Chapter 14 – The Weight of Silence

Now that the adrenaline had drained from his veins, the full weight of what Adrian had done came crashing down like a collapsing ceiling. The echoes of gunfire had faded from the warehouse, but in his mind, they rang louder than ever—sharp, brutal, unforgiving. Every shot. Every death. Every irreversible choice.

He stumbled a few steps away from the desecrated ritual circle, the air still thick with ash, blood, and a sickly sweet trace of burnt flesh. Without warning, his stomach turned. He bent over and vomited onto the cold stone floor, retching until there was nothing left but dry gasps.

The bile stung his throat, but it couldn't purge the nausea buried deep in his chest.

He had killed. Not just vampires—monsters whose deaths he could justify—but humans. Mortal acolytes. Followers of Campbell's madness, perhaps, but human all the same. People. Lives. Gone by his hand.

Adrian wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, dazed, hollow. How had he done it? How had he pulled the trigger again and again, without hesitation, without shattering in the moment?

He pressed a trembling hand against his temple, trying to slow his racing thoughts. In his old life, he'd been a shut-in. An otaku. The kind of person who hesitated to answer the phone, who couldn't look cashiers in the eye. Not someone who gunned down living beings like it was instinct.

But something was changing.

He was changing.

And he knew the reason.

The Seer's potion.

It was evolving him—physically, yes, sharpening his reflexes, opening his senses to threads of fate—but also mentally, psychologically. Something deep within had shifted. It had let him kill without collapsing, without hesitation. A part of him had operated with cold, tactical clarity when everything else should've been screaming in horror.

Now that the battle was over, that part terrified him the most.

Agatha had been watching. She didn't need to read his mind to see the signs: the distant stare, the slight tremble in his fingers, the way he stood like a man haunted by his own shadow. She stepped beside him quietly, her voice low and grounding.

"You alright, kid?" she asked, crouching beside him. "You did a good job back there."

Adrian didn't answer at first. He gave the smallest of nods, but it felt more like a reflex than agreement. The compliment floated past him like mist—heard, but not felt. It belonged to someone braver, someone stronger. Someone he wasn't sure he wanted to become.

Agatha didn't push. She gave him space, rising to her feet and walking over to the Black Art—Campbell's cursed tome, still humming with latent malevolence. With a swift motion, she conjured glowing arcane chains from her hands. Intricate sigils spiraled along the links, pulsing with violet light. The moment they wrapped around the book, a sharp hiss rose from the leather cover, as if the book itself recoiled from her touch.

The chains locked into place. Sealed.

Adrian finally stirred a few minutes later. He wiped sweat from his brow, took one last breath of the charged air, and followed Agatha out. Neither of them spoke. The silence between them was not awkward. It was necessary.

They wound their way through London's shadowed backstreets, slipping through alleyways thick with fog. The city, as always, was indifferent—its heartbeat steady, unaware of how close it had come to catastrophe.

When they arrived at Agatha's hidden lair, the warm scent of old wood and herbs greeted them. The door creaked open.

A black cat perched atop a high shelf turned its golden gaze toward them. It meowed once—soft, unimpressed.

Agatha smiled faintly, the first real warmth since the fight. "Are you hungry, Ebony?" she asked, stepping toward the familiar. The cat stretched, tail flicking, then leapt gracefully down, winding between her legs.

Adrian didn't stay. He lingered only a moment at the door, watching the mundane peace return to the little sanctuary.

Then he turned and left without a word.

Adrian arrived back at his flat—if he could even call it that anymore. Just a month ago, he had planned to sell it. Too many ghosts lingered in the hallways. Too many memories. Jones had haunted it in his own way. So had his father's absence.

Now Jones was dead. So was Richards.

The ones responsible were gone. His revenge complete.

But the silence in the flat didn't bring comfort. It gnawed at him.

He closed the door, the click of the latch echoing through the room like a verdict. Slowly, he walked past the kitchen, past the still-unwashed dishes and stacked letters. His coat dropped to the floor. His holster followed. He moved like someone underwater—slow, heavy, numb.

He had done what he came to do. He had killed the men who'd taken his father.

But the ghosts had only grown louder.

Richards, especially. The man had raised him. Read him bedtime stories. Grounded him for sneaking out. Taught him how to drive a car. Adrian had loved him once, maybe still did, in some strange twisted way. And yet he'd pulled the trigger.

The vision had shown betrayal. But now that it was over, he couldn't shake the feeling that something had been left unseen.

He collapsed onto the couch, head in his hands, eyes burning. He didn't cry. Not because he didn't want to. Because he couldn't. The guilt had dug too deep, too fast. It left him hollow.

He needed rest. Badly.

But long before his eyes shut, Adrian knew—sleep would not come easy. Not tonight.

And maybe not for a long time.