A Quiet Life Denied-Chapter 79 - 78: Beyond the Station Lights

The warehouse doors groaned open.

Cold air rushed in first, carrying the smell before anything else reached them.

Blood.Old metal.Concrete dust.Cordite.

One of the officers stopped just inside the threshold, hand lifting instinctively to his mouth.

"…holy shit."

Lights snapped on one by one, harsh white fluorescence flooding the main floor.

Bodies.

Too many to count at first glance.

Men sprawled where they had fallen—some near the entrance, some deeper inside, some piled where they had tried to regroup. Blood smeared the concrete in wide arcs and dark pools, footprints tracked through it in overlapping directions. Shell casings littered the floor, scattered but deliberate, like punctuation marks left behind by someone who knew exactly where to stand.

An officer stepped forward carefully, his boot sticking slightly as he lifted it.

"No survivors," another voice said, lower, already resigned.

They moved deeper.

Near the center of the warehouse, one body drew attention immediately.

A man on his back, head tilted at an unnatural angle, eyes open and glassy. The bullet hole in the center of his forehead was precise—too precise. Blood had dried in a thin line down his face and into his hair.

Someone crouched beside him, checking out of habit.

"…that's Nikolai Petrova."

A pause followed.

"That's one of the Russian brothers seen in the country recently," another officer muttered. "Who the hell would fuck with them?"

A few feet away lay another corpse.

Or what was left of one.

The body had been dragged—scrape marks visible in the blood, a rough trail leading back toward the entrance. One arm was missing. The skull was crushed inward, bone split and exposed. Brain matter had dried in pale, uneven streaks across the floor.

An officer swallowed. "Jesus."

Another answered the earlier question quietly.

"Someone crazy."

They continued their sweep.

One officer stopped near a corner, eyes narrowing.

"Hey."

He crouched and picked something up between gloved fingers.

Torn fabric.

Thin. Light-colored. Stained dark.

"…this looks like women's clothing."

The room seemed to quiet.

Another officer stepped closer. "You sure?"

"Yeah."

He looked around slowly, scanning the bodies again.

"Were there any women among the dead?"

A beat.

"No," someone answered. "All male."

The officer frowned, looking back down at the fabric.

"…interesting. But it could've been anything else."

No one replied.

...

...

The police station was louder than usual.

Phones rang nonstop. Doors opened and shut. Officers moved with sharp efficiency, voices overlapping as reports were filed and names logged. The air smelled like coffee, sweat, and something metallic that didn't quite belong.

Zane sat on a bench near the wall, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.

He hadn't moved since he arrived.

Jason stood nearby, arms crossed, posture rigid. His expression was unreadable—jaw set, eyes forward, attention split between the room and his own thoughts.

Celeste arrived first, breath uneven, hair still damp from rushing out. Lena and Emphera followed close behind. Iris came last, having taken a different route, her phone still clenched tightly in her hand.

Orian wasn't with them.

Celeste crouched in front of Zane.

"Zane," she said softly. "What happened?"

He blinked.

Once.Twice.

Then he looked up, eyes hollow.

"They took us," he said slowly. "Men. Armed. We were grabbed off campus."

Lena sucked in a sharp breath. Emphera's hands curled together.

"They took us to an abandoned place," Zane continued. "They were arguing. About kidnapping ... a girl ." He hesitated a bit looking at Celeste briefly, then away.

Iris stiffened.

"What do you mean kidnapping?" she asked, voice sharp despite herself.

Zane swallowed. "I don't know ."

Silence followed.

"Then Franz…" Zane's voice dropped. "He became a distraction while we ran." His hands clenched. "It's my fault. If I hadn't—"

Jason's eyes snapped to him.

"What are you saying?" Lena demanded, panic breaking through. "What happened to him?"

"He told us to run," Zane said. "He stayed behind."

The words landed hard.

Celeste's shoulders sagged. "They were coming for me weren't they ...," she whispered. "That's why my security was increased."

"No," Zane said immediately, lifting his head. "It's not your fault."

Jason spoke without raising his voice. "It's not the fault of either of you."

Zane nodded faintly.

Emphera spoke then, her tone softer than usual. "So… what happened to him?"

No one answered.

The silence stretched.

Lena's eyes filled, tears slipping free despite her effort to hold them back.

Emphera turned away sharply, pressing her thumb into the side of her phone hard enough to whiten the skin. Her breathing was ragged.

Jason didn't move.

An officer approached, clipboard in hand. "Jason?"

He turned.

"We finished processing the warehouse," the officer said. "We didn't find any body matching the description you gave us."

Jason exhaled slowly.

A fraction of the tension left his shoulders.

"So there's a chance he's safe," Jason said.

"Yes," the officer replied. "He may have escaped through another exit. Or he was taken by whoever attacked the site."

Jason nodded once. "Thank you."

The officer walked away.

Jason turned back to Zane.

"He probably escaped safely," he said evenly. "You did what you could."

Zane nodded, guilt still heavy.

"We'll do everything we can to find him," Jason added. "This wasn't your fault."

Zane nodded again.

Jason's gaze shifted to Lena's tear-streaked face.

Then to Iris.

She hadn't cried. Her expression was unreadable.

Jason clenched his fist once.

Then released it.

He turned away, already moving toward the offices, voice steady as he spoke to an officer about next steps.

Determination replaced relief.

Iris watched him go.

Her grip tightened around her phone.

"He's not dead," she said to everyone , more to herself than anyone else. "He is not the kind of guy who would die like that."

No one contradicted her.

...

....

Elsewhere.

Franz stood with a finger resting against his chin, head tilted slightly as he regarded the woman in front of him.

She was shaking.

Barely standing.

Fear had stripped her down to something fragile and small.

Franz studied her like a problem waiting to be solved.

"What should I do with you?"