Alone in the vast mansion, I shifted under the heavy sheets, groaning as a sharp throb pulsed behind my eyes. My mouth was dry as sandpaper, and my stomach turned at even the faintest memory of tequila.
I stared up at the ornate ceiling, barely able to focus. Everything felt too big—too empty.
"Goddamn it," I muttered, pressing the heel of my hand to my forehead. "Travour's party was insane."
He always acted like he didn't know how to party, but last night proved otherwise. The guy pulled off something wild.
I let out a rough laugh that immediately turned into a cough. No hook-ups, though. Not even a conversation that led anywhere. Just drinks, noise, and now—this.
The echo of my voice bounced off the walls. No one answered. Just me, this hangover, and way too much space.
Then that inner voice kicked in, dry and cutting: Come on, Leo. You're not that guy.
I closed my eyes. Yeah. Maybe not. But still… damn.
Dragging myself into the bathroom, I splashed cold water on my face, still dizzy. Another hour of sleep should do the trick, I thought. I fell back into bed, drifting off, but peace was nowhere to be found.
The room dissolved into a suffocating black void—no walls, no floor, no ceiling. Just endless, choking dark, thick with the stench of blood and burnt chemicals. The air was damp with misery. The silence screamed.
I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.
The ground beneath me pulsed like it was alive, soaking up every drop of failure I'd ever tasted. Echoes twisted through the air—my mother's laugh, my father's proud voice, my sister's song—crushed, shredded, lost in static and screams.
And then I heard him.
That voice.
Low. Rusted. Like knives scraping bone.
"You did everything to survive, my boy... but your family? They didn't make it, now, did they?"
The words struck like ice to the spine. My breath caught—burned in my throat.
I knew that voice. God help me, I knew it.
I forced my head up, and there he stood.
Big Boss Danvore.
He loomed like a corpse carved from smoke and hate—impossibly tall, skin stretched too tight over a skull that grinned wider than any human should. His eyes were hollow black pits, alive with a glint of hunger. Beside him, a boy huddled on the ground—me. Younger. Crying. Filthy. Curled in the fetal position like something dying inside.
Danvore's laugh erupted—jagged, inhuman, echoing forever.
Mocking.
The shadows twisted and pulsed with every chuckle, clawing at the edges of my sanity. The younger me whimpered, head buried in his arms, shaking uncontrollably. And Danvore circled him, feeding on the brokenness like a wolf savoring the kill.
"You couldn't save them," he hissed, each word slicing deeper. "All your strength. All your tricks. Useless."
I tried to move—anything—but my body was frozen, paralyzed with dread. I could only stand there, eyes wide, tears blurring my vision, my soul screaming in silence.
Danvore leaned closer, whispering into the void between us.
"You leaned on others because you were too weak to carry it alone," he breathed. His voice was inside my head now. "And now... you're still that same scared little boy. Helpless. Worthless. Alone."
I gasped.
Then the blackness snapped shut like jaws—
And I bolted upright in bed, choking on a scream.
My chest heaved. Sweat soaked through the sheets. My heart thrashed against my ribs like it was trying to break out. The shadows in the corners of the room still moved. The silence still hummed.
I wasn't sure if I was awake.
The nightmare hadn't ended.
It had followed me home—and it had teeth.
My phone rang, making me jump in fright. Relief flooded me when I saw it was my brother calling.
My phone rang, and I just about launched it across the room. Heart pounding, I snatched it off the nightstand.
CALLING: TRUE BLOOD
Relief hit me like a wave. It was my brother. My best friend. My anchor.
I let out a breath and grinned as I answered, grateful for the distraction. "Damn, Travour—miss me already?" I said, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. "What's it been—ten hours? Amelia kick you out that fast, or are you in desperate need of the gentleman's package again? I can hook you up—premium edition this time."
I laughed, trying to shake off the nightmare that still clung to me like sweat. "Seriously, man, the last time you called me this early, we were what—teenagers trying to cover up that broken window with duct tape?"
But the line on the other end didn't laugh.
Travour's voice came through, low and grim. "Big Boss."
