Laurent's companions gave short, approving snorts. One of them had already opened the rear door of the car; the other lazily wiped his phone screen with a napkin, smearing raindrops across the glass.
The rain intensified.
What had been a drizzle was now a genuine downpour—heavy, cold drops struck Ethan's face like slaps.
They ran down his forehead, his cheeks, into his eyes, mixing salty tears with plain water.
He didn't even try to wipe his face; he simply stood, watching the black bag being lifted and carried toward the ambulance.
Watching the white gloves of the medics gleam under the flashing blue lights.
Watching it all happen without him.
Ethan's fingers clenched around emptiness.
Where her hand had been moments ago, only cold air remained. He opened and closed his fists, as though trying to grasp something invisible, to hold onto what had already slipped away forever.
"Maria…" he whispered.
The word drowned in the roar of the rain.
It came out hoarse, almost soundless—just a movement of the lips that no one heard.
Even he barely caught it.
The vampires moved off.
They walked unhurriedly, almost strolling toward the car that had arrived with its own driver inside.
Silently—their footsteps made no sound on the wet asphalt. Only a quiet, rolling laughter, low and satisfied, like purring.
It echoed off wet tree trunks, stone curbs, empty benches, dissolving into the rain.
Laurent turned for a single instant.
His gaze slid over Ethan—cold, indifferent, almost curious. As though he were looking at a broken toy that was no longer worth fixing.
Then he looked away.
The car door slammed.
The engine purred softly. The headlights flared red in the reflection of the puddles, and the vehicle pulled away slowly, leaving behind only the smell of wet asphalt and exhaust fumes.
Ethan remained alone.
Rain hammered his shoulders, his head, his back. He didn't move.
He simply stood in the middle of the park, staring at the spot where the black bag containing her had just disappeared. Somewhere in the distance the ambulance's blue lights still flashed, but the siren had already faded; they were gone.
Everyone was gone.
Only he remained, the rain, and the emptiness that now lived inside his chest.
Then—black screen.
Complete, absolute darkness, as though someone had switched off the lights across all of New York.
When consciousness returned, it came slowly, reluctantly, as if it didn't want to wake up in this reality.
The half-darkness of the room wrapped Ethan softly, suffocatingly, like an old wool blanket that once warmed but now only pressed against his chest.
He lay on his bed—the very one where they had slept together not long ago, where her hair left its scent on the pillow, where in the mornings she used to wake him with a light kiss on the temple.
Now the sheet was cold, rumpled, foreign.
His eyes opened gradually.
The eyelids felt heavy, sticky, as though after a long bout of crying he didn't even remember.
Through the thick, almost black curtains, a pale, lifeless morning light seeped in.
It was weak, diffused, like the glow from an old bulb about to burn out.
The room smelled of dust, stale air, and something sour—the remnants of coffee he had brewed last night and never finished.
The cup stood on the nightstand; the brown ring at the bottom had dried into a crust.
The digital clock glowed dull red: 6:30.
A time that once meant the start of the day, coffee, a goodbye kiss, plans for the evening.
Now it felt meaningless, empty, like an inscription on a gravestone.
Six thirty in the morning.
Somewhere in other apartments alarm clocks rang, people cooked oatmeal and hurried to work.
Here, time had stopped.
It was only pretending to move forward.
Ethan lay motionless. His gaze was unfocused, glassy; his eyes stared at the ceiling but saw not the cracks in the plaster, but her face.
Her warm brown eyes with golden flecks when she laughed.
Her light, slightly husky laugh, as though she were shy about being too loud.
The way she twirled a strand of hair around her finger when thinking.
The way she wrinkled her nose when tasting something sour.
All the little things that had once seemed trivial now cut into his memory like sharp shards.
Every recollection sliced slowly, mercilessly, painfully.
He bit his lower lip.
Teeth sank into skin until he tasted metal. The pain was almost pleasant—the only thing that still felt real.
He turned his head toward the wall, trying to hide from the clock. But the red digits still flashed behind his closed eyelids.
6:30, 6:31, 6:32…
Time didn't move forward; it simply repeated itself like a stuck record.
Each second fell like a heavy stone into the void inside him.
Ethan took a deep breath.
The air was thick, stagnant.
