The night had settled deep into the bones of the city, colder than before, as though winter had crawled under the skin and made itself at home. I could feel it—everything Achilles had set in motion was coming to a head. The air hummed with it, a low vibration like the rumble of an engine idling just beneath the surface, waiting to tear forward. But I wasn’t ready. Not yet.
I stood on the rooftop of a crumbling building, looking out
over the streets below, watching the slow, painful pulse of life as the city
tried to keep itself alive. The wind whipped around me, sharp as a scalpel,
carrying the scent of oil, rust, and something darker—something rotten.
He was down there. I knew it. Achilles always made himself
known when the city was at its most vulnerable, like a god descending to pass
judgment. But he wasn’t omnipotent. He wasn’t untouchable. He was just a man—at
least, that’s what I kept telling myself. A man who’d figured out how to drain
the life from everything around him, but still, just a man.
The problem was, Achilles didn’t believe it. Not anymore.
I could hear it, even from up here—the low growl of his
engine, winding up, whining like an animal caught in a trap but too proud to
admit it. He reveled in it, the power, the control, like some god on a throne.
And maybe that’s what he was now. Godlike. Untouchable, in his own eyes.
The sound grew louder, a roar now, tearing through the night
as his car rounded the corner, headlights slicing through the rain. I could see
him behind the wheel, his face half-lit by the dash, eyes dark and unmoving,
locked straight ahead like nothing else mattered. He didn’t care about the
people on the streets, didn’t care about the city around him. He cared about
the throttle in his hand, the engine under his control. He was speeding through
it all, godlike, whining his own throttle, as though the world couldn’t stop
him.
I felt my fists clench at my sides, felt the cold steel of
the piece tucked into my coat. I could end it. Right now. One shot. Achilles
could bleed, just like anyone else. He wasn’t above that, no matter what he
thought.
But something held me back.
I watched him tear down the street, the tires spitting up
water like a wake in the ocean, his car a bullet fired from the hand of some
careless god. He didn’t stop. He never stopped. Achilles was always moving
forward, always pushing, like he knew where it would all end, and he wasn’t
afraid to crash straight into it. Maybe he even welcomed it.
I followed him, moving down the fire escape, feeling the
cold, slick metal under my boots, my heart pounding in time with the rhythm of
his engine. Each step brought me closer, but the closer I got, the more I
realized something I hadn’t wanted to admit.
Achilles wasn’t running from anything. He was running toward
it.
I hit the ground and slipped into the alley, my eyes
tracking his car as it disappeared down another street, the noise of the engine
fading into the distance, but the pulse of it still strong in my chest.
Achilles wasn’t just some man chasing power. He was a force of nature,
something you couldn’t kill with a single shot. He was the storm, the flood,
the ice that crept in during the dead of winter and claimed everything in its
path.
And I was still standing in the cold, gun in hand, waiting
for the moment I’d pull the trigger.
I should’ve gone after him. I should’ve stopped him. But as
I stood there in the alley, rain dripping down my face, the taste of rust and
regret heavy on my tongue, I knew I wouldn’t catch him. Not tonight.
This wasn’t the end. Not yet. The city was still bleeding,
still fighting to stay alive. Achilles wasn’t done draining it, and he wasn’t
done with me. Not by a long shot.
I looked up at the sky, the clouds thick and dark, like a
curtain closing over the world. February was ending. The air had that bite to
it, the one that comes when winter knows its time is up but doesn’t want to let
go. It would fight to stay as long as it could, freezing every last breath,
until finally, finally, it had no choice but to melt away.
But before the thaw, there would be more blood. More cold.
More of everything Achilles wanted.
I turned and walked back into the night, the rain still
falling, the city still pulsing, and the promise of what was coming
next—March—hung over my head like the final act of a play that hadn’t yet been
written.
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