My smile died instantly. My chest tightened.
"No way," I breathed, sitting upright. "He's dead. We both saw him die."
"I know," Travour said, his voice tight, almost shaking. "I don't mean alive. I mean... he's in my dreams. Like he never left."
I swallowed hard. My throat was suddenly dry.
"You alright, bro?" I asked, already swinging my legs over the side of the bed. "Where are you?"
"Just dropped the girls off. I'm at the office."
"I'm coming."
I hung up and rushed toward the bathroom, dread pooling in my gut. Travour didn't rattle. Not easily. If he was shaken enough to call me like this...
I dressed quickly.
The silence in the house reminded me I was alone now. Not by choice. My wife and I had divorced—not because I stopped loving her, but because I couldn't keep pretending my past was dead. I had blood on my hands, ghosts in my rearview. She never said it outright, but I knew she feared what might come knocking one day. So I let her go.
I told myself it was to keep her safe.
In the bathroom mirror, my reflection looked tired. Older. Worn. But then my mind drifted to Travour. As much as he had, he stayed grounded. No driver, no maids, no staff hovering over his every move. Just a father doing his best—dropping his girls at school, packing their lunches, still answering his own damn phone. That kind of commitment? It wasn't for show.
That's why I always had his back.
No matter what.
I glanced at the photo on the counter. An old one—me, Travour, and someone else. Someone I didn't speak of anymore. The third man in our trio. The one whose name had become... complicated.
I shut the cabinet.
These days, I ran a clean business. A distribution company—legit. We moved goods across the country. Nothing shady. Nothing illegal. Just crates, trucks, and schedules. A far cry from what I used to be.
And I liked it that way.
Skipping breakfast, I headed straight for the garage. Travour's words still echoed in my head—he's in my dreams. It wasn't just what he said. It was how he said it. Cold. Tight. Like he didn't believe it himself.
I barely noticed the kids in the estate waving. They always called me Uncle Ferious—a nickname born from my reckless driving and sharp turns. A joke now. A shadow of what I used to be.
But this wasn't a joke anymore.
I drove like I used to—fast. Edging past the speed limit, corners sharp, music off, thoughts loud. My hands knew the wheel like a soldier knows a rifle. All that training, all that muscle memory—it never really left.
Because deep down, I knew something.
The skeletons we buried weren't dead.
We just pretended they were.
They were never bones—they were corpses, sleeping. And now, they were waking up. Not to haunt us—but to drag us back into the grave with them.
There was a trust between Travour and me—unspoken, sealed years ago in blood and silence. The kind of bond that didn't need explaining. The kind that could get a man killed if mishandled.
But I never asked questions. I just showed up.
I reached his office building and barely slowed down. Sheila, his secretary, jumped when I blasted through the doors.
"Leo!" she called after me.
I didn't stop.
Whatever this was—it wasn't a meeting. It was a reckoning.
I barged into his office, heart hammering.
"Talk to me," I said, locking eyes with Travour. "Start from the beginning."
He didn't move. Didn't even blink. Just sat there, hunched over, eyes vacant—like he was staring at something only he could see.
"Hello, bro. Good evening," I said, eyebrows raised. "Wait… is it not evening yet?" I glanced around at the sunlit windows. "Damn. I guess time's broken again. Or maybe you're broken."
Still nothing.
I walked up and gave his shoulder a light tap. "Earth to Travour. You didn't get abducted by aliens between dropping off your kids and now, right?"
Finally, he exhaled a shaky breath and turned toward me. His face looked drained—no color, no spark, just a man who'd seen something he couldn't unsee.
"This isn't the time to be chatty, Leo," he said quietly. "We've got serious problems."
The way he said it—flat, focused—erased whatever jokes I had left in me.
Without another word, he reached for his suitcase.
We left immediately.
We headed to the Moon De'Rose Lounge in our sports cars, engines growling like beasts ready for war. As always, we took separate routes—an unspoken race, like old times. No trophies, no finish line… just muscle memory and burnt rubber.
I hoped the speed would shake something loose in him. It used to work.
