's a private estate—old, opulent, heavily guarded. Cam decrypted the last coordinates. It's where Tom plans to make his final move."

Cam tossed a flash drive onto the table. "Blueprints, security cycles, entry points. I had to bribe three ex-feds and hack a corrupt archivist for this."

Silas gave a grunt that might've been approval.

Matthew nodded. "We'll go in four teams. Each team has a job: locate Tom, disable security, clear the path for Ivy to leak the final data files we've collected on him."

Ivy stood. "We bring everything public. His manipulations. His crimes. We expose the truth."

"And then what?" Cam asked. "He doesn't strike me as the surrendering type."

Vinny smiled grimly. "He's not. That's why we make sure he doesn't have the chance."

As the meeting ended, everyone dispersed to rest or ready their gear. The night before war felt too quiet.

Vinny stepped out onto the balcony behind the church. The sky was painted in ash and deep violet. Stars tried to peek through but the clouds were jealous.

He lit a cigarette. Something he rarely did anymore.

"You always do that when you're nervous," came Matthew's voice from behind.

Vinny didn't turn. "I've got a feeling, Matt. Like something's about to go very, very wrong."

"You always say that before something goes right," Matthew countered gently.

Vinny finally looked at him. "I pulled you into this. All of it. If anything happens to you—"

Matthew reached forward, snatching the cigarette from his lips and tossing it over the balcony.

"You didn't pull me into anything. I walked in. For you. Because for once in my life, I found someone I'd bleed for."

Vinny blinked hard.

Then Matthew said, "So let's stop wasting time and win this damn war."

The message arrived at dawn.

Vinny found it tucked in the inner pocket of his leather jacket—the one he'd left on a bench near the back pew. No one had seen anything. No one had heard anything. Just a small black envelope with nothing on the outside but his name in ink so dark it looked like dried blood.

He opened it alone.

Inside was a thin note, folded with precision. Neat, surgical. The handwriting was unmistakable—slanted and elegant, with just enough flair to feel like a sneer:

"Let me remind you who you really are, Vincent."

"Come alone. You know where."

"One of them won't survive if you don't."

A set of GPS coordinates followed, leading to an abandoned theatre on the east edge of the city.

Vinny stared at the letter for a long moment. The paper smelled faintly of something chemical—disinfectant, or maybe decay.

And beneath the words, his heart recognized something: fear. Not for himself—but for Matthew.

He didn't tell anyone.

Not immediately.

Instead, Vinny walked through the quiet church, passing rows of people who trusted him—Matthew, Ivy, Cam, Silas—without knowing what he carried in his jacket pocket.

He reached the back and slipped out through the chapel doors, inhaling the sharp morning air. Birds chirped like liars. The sky was too pretty for what was coming.

That's when Matthew found him.

"You're doing that thing again," he said quietly from behind.

Vinny turned, feigning ignorance. "What thing?"

"That thing where you pretend you're not about to do something stupid alone."

Vinny stiffened.

Matthew stepped closer, eyes sharp. "You forget I know you. Better than anyone."

Vinny sighed and finally pulled out the note, handing it over.

Matthew's eyes scanned it once. Twice. His jaw locked. "No."

"He has someone, Matt," Vinny said, voice low. "One of us."

"Then we make a plan," Matthew shot back. "We don't walk into his trap."

"He said come alone—"

"And you're really trusting Tom's word on anything now?"

Vinny hesitated.

Matthew's voice dropped to a near-growl. "Do not pull the martyr card, Vinny. We made it this far together."

Vinny ran a hand through his hair. "If I don't go, he might kill them. If I do, at least I might have a chance."

Matthew grabbed his arm. "You go, and you give him what he wants. You give him control. And then he breaks you."

"I can take it."

"No, you can't," Matthew said fiercely. "Not again."

Their eyes locked—two storms crashing into each other.

And then Matthew said the words he never wanted to say: "You walk out that door without a plan, and I'm not coming after you."

The silence between them cracked.

Vinny looked away.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

And walked out the door.

The old theatre was decaying.

Vinny stepped inside with careful, silent feet, ears tuned to every creak and echo. The air was thick with dust and stale perfume from performances long since dead.

Tom stood center stage, arms spread like a mockery of Jesus on the cross.

"Bravo," he drawled. "You always did know how to make a dramatic entrance."

Vinny's jaw clenched. "Where are they?"

Tom smiled. "Safe. For now. Come. Talk to me."

Vinny didn't move.

Tom descended the stage steps, slow and measured. "I've missed you," he said casually. "The way you'd lie for me. Fight for me. Do anything I said without question."

"That version of me is gone."

Tom circled him. "But is he, really?"

He pulled something from his coat pocket and tossed it at Vinny's feet.

A photograph.

Vinny picked it up.

It was him—young, maybe seventeen, blood on his knuckles and a cruel grin on his face. Tom stood beside him, arm draped over his shoulders like a proud father. Behind them lay someone broken and beaten on a grimy floor.

Vinny looked away.

"You remember that night?" Tom asked. "That was the moment I knew you were mine."

Vinny clenched the photo in his fist. "You used me."

"No," Tom said. "I built you."

He leaned in, voice softer now. "Matthew wants the polished version of you. The broken thing pretending to be whole. But me? I loved the chaos. The fire. I never tried to change you."

Vinny's heart pounded in his chest.

"You think he'll love you when this is over?" Tom whispered. "When the blood's on your hands again? Because it will be, Vin. You and I both know who you are underneath all that remorse."

Vinny's mouth was dry. "I came here to make sure no one else gets hurt."

Tom grinned. "Then make a deal."

Vinny's eyes narrowed. "What kind of deal?"

Tom walked backward toward the stage again. "You come with me willingly. Leave the others behind. No more plans. No more rebellion. Just you and me—like before. I'll let the hostage go. I'll disappear. No final showdown. No war."

Vinny froze.

"You want to save Matthew?" Tom asked. "Save Ivy? Cam? Then sacrifice yourself."

It was everything he feared.

Every piece of manipulation and love twisted into a single, brutal offer.

And the worst part?

Tom meant it.

Back at the church, Matthew was pacing.

He didn't tell the others—yet. But something in his chest had gone cold. Something was wrong. He looked at his phone for the hundredth time.

Still nothing.

Until it buzzed.

A single message.

From Vinny.

"Tell them I'm sorry. This is the only way."

—V

Matthew's blood ran cold.

Vinny stood alone in the theater, staring at the stage like it was a guillotine.

Tom extended his hand.

"Well?" he asked.

Vinny took a deep breath.

And made his decision.