Rain lashed against the windows of a seedy Saint–Denis hostel. Zane Blackthorn huddled on a stained mattress, the reek of mildew and cheap disinfectant thick in the air. Neon signs bled through grimy glass, painting his gaunt face in garish, shifting colors.
On the nightstand, his phone glowed–a fifteenth debt–collection text:
[48 HOURS. OR FOR CONCRETE OVERSHOES.]
His trembling hand found a half–empty bottle of rotgut whiskey. The burn down his throat mirrored the fire on the flickering TV screen:
[Ivy Callahan arrested in Helvemont for transnational fraud and money laundering. Stolen funds
exceed €230 million…]
The broadcast cut to Veridian Police Headquarters. Ivy, handcuffed, her once–perfect curls a wild tangle. When reporters shouted questions about the missing millions, she suddenly shrieked at the
cameras.
“Zane Blackthorn ordered it! All transactions went through HIM!”
The bottle slipped from Zane’s grip, whiskey soaking into the threadbare carpet. He stared at her
contorted face, hearing her last threat echo.
“Hurt me? The Blackthorn Empire becomes my funeral pyre!”
She’d kept her promise.
His phone buzzed–a bank email:
[BLACKTHORN GROUP SHARES LIQUIDATED. ASSETS FORFEITED.]
The century–old empire was erased.
Fists hammered the door. Heavy–accented roared, “Blackthorn! Open up or we torch this shithole
with you inside!”
Zane staggered to his feet. The fly–specked mirror showed a ghost–hollow eyes, streaks of premature gray in unwashed hair, the rancid stench of his ruined Brioni suit clinging like a shroud.
Glass shattered. A torch flew through the window, flames licking up the curtains. Zane grabbed his coat and bolted–colliding in the hallway with stone–faced debt collectors.
“48 hours are up, Blackthorn,” the leader smirked. “Where’s the cash?A switchblade kissed his
throat.
“Boss says final chance.” The blade bit deeper. “You spoiled that Callahan bitch. Get her stolen millions for us… or bleed out in this hallway.”
Zane’s laugh was a broken wheeze. “Find her yourself. Veridian Women’s Prison.” Blood welled hot beneath the steel. “You’ve already taken… everything else.”
Police sirens pierced the night.
“Merde! Cops!” The thugs vanished into smoke–stairwells.
Zane slid down the wall, fingers pressed to his bleeding neck. A sob tore loose–then became a raw,
gasping laugh.
“I was wrong…” He choked into his palms. “God, I was wrong…”
Veridian Women’s Prison – Same Night
Ivy Callahan crouched in a visitation room corner, her manicure chipped, foundation streaked.
When the guard stated no lawyer would take her case, she exploded.
“DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?” Water from her plastic cup splashed surveillance cameras. “I’M THE
FUTURE MRS. BLACKTHORN! WHEN I GET OUT—”
The guard’s syringe plunged into her arm.
As chemical fog swallowed her mind, Ivy glimpsed her reflection in the safety glass:
Hair like straw. Bloodshot eyes sunk in grayish hollows. The silk dresses replaced by orange prison
scrubs.
Was this her? The woman who’d made Zane Blackthorn grovel?
The steel door clanged shut. Darkness ate her screams.
Chapter 21: Jailhouse Reflection
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