Chapter 77

Chapter 77
The night was cold, the air thick with the scent of rain and asphalt. Mika pulled her hood lower over her face, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her leather jacket. Beside her, Seamus moved with his usual lethal grace, his presence more shadow than man as they navigated the back alleys of the city.
They weren’t hunting in broad daylight. They weren’t looking in places where people would be missed. They needed bodies, and there were only so many places you could find the kind of people no one would search for.
A crumbling motel sat at the edge of the district, its neon sign flickering weakly. The kind of place that housed the forgotten—the addicts, the drifters, the desperate. It was the perfect hunting ground.
Mika’s voice was low as they neared the entrance. “We need two. Men. Close enough in height, in build. Once the fire burns, they won’t be able to tell the difference.”
Seamus nodded, his eyes scanning their surroundings. “We don’t just need bodies,” he murmured. “We need ghosts. People the Syndicate won’t ask questions about.”
They stepped inside, the stench of sweat, rot, and cheap liquor pressing in from all sides. The motel’s lobby was barely occupied, a half-asleep clerk hunched over the desk, a flickering television playing static in the background.
They moved through the hallway, past doors barely hanging on their hinges, past the distant hum of voices lost in their own tragedies. The place reeked of desperation, of people who had long since given up.
Mika stopped at a door marked 7C. Her fingers brushed the surface, feeling the uneven ridges of scratched paint. She turned to Seamus. “This one.”
He didn’t question her. He never did.
Seamus tested the doorknob. Unlocked.
They stepped inside.
The room was dimly lit, the sickly yellow glow of a single bulb casting shadows across the peeling wallpaper. The stench of stale cigarettes and unwashed bodies filled the space. Two men were sprawled across the dingy mattress, one passed out, the other barely awake, a needle still stuck in the crook of his arm.
Mika moved first.
Before the barely conscious man could react, she was on him, her blade pressing just under his jaw, her other hand clamping over his mouth. His body tensed, fingers twitching, but he was too weak to fight. Too far gone.
Seamus handled the other one. A single, swift movement—a sharp snap, and it was over.
The man beneath Mika let out a muffled whimper, his bloodshot eyes widening in realization. He tried to struggle, but she held firm, her grip steady, her voice a whisper in his ear.
“Shh,” she soothed, her tone eerily calm. “It’ll be over soon.”
A shudder rolled through his body. A last, desperate plea in his eyes before Seamus moved behind him and ended it with brutal efficiency.
Mika exhaled slowly, sitting back on her heels as the body slumped forward. The room was quiet again. Just the sound of the flickering bulb, the distant voices beyond the door, the slow hum of the city outside.
Seamus wiped his hands on a rag, his gaze flickering toward her. “We need to move them.”
She nodded, standing. “No one will look for them?”
Seamus’ smirk was humorless. “They were already dead.”
They worked quickly.
The bodies were stripped, their features examined one last time for any resemblance. Clothes were swapped, personal belongings discarded. By the time they were finished, the illusion was nearly perfect. Once the fire did its job, there would be nothing left to question.
Mika wiped her blade on the sheets, then glanced up at Seamus. “We’re really doing this.”
He held her gaze for a long moment, then nodded. “Yeah. We are.”
She let out a slow breath, steadying herself. Then, without another word, they dragged the bodies out into the night.
The bunker was silent when they returned.
The plan was set. The bodies were secured, the final pieces in place. Tomorrow, the world would believe they were dead.
But tonight—tonight, they were still here.