Chapter 23: Haunted by Cole (Silas POV)

Nico's been quiet since he got back from seeing Dante, his face pale, words stuck in his throat. "They pulled strings," he'd said, voice low, about his rise, his fall, someone close turning on him. I'm sitting on the loft's mattress, staring at Cole's journal, while he's by the window, lost in his head. My guilt's heavy, worse now, creeping up like it's alive. The crash plays again, tires screaming, Cole's gasp, blood on my hands, and I'm not sure what's real anymore. Did I miss something? Was it my fault, or theirs?

I see him then, clear as day, two years back, in my car, laughing loud, beer can shining in his hand. "We're golden, Silas," he says, grin wide, and I smile, steering easy. Then it shifts, night, rain, him quiet, me distracted, headlights blinding. Metal twists, glass breaks, and he's gone, my yell lost in the dark. I blink, hard, back in the loft, heart pounding, hands shaking. "You okay?" Nico asks, soft, stepping closer. I nod, slow, but it's a lie, Cole's haunting me, and I can't shake it.

I've got a gig tonight, small bar, last-minute thing to keep my head straight. "Going out," I say, loud, grabbing my gear. Nico frowns, fast. "Now?" he asks, voice rough. "Yeah," I say, firm. "Need the noise." He nods, slow, and I'm gone, streets cold, my breath fogging. The bar's packed, lights low, crowd buzzing, and I set up quick, turntables, laptop, old tracks. Harper's here too, slipping in late, eyes sharp, watching me close.

I start spinning, bass thumping, trying to lose myself. The crowd moves, hands up, and for a second, it works, music's my air, my hold. Then the lights flash, red and fast, and my chest tightens, breath catching. The bass warps, turns to tires screeching, and I'm back, car spinning, glass shattering, Cole's blood on the dash. My hands freeze, fumble, the beat stutters, and the crowd quiets, staring. I'm sweating, heart racing, stuck in that crash, not here.

"Silas?" Harper's voice cuts through, loud, her hand on my arm. I blink, fast, bar snapping back, lights, faces, music off. "I'm fine," I say, sharp, pulling away, but my voice shakes, and the crowd's whispering, noticing me fall apart. She steps closer, eyes hard. "You're not," she says, quiet. "What happened?" I turn off the deck, hands trembling, and step back. "Cole," I say, low, barely there. "Keeps hitting me."

She nods, slow, pulling me to a corner, away from eyes. "Tell me," she says, firm, crossing her arms. I breathe deep, shaky, and it spills. "The crash," I say, quiet. "Lights went weird, sounded like it. I can't stop seeing him." Her face softens, just a little, but she's steady. "What if it wasn't you?" she asks, slow. "Not an accident?" My head snaps up, guilt twisting. "What?" I say, loud, stepping closer.

"You've got gaps," she says, sharp. "What don't you remember?" I pace, fast, mind racing, rain, road, him quiet, me laughing, then nothing clear. "I was driving," I say, rough. "Lost it." She shakes her head, fast. "Files said 'eliminated,'" she says. "Journal too. What if they messed with it?" My stomach drops, and I see him again, pale, fidgeting, not himself that night. "He was off," I say, quiet, stopping. "Scared, maybe."

Harper grabs my shoulders, firm. "Think," she says, loud. "Anything else?" I close my eyes, push hard, headlights, too close, too fast, a shadow? "Someone there," I say, slow, unsure. "Before it hit." Her eyes widen, and she nods, quick. "They could've staged it," she says, low. "You didn't see." My chest hurts, guilt shifting, me, or them? I don't know anymore, and it's tearing me up.

The gig's done, crowd thinning, and I pack slow, hands off rhythm, fumbling cords. A guy yells, "What's wrong with you?" and it stings, my music's slipping, unsteady, like me. Harper's still here, watching, quiet now. "You've got to face it," she says, soft, stepping up. "Cole's gone, but this isn't." I nod, slow, feeling the weight, past dragging me down, messing with my beats, my head.

We're outside, air cold, bar lights fading, when my phone buzzes, sharp in my pocket. I pull it out, screen glowing, a text, no number, just words: "You were there, but you still don't see it. Keep digging, and you might." My heart stops, and I stare, cold sinking in. "What's that?" Harper asks, loud, leaning in. I show her, voice gone, and she grabs it, reads fast. "Who sent this?" she says, sharp, looking around.

I shake my head, slow, hands shaking again. "No clue," I say, quiet, staring at the screen. "What don't I see?" Harper's eyes narrow, steady. "Something big," she says, low. "Someone knows." My mind's spinning, Cole, the crash, that night, and I'm lost, desperate, stuck wondering who's watching, what I'm missing, and what's coming next.