When we arrived, the valet barely had time to register us before we were inside. The lounge was dim, polished, and laced with the soft hum of jazz and expensive perfume. I kept it light—ordered something simple, something forgettable.
But Travour?
He ordered whiskey.
I froze.
That drink wasn't casual. It was ritual. Travour only touched whiskey when we were about to dive into something dangerous, something with no guarantees. It was his tell—his silent signal that we were crossing a line.
He tossed back two shots in a row, no hesitation. His eyes weren't on me. They were fixed somewhere past the room—past the music, the velvet walls, the low chatter of strangers.
They were locked on something invisible.
And whatever he saw in that silence?
It had teeth.
"Stop this, bro," I said gently, watching him pour another shot. "You don't drink like this unless it's serious. We're here to talk—not spiral."
Travour met my eyes, and what I saw in them made my stomach twist. It wasn't just fear—it was something fractured, something drowning in silence. His soul looked like it had been clawed open.
"I saw him, Leo," he whispered, barely getting the words out. "Big Boss Danvore. He's in my dreams. He won't leave."
A chill slid down my spine. That name... it still echoed like a scream buried alive.
"He's dead," I said quickly, needing to ground myself. "We saw it. We know it."
"I know he is," Travour muttered, his voice brittle, eyes cast into shadow. "But death didn't end him. Not in here." He tapped his chest with two trembling fingers. "His presence... it lingers, like smoke in my lungs. I thought time would heal it. I thought loving Amelia, raising the girls, being a good man... would bury him. But instead... he's crawling back out."
He wiped his face with shaking hands, as if trying to scrub away the filth of what he'd seen.
"I keep seeing things," he said, voice shaking. "Horrors I can't explain. I'm being torn apart by zombies. I sit at dinner with corpses smiling at me like old friends. I see animals rotting from the inside—squirming with maggots. I smell the decay, Leo. I taste it. Every time I close my eyes, I'm back in that nightmare."
My hands went cold just hearing it.
"I wake up soaked in sweat, choking on air, convinced I feel his breath on my neck," he continued, voice cracking like broken glass. "It's like Danvore's not just in my head—he's trying to drag me back into the pit. Like he never really let me go."
He stared down at the trembling glass in his hand, then looked past it like he was watching something walk toward him from the dark.
"He always said, 'The devil never forgets.' I used to laugh. I thought he was trying to scare us, play god. But now?" His voice dipped into a whisper. "I think he meant it. I tried to rewrite my life. I thought love would be enough to redeem me. I thought being a good father would wipe the blood from my hands. But it didn't. It never will."
I placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to anchor him, to let him know he wasn't alone. "We've all got demons, Trav. I worked for Danvore too—not because I wanted to, but because I had no other way out. I understand more than you think."
He turned toward me, eyes glassy and tortured.
"I only shot three people, Leo," I said quietly. "Three. And even that sits on my conscience like a stone."
Travour let out a sharp breath that was almost a laugh, but it collapsed into something closer to a sob.
"Three?" he said, shaking his head. "If I only had three, I'd be able to sleep."
His voice broke, and his eyes filled with a pain so deep it looked bottomless.
"I lost count after thirty, Leo. Thirty souls I silenced. Not because I had to—but because I wanted to. I was so full of rage, of vengeance… it consumed me. I didn't care who stood in my way—I destroyed everything. I became what I was trying to kill."
His voice dropped to a whisper. "And now I see their faces, night after night. Every single one. Staring at me like they're waiting for something—waiting to take something back."
I saw his hands clench so tight the veins in his forearm bulged. His entire body was taut, trembling—like he was fighting something inside him that refused to be caged.
"You still had your soul, Leo," he muttered. "I sold mine."
His pain cracked something in me. I took a slow breath and spoke quietly.
"I didn't pull the trigger like you did, but I poisoned lives all the same. I pumped drugs into kids who never came back. I helped smuggle people like cargo. Families were torn apart because of routes I cleared. And I did it all... because I was too afraid of Danvore to say no."
He nodded, as if that shared shame was all that was keeping us grounded.
