The tunnels beneath the city groaned with heat. Thick cables pulsed against the walls, sweating with electricity. Somewhere ahead, metal scraped.
Lucen stepped through the shadows, his breath slow, calm. The darkness didn't bother him. It was the silence that pressed too heavy.
He found Scarne pacing near the heart of the grid. Explosives lined the pillars, wrapped in tape and wire. The man's suit had begun to melt into his skin—patches of flesh fused with armor. One eye burned under the half-mask.
Scarne didn't turn. His voice came out dry.
"They don't feel it yet. Not really. The emptiness. But they will."
Lucen stopped a few steps away.
"You don't have to do this."
"Oh, but I do."
There was no wind down here. Just the distant hum of a sleeping city's veins. Scarne stepped toward a detonator hanging from a pipe.
Lucen didn't flinch.
"Your family didn't ask for this. They didn't want justice like this."
Scarne turned slowly. His eye twitched.
"You think you know what they wanted?"
Flames surged from his gauntlet. Lucen moved—just enough to dodge. He didn't strike back.
"I saw them," Lucen said quietly. "In my dreams. Their fear. Their pain. I carry it too."
"You should. You burned them."
Lucen lowered his arms.
"I did."
The fire hesitated in Scarne's palm.
"I was fifteen," Lucen went on. "I lost someone too. And I lost myself. That night broke both of us."
"So what?" Scarne hissed. "You get to put on a mask and pretend it didn't happen? I get nothing. I burn alone."
"No," Lucen said. "Not if you walk with me."
He removed his mask. Let the city's most hated face show.
Then he stepped into the flames.
Scarne's eyes widened. Fire licked across Lucen's chest—but didn't consume him. His skin smoked. He didn't scream. He didn't stop.
"You want vengeance? I won't stop you. If killing me gives you peace, take it. But you and I both know what comes next."
Lucen's voice was steady.
"If I burn again… it's not just me who burns. It's you. All over again."
The tunnel was silent. Just the low growl of embers.
"Or," Lucen said, "you let go. We use what we've lost. We build something from it. Even if it's not perfect."
Scarne's hand trembled. A vision flashed behind his eyes—his daughter, reaching through flame. Her face twisted in panic. The smoke, the heat, the helplessness.
Then another: Lucen, younger, kneeling in ash. Whispering to himself.
Scarne screamed.
He punched the wall. Fire burst outward, but away from Lucen. Chunks of rock collapsed. The detonator snapped from its hook and rolled harmlessly across the floor.
He dropped to his knees.
"I don't know how to be anything else."
Lucen crouched beside him.
"Then let's learn together."
They didn't speak for a long time.
When they left the tunnel, it was still dark. But the city above was quiet.
Later, they sat on the same rooftop where it began. No sirens this time. Just wind.
Lucen held out a string of old prayer beads. The wood was worn, smoothed by time and fingers.
"My father gave me this when I was a kid. Said the worst fire wasn't outside you—it was the one inside no one sees."
Scarne looked at the beads. Then at Lucen.
"You really believe I can change?"
Lucen nodded.
"I changed. Not into something perfect. But something trying."
Scarne took the beads.
For once, his hands didn't shake.
That night, Lucen dreamed again.
Morpheus stood on the edge of a silver staircase, robes swaying like smoke. His face was a blur. Eyes missing. Mouth curved in amusement.
"You disarmed vengeance with virtue," Morpheus said. "I did not expect that."
Lucen crossed his arms.
"I didn't do it for you."
"No," Morpheus said. "But it brings you closer."
He tilted his head, curious.
"You're beginning to sound like your father."
Lucen frowned.
"Which one?"
Morpheus vanished with a smile.
In a different part of the city, a small apartment fire broke out.
Scarne was already there.
He wore old worker's gear now. No name. No flame. Just callused hands and quiet strength. He carried a child through smoke, coughing hard, eyes stinging.
Someone thanked him.
He said nothing.
On a far rooftop, Lucen watched the scene.
His new mask was black and red. Lighter. Sharper. A new beginning.
He adjusted it as the wind rose.
"We don't always get to erase our worst nights," he said softly. "But sometimes… we can rewrite the next ones."
Then he turned and disappeared into the smoke.
Let me know if you'd like this broken into two shorter chapters, or if you want to immediately dive into planning the next arc—Asmodeus: Lust—with the same intensity and tone.
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END OF CHAPTER 13
Next up: CHAPTER 14: THE CHURCH OF THE FLAME...🔥