A Dead Woman's Shadow
The skyline of Holloway flickered beneath the glass walls of Damien's penthouse, but he didn't see it. He stood still, rooted in place, staring down at the envelope in his hand—a simple white rectangle with no seal, no stamp, no sender. Unmarked. Anonymous.
But heavy.
Heavier than paper should be. Heavier than logic allowed.
Because Damien Voss had learned to listen to the instincts that once saved him in war, in betrayal, in fire. And tonight, those instincts were screaming.
Something wasn't right.
With a breath sharp enough to cut glass, he tore the flap open and tipped the envelope downward.
A single photograph fell into his palm.
And the moment he saw it—time shattered.
The air vanished from his lungs. His fingers trembled. His pulse became thunder.
The photograph was clear. Recent. No more than a week old. The colors hadn't even faded from the print. And in the center of the frame stood a woman in a soft blue scarf, her hands tucked into a trench coat, her eyes cast toward the crowd.
It was her.
It was her.
His mother.
The woman he had buried. The woman whose grave he had stood over. The woman whose final words had haunted his sleep for five long years.
Alive.
And beneath the image, scrawled in narrow, slanted handwriting—something so sharp it looked like it had been etched with a knife—were just four words:
Come find me… if you dare.
The Storm Inside
For a full minute, Damien couldn't move.
Couldn't speak.
His brain clawed at explanations, grasping at rationality like a man drowning in open water. He flipped the photo over—nothing. No number. No coordinates. No date or signature. Just blank paper and silence.
"Is this real?" he whispered into the quiet.
But he already knew the answer.
He knew that face better than his own.
It wasn't an illusion. It wasn't a doctored image or some look-alike created to bait him. He could see the way her fingers curved around her coat, the tilt of her chin when she scanned the crowd, the guarded tension in her posture—small, familiar signs only a son would notice.
His mother was alive.
But why?
Who had kept her hidden?
Who had orchestrated this?
And why now—after everything—had she resurfaced only in a photograph and a taunt?
He could feel it, like iron in his blood.
This wasn't just a reunion.
This was a message.
This was war.
Unleashing the Beast
A knock split through the silence—three sharp raps against the mahogany door.
Jax.
"Boss," came the muffled voice, calm but laced with concern. "Everything alright?"
Damien didn't answer at first. He stood motionless, letting the fury build in his chest like steam behind a steel wall.
He slipped the photo back into his pocket and crossed the room, his footsteps echoing like thunder across the polished floor.
When he opened the door, Jax took one look into his eyes and straightened.
"Who do we need to kill?" he asked.
There was no fear in his voice. Just readiness.
Damien's lips didn't twitch. His expression didn't shift. But his eyes… they burned.
"Not kill," he said, pulling the photo from his pocket and holding it between two fingers. "Find."
Jax leaned in. The moment he saw the face in the photo, his pupils widened.
"Who is she?"
Damien's answer was a quiet dagger.
"My mother."
Jax went rigid. His gaze flickered from the image to Damien, searching for disbelief. But there was none.
"Your—your mother? But she's—"
"Not dead," Damien cut in, voice like steel beneath frost. "Not buried. Not gone."
He turned sharply, grabbing his coat from the back of a chair and shrugging it on, his movements precise, methodical.
"Someone lied to me," he muttered. "Someone kept her from me. Someone staged her death—and then dared to send this."
Jax followed without hesitation, his jaw set.
"Why now?" he asked. "Why send this now, after all these years?"
"I don't know," Damien said, pressing the elevator button. "But I intend to find out."
As the doors slid open and the golden light bathed him in shadows, he stepped inside, eyes still fixed on the horizon, mind moving a hundred miles a minute.
And just before the doors closed, he spoke again—barely above a whisper, but clear enough for Jax to hear.
"This war isn't over."
It was just beginning.