Then suddenly—like a dam bursting—Travour choked on a sob and slammed the glass down. His voice tore from his throat like a scream swallowed for too long.
"I'm scared, Leo!"
Tears streaked down his face, and for the first time in years, I saw the boy behind the killer—the broken soul begging for peace.
"I'm terrified my past will find Amelia. That it'll touch my girls. That no matter how good I try to be, Danvore's curse will devour them too."
His hands shook violently. "I can't let that happen. I'd rather die than let my sins touch them."
I reached over and gripped his shoulder hard.
"Then we won't let it," I said, my voice calm, steady—like a promise forged in blood. "We face it. Together
With a firm and serious tone, Travour said, "I'm telling Amelia."
My heart stopped.
"Don't do it, Travour," I said quickly, panic bleeding into my voice. "You can't tell her. You'll destroy everything."
He looked at me, calm—too calm. That scared me even more.
"You and I both know she's your wife, yes. Loving. Loyal. But she's not just that," I pressed, lowering my voice like the walls had ears. "She's tied to the government. She's a damn ghost, Trav. You only met her because of that investigation she was on. You fell in love with the one person who was supposed to uncover our past."
His eyes flickered but he didn't flinch. I kept going, desperation creeping into my words.
"She might love you now, sure—but love's not always enough. You think she hasn't put the pieces together? You think she doesn't suspect? One slip, one confession... and that's it. She turns you in. Turns us in. You know damn well the details of Big Boss Danvore's death are still a mystery. The town knows he's dead—but no one knows who ended him."
"I know," he said, voice like steel. "But if that's the price for freedom… I'll pay it."
There was no anger in his tone—just a quiet, crushing resolve. And in that moment, I saw it—the look in his eyes. He'd already made up his mind.
Something cold clamped around my chest.
"Good luck, bro," I said, forcing the words out as I placed a shaky hand on his shoulder. "But… don't drag me down with you, alright?"
He nodded once, solemnly.
"I promise," he said.
Then he stood, dropped a few bills on the table, and walked out—like a man walking toward a noose he'd tied himself.
My hands were damp with sweat. My thoughts raced. Guilt twisted with fear, a cocktail of memories and dread rising in my gut like bile.
He was really going to do it.
I almost pitied him. Almost.
But a darker voice inside whispered: If he burns, we might all burn with him.
And that terrified me.
As he turned to leave, he paused at the doorway, his silhouette caught between shadow and light.
"Leo…" he said softly. "If anything happens to me, promise me you'll be there for Amelia and the girls."
My throat tightened. I stood up, forcing a nod.
"Of course," I replied softly. "I'll always be there for your family. You know that. But The Queen… she's something else. Stronger than most men I've known. Still—if it ever comes down to it—I'll do whatever it takes for your girls. They're pieces of you, Trav… and that makes them pieces of me too."
Still, my voice cracked as I added, "But for my goddaughters... I'll do whatever it takes."
He gave me a grateful smile—the kind that hides a hundred wounds—then turned and disappeared into the night.
When the door shut behind him, I didn't hold back. I dropped into the booth and let the tears come, silent and heavy.
"Big Boss Danvore…" I whispered into the empty space. "You really screwed us up. Twisted us into ghosts of ourselves."
I stared down at the table, at the untouched shot glass he left behind. My reflection shimmered in the liquor, and I barely recognized the man staring back.
"If only yesterday's ghosts would stay dead… and tomorrow's promises could actually be kept," I muttered. "But they never do, do they?"
I looked around the bar—so full of life, laughter, noise. And yet, inside me? Silence. A battlefield of memory and guilt and fear.
Then I said it—half to myself, half to the echo of Travour's soul still lingering in the room:
"A mind on fire isn't just dangerous—it's consuming. It burns through reason. It eats away at sleep. It whispers lies in the voice of truth, until you can't tell the difference anymore. It's not just dangerous, it's fatal."
I let out a bitter laugh—short, sharp, hollow.
"Karma is a bitch," I said. "But madness… madness is her lover."
And in that moment, I understood: we weren't running from Danvore. We were running from ourselves.
And the fire was catching up.