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Chapter 48 - chapter 47

Michael had been missing from Halberd for days.

But he hadn't run. Not exactly. He'd gone home.

Not to escape.

To think.

The world had begun to feel louder since Andrew left. Not because anything obvious had changed, but because of what hadn't. The silence was the loudest part of it all. And Michael charismatic, brash, always ready with a joke had found that the silence clung to him like wet clothes. It was suffocating.

His house was a modest townhouse tucked away in a quieter part of the city, not far from the old tram station. The walls were lined with family photos and soft, dusty books that hadn't been opened in years. His mother had gone to visit his aunt out of town, and his father, well… his father was never home anymore.

So Michael had space. Too much space. And it didn't help.

He lay sprawled on the couch that evening, the TV buzzing softly with some rerun he wasn't watching. The windows were cracked open slightly, letting in the dusky breeze. A half-eaten sandwich rested on a plate by his side, untouched for hours.

He hadn't returned calls. Not Kate's, not Emma's. He didn't know what to say to them. Didn't know how to explain the feeling growing in his gut. That something was watching. Waiting. Unfolding.

Then came the knock.

Three sharp raps against the door.

Michael sat up slowly.

Another knock. He walked cautiously to the door and opened it a sliver.

Nothing.

He frowned. "What the hell?"

A hand shot through the crack, grabbing him by the collar, yanking him forward with startling strength. Another arm shoved the door open wide, and Michael barely had time to process what was happening before a punch landed squarely across his jaw.

He stumbled back, but before he could regain his footing, a bat came swinging toward his head. The world turned black in an instant.

He woke to cold.

And silence.

His head throbbed, and when he tried to move, the harsh bite of rope stopped him. His hands were tied behind the back of a wooden chair, ankles strapped tightly to its legs. Every part of him ached.

The room was dimly lit, the walls blackened stone, dripping with condensation. Pipes clanked somewhere in the distance. It smelled of rust and old water.

But what made his blood freeze wasn't the setting.

It was the figures standing before him.

Seven of them. Each tall, draped in long black overcoats, top hats pulled low. But it wasn't their attire that disturbed him.

It was their faces.

They didn't have any.

No eyes. No mouth. No nose. Just smooth, blank skin where humanity should have been. Like mannequins dressed for a funeral.

Michael's breath hitched in his throat.

"The hell are you?" he managed, voice cracked and dry.

The faceless men stood still, unblinking. Then, one tilted its head slightly as if examining a puzzle.

"Do you mind telling me why I'm being held hostage?" Michael snapped, hoping bravado would mask his terror.

Still, they didn't respond. But voices filled the room. Whispery. Echoing.

Yet none of the figures moved their mouthless faces.

"Do you think he'd be a worthy vessel?"

"He doesn't need to be. He'll be made worthy."

"And you think the master would approve of some random host?"

"Ugh... you just had to say that."

"The Whitmore kid hasn't awakened his bloodline fully."

"Please don't say his name."

"Like I said, he hasn't awakened fully."

"That was this morning's news. Do you know how much time has passed since then?"

"Why are we suddenly talking about him?"

Michael's heart pounded.

Andrew? What the hell did Andrew have to do with these things? These creatures?

His breathing quickened. Something inside him screamed to run, to move, to fight but the bindings were too tight.

The faceless men turned in unison to look at him. Slowly, one of them stepped forward and sliced the ropes with a flick of its gloved hand.

Michael tried to scramble away, but two more caught him, dragging him upright. Their grip was inhumanly strong. They dragged him toward a circular altar embedded in the center of the stone floor. He kicked and yelled, but it didn't matter.

The altar was covered in carvings runes he didn't recognize, pulsing softly in deep red.

"No NO! Let me go!"

They threw him down. The moment his back hit the altar, chains shot from its sides like coiled snakes barbed and jagged, wrapping around his wrists, ankles, and chest.

"STOP! Please what are you doing!?"

Pain ripped through him as the barbs dug into his skin. Spikes extended from the chains, piercing into him, anchoring him to the altar. He screamed.

"I don't want to die i don't want to die!"

Blood seeped from the wounds, dripping into the grooves of the altar, following the runes like rivers.

The faceless men watched in eerie stillness.

Michael thrashed as much as he could, his muscles screaming, his vision blurred with tears. Every nerve screamed. Every breath came harder.

Then something happened.

The blood flowing into the altar began to glow, bright and hot. The runes pulsed with power, and the entire room began to hum, as if the stones themselves were alive.

Michael felt heat beneath him. Something deep and ancient stirred below.

His eyes rolled back.

And then

Nothing.

Just silence.

The faceless men stood still.

Watching.

Waiting.

I've added Michael's scene as requested, expanding it with emotional weight, suspense, and a sense of mounting horror. Let me know if you'd like to explore what happens to him next or if you want to shift focus to how Kate and Emma react to his disappearance.

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