Page 42 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

He’s still clutching the satchel, his hands bloody, shaking. The moment I step closer, he stumbles back, trying to get away from me. But there’s nowhere to go.

“Drop the bag,” I command, my voice rough. The boy looks up at me, his body trembling like a leaf in the wind.

He doesn’t drop the satchel. He’s too scared. “Please,” he begs, his voice cracking. “I don’t know anything. I’m just... just a courier.”

I raise the pistol. “You’re running shipments for them,” I say, my voice calm and deadly. “You know the routes. You’re cargo, just like everything else here.”

The boy trembles as if my words are knives, but he still holds onto the bag. I take a step closer, the gun steady in my grip. I can see him weighing his options, but he’s too young. Too terrified to think straight.

Before I can move again, I hear a noise behind me. A quick, deliberate footstep. I turn just as I see Calista appear at the end of the corridor, gun raised. She looks at the boy, her eyes sharp with calculation. But as she takes in the scene, her expressions shift. Her brow furrows slightly as she looks at the boy, and she steps closer, her voice softer than I expect.

“He’s just a kid,” she says, breathless, her voice betraying a hint of hesitation.

I feel frustration gnaw at my gut. This is a mission. This is about survival, about taking control. But I can see it in her eyes. The same pity I’ve seen in my own heart when I was forced to pull the trigger on someone too young, too innocent.

“He runs shipments for them,” I repeat, my voice harder now, like the words are a hammer. “He knows the routes. He’s cargo.”

I see her pause. Her eyes stay on the boy, gaze softening for just a second, and I wonder if she’s about to stop me—if she’s going to stand between us. But she steps forward, gun still raised, though now angled toward the ground.

She keeps her eyes on the boy. “You said I could decide,” she says, her voice barely a whisper. “So let me.”

My hand hesitates on the trigger. For the first time tonight, doubt creeps in. This is it—the moment I find out if I’m really as cruel as my father… or if I’m someone different. Someone who keeps the darkness at bay instead of letting it consume everything.

I look at her, searching her face for any sign of weakness, any crack in her resolve. But all I see is the woman she’s become. The one who can look at death and not draw back. The one who stands between me and a boy who doesn’t deserve to die.

I don’t know what to do.

I take a slow breath, the gravity of the decision settling in my chest.

“You know he can’t just walk free,” I warn her, my voice tight, but not unkind.

She steps closer to me, blocking my view of the boy. “Then keep him as leverage,” she says. “But not a corpse.”

I look at her, my mind racing. She’s right, of course. This kid can be a tool. A pawn. But that doesn’t mean he has to die tonight.

I turn to Ethan, who’s standing further down the hallway, waiting for the signal. I give him the nod. “Take him,” I say. “Lock him down. If he speaks, I want every name.”

Ethan moves with efficiency, his grip firm as he yanks the boy away from the wall. The kid stays limp, offering no resistance. He knows it’s over.

I turn back to Calista, a quiet respect rising in me. For the way she handled herself. For the decision she made.

As we exit the warehouse, it burns behind us, a dark inferno lighting up the night sky. The fire crackles in the distance, sending a plume of smoke into the air, mingling with the orange glow that seems to swallow the night.

I’m covered in blood—none of it my own.

Calista stands beside me, breathing hard, her hair matted against her face, her clothes stained. But it’s not the blood that catches my attention. It’s the way she stands there, her shoulders squared, her gaze focused on the fire as if it’s the only thing that matters.

She doesn’t glance away. Not from the blood, not from the destruction, not from the aftermath.

“You didn’t flinch,” I say, my voice quieter now, almost as if I’m speaking to myself. But I can’t stop myself from looking at her.

She turns her head slowly, her eyes locking onto mine. “I’m not here to,” she says, her voice low and firm. “I’m here to finish this.”

I step closer, brushing soot off her cheek, my fingers lingering, not ready to let go. This thing between us isn’t just chemistry, its combustion.

I can feel it. And I know she feels it too.

And right now, it’s all that matters. More than the vengeance we’ve just tasted. More than the blood that’s spilled.

---