CHAPTER TWO: THE FALL
The city didn't sleep. It stalked.
And tonight, it hunted Twilight.
Rain blurred the edges of the world as she moved through the East End, her hood drawn tight, hands buried in her coat pockets. The buzz of the streetlights overhead was the only companion she had—flickering halos in the mist, glowing just long enough to remind her how alone she really was.
Her boots hit puddles with soft slaps, echoing down the empty road. Somewhere behind her, footsteps echoed for a moment—then stopped when she stopped. She turned, quickly.
Nothing.
Just the night.
Just her.
She wasn't the paranoid type. You couldn't be, growing up the way she had—foster homes, cracked ceilings, whispers behind closed doors. But something felt off tonight. Like the air itself had changed its mind about letting her breathe.
Her fingers brushed the locket hanging at her throat. She didn't remember where it came from—only that she'd always had it. A gift from a ghost, maybe. The kind of thing you protect without knowing why.
She was two blocks from home when the silence shattered.
A black car surged from the alley, headlights off, engine low and smooth. Before she could scream, the back door opened—and two shadows spilled out, fast, trained, surgical.
"Hey—!"
A gloved hand clamped over her mouth. Her legs kicked, fists flailed—but nothing landed. These weren't street thugs. They moved like machines. No wasted effort. No sound except the hiss of rain and her muffled panic.
A sharp sting at her neck.
A flash of white-hot electricity.
Then darkness.
---
Somewhere Else.
She woke in motion.
Backseat of a car. Leather interior. Tinted windows. City lights streaking past like dying stars. Her wrists were bound. Ankles too. A hood had been pulled off her head, but everything still felt dim.
The man driving wore a black coat. His reflection in the rearview mirror was unreadable. The passenger beside him held something in his lap—a phone, maybe. Or a weapon.
"Where am I?" she croaked.
No answer.
"What do you want from me?"
Still nothing.
She struggled against the restraints. "You've got the wrong person. I haven't done anything."
At that, the driver's eyes flicked up—just for a second. Not in sympathy. Not in anger.
In pity.
That scared her more than anything.
The rest of the ride was silent. Tension, thick and unspoken, coiled in the air like smoke. Something about these men… they weren't afraid of her. They weren't even interested in her. But they were afraid of whoever they were taking her to.
---
The Obsidian Spire.
It wasn't a building.
It was a judgment.
Black steel and glass carved into the sky like a blade. No signs. No nameplates. Just a single pulse of red light over the entrance, like the tower itself was alive—and watching.
The car pulled into a private entrance beneath the tower. Metal doors closed behind them. Twilight's heart punched her ribs as the silence stretched.
Then the door opened.
She was pulled from the car, but not violently. Carefully. The way someone handles an object they don't understand yet—but might need to destroy.
They brought her through a security checkpoint where no one said a word. The guards didn't speak. Didn't even look at her. Their eyes flicked to her and then quickly away—as if her presence meant something dangerous.
The elevator was glass, climbing with a hum so soft it felt like she was floating. She tried to count the floors—but lost track after twenty. Then thirty.
Then fifty.
When the doors finally slid open, it was to a space that didn't feel like it belonged in the same universe. Black marble floors. Shadowed walls. The scent of leather and smoke. No artwork. No windows.
Just power.
And he was already there.
Slade Luthor didn't stand. He waited.
At the far end of the room, behind a long, obsidian desk, he stood with his back to her. Reading something in his hands. The quiet was so complete it felt rehearsed.
The guards who brought her in? Gone.
The door slid shut behind her with a final, soft hiss.
She swallowed. "What is this?" she asked. "Why am I—?"
He turned.
It wasn't sudden. It wasn't theatrical.
But the moment he did, the room shrank.
His eyes found hers like crosshairs. Cold. Clinical. Curious.
Not a trace of compassion.
He walked forward, and she didn't move—because something primal inside her wouldn't let her.
The click of his shoes on the stone floor was the only sound.
Measured. Precise. Absolute.
He stopped exactly one pace from her.
She looked up, and immediately wished she hadn't.
His face wasn't what she expected. Not cruel. Not monstrous.
Worse.
Calm.
The scar running from temple to cheek made him look less like a villain and more like a survivor. A man who had seen the worst the world could offer—and chosen to become something worse still.
"You wore her necklace," he said.
His voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It cut through her like a scalpel. Measured. Smooth. Dangerous.
"I—I don't know what you mean," she whispered.
He tilted his head slightly. Not doubting her.
Studying her.
"You've had it a long time," he said. "Where did you get it?"
"I don't—look, it's just a necklace. I've had it since I was a kid. I don't even remember where it came from."
A long silence.
She felt like she was being dissected without being touched.
Then he turned, walked to the desk, and retrieved the photo Rico had shown him hours ago. He placed it between them, face up.
The photo of her.
The pendant catching the light.
He tapped it once with a gloved finger.
"That belonged to a woman who died screaming," he said, quiet. "The night my family was murdered. She wore it like a shield. Like a curse."
Twilight stared. Her pulse thundered in her ears.
"I don't—this doesn't make sense—"
"It doesn't have to," Slade said. "Not yet."
He picked up the photo again. Studied it. Then looked back at her, as if trying to decide what kind of monster fate had just delivered to his door.
"I don't believe in coincidence," he said. "Which means someone wanted that locket to end up with you."
Her throat was dry. Her knees shook. But she held his gaze.
"I'm not who you think I am."
He smiled.
Not warmly. Not cruelly.
Knowingly.
"No," he said. "Not yet."
Then he turned to the door.
"Put her in Holding. No restraints."
A voice crackled through the intercom. "Yes, sir."
"And get me everything on every orphanage in the East End from seventeen years ago."
He paused at the threshold. Looked back.
"And Rico?"
"Yes, boss?"
"If she lies to me again—cut her tongue out."
---
Twilight stood frozen.
She hadn't been touched.
She hadn't been hurt.
But something in her had already broken.
She just didn't know it yet.
---
Would