He smelled the old pillow—a mixture of sweat, her shampoo, and his own insomnia. The coffee that had begun to turn bitter.
The dust settling on shelves, books, her things he still hadn't put away.
He slowly sat up.
His shoulders hunched as though under an invisible weight. His hands fell onto the sheet and gripped the fabric so hard his knuckles whitened.
Nails dug into his palms.
He didn't notice the pain—or noticed, but it was nothing compared to what lived inside.
A voice stirred in his head.
At first quiet, barely audible, like a whisper from another room.
You have to do something…
At first it was just an echo, a stray thought he had pushed away for days.
But with every breath it grew louder, harder, colder. It swelled like a fire finally given oxygen.
He reached for the nightstand. His fingers brushed an old leather notebook, worn, corners bent.
The same one where he used to jot down travel plans, jokes for her, grocery lists for dinner.
Now the pages were filled with something else: addresses, names, fragments of rumors he had collected at night—sleepless, unfed, only black coffee and staring at the laptop screen until his eyes burned.
Ethan gripped the notebook.
The leather creaked under his fingers.
He took another deep breath; the air entered his lungs in a cold rush, as though from the street.
And in the dim room, between heavy shadows and the pale morning light now beginning to gild the edges of the curtains, for the first time in many days the emptiness inside him began to fill.
"They won't wait…" he whispered aloud.
Then his gaze caught on the gray suit hanging on the door.
The courtroom gleamed with unnatural cleanliness, as though it had been scrubbed not with water but with something sterile. White marble columns rose to the high ceiling, reflecting the soft, even light from hidden fixtures that fell equally on every face, every page of documents, every metal detail of the railings.
No shadow was too deep, no gleam too harsh. There was no room here for human pain, for emotional chaos—only for rules, for paragraphs, for cold, indifferent justice… or rather, for bribes and walking away scot-free.
On the raised dais, behind a massive dark-wood desk, sat the judge.
A vampire. His skin was almost human—pale gray like old parchment—and his eyes, pale gray, nearly colorless, gazed down at the room with the same immobility as a statue surveying a crowd.
He blinked no more often than necessary.
Only his long, thin fingers occasionally tapped the armrest of the chair—barely audible, rhythmic, like a metronome counting someone else's lives.
To the right of the judge's table stood the defense attorney, the very embodiment of vanity in human form. Dark-navy suit, perfectly pressed, not a single crease; snow-white shirt; cufflinks with tiny rubies that caught the light and threw crimson sparks.
His smile was rehearsed to perfection: the corners of his mouth lifted exactly the right distance, teeth flashed just enough to seem friendly but never sincere.
He stood leaning lightly on a folder of documents, as though the entire proceeding were just another scene he had long since memorized.
To the left, on the defendant's bench, sat the killer himself—Laurent. He didn't sit upright, didn't even tense; he lounged back, one hand resting on his knee, the other idly picking at the nail of his thumb.
Every so often he flicked a glance around the room—short, indifferent—as though checking that everyone was still in place.
His lips curved in a half-smile, revealing the tip of a fang.
For him the trial was not a threat, but a tedious pause between engagements, like waiting in line for coffee.
Ethan sat in the front row for victims' families. His body looked almost translucent, skin stretched tight over cheekbones, dark circles under his eyes, his once-gray eyes now faded, lightless.
He didn't move; only his fingers, clasped in his lap, whitened from the strain.
When the bailiff—not the judge, but an assistant in a black robe—struck the gavel on the table, the sound rang through the room like a blow to glass.
"Let the court come to order!" he announced loudly, mechanically, without expression.
The defense attorney rose first.
The movement was smooth, almost theatrical.
He adjusted a cuff, smiled at the judge with that smile that made you want to look away.
"My client deeply regrets what occurred," he began, voice even, confident, well-modulated.
Yeah, sure he regrets it—his eyes are practically weeping remorse, Ethan thought bitterly, watching the vampire's face.
Each word fell into the silence of the courtroom like a coin into an empty well.
"This was a tragic accident. Emotions, youth, loss of control… You understand, Your Honor. My client had no intention of causing harm. It was… a fatal mistake."
Laurent lazily scratched a fang against his front tooth; the sound was faint, but in the dead silence of the room it rang loud, like metal scraping glass.