The warehouse burned.

It wasn't an explosion. Not like the motel. This was slower. Hungrier. The kind of fire that remembered what it was destroying.

Flames coiled up the side of the old Jaeger & Campbell sign, peeling away the paint in blistering layers. Max had painted that sign himself. Two coats, in the rain, laughing with Ethan on a scaffold made of milk crates. They'd nearly broken their necks setting it up. Spent an entire night drinking warm beers to celebrate.

Now the wood groaned. The bolts popped. The letters curled and died.

Max kept walking.

His legs barely moved in straight lines. Every breath rasped like it was dragging glass. His coat was torn. One eye swelling. His ribs felt cracked. Maybe broken. He didn't care. All his strength went into keeping Captain Hawthorn upright.

The man was half-conscious, armour scorched, blood dripping from a wound near his hip. His knife – that knife – hung from a lanyard at his thigh, still glowing faintly red like it remembered cutting something it shouldn't have.

They limped down the alley behind the lot, past the rusted fences and graffiti-covered bins. The quiet backstreets of Redfern felt too normal. Too peaceful. A cat stared at them from a windowsill as they passed. Someone's laundry swayed gently in the breeze.

Max felt like he was bleeding into a world that didn't know the war had started.

They collapsed against the back of a brick wall, near an old shipping container stacked on crates. Max eased Hawthorn down gently, back against the wall, trying not to let the weight of failure crush him.

His hands trembled.

His eyes stung.

He wasn't sure if it was smoke or something else.

The warehouse was still visible behind them. The roof had caved in. The training rig was gone. The whiteboard where Victor used to doodle awful diagrams – ashes. The classroom where they trained school kids in fire safety – ash. The office. Ethan's office.

Gone.

Max knelt, chest heaving.

This wasn't just a loss. It was the loss. This was the last place that had still belonged to him. The last thing he'd built. The last good thing he hadn't managed to screw up.

"I failed him," Max muttered.

Hawthorn groaned beside him. "You didn't fail."

"I left him. Victor. I left him."

"You didn't have a choice."

Max stared at the blood on his hands. Not Victor's. Not Ethan's. Not even Hawthorn's. Just… blood. Too much of it.

"I swore I'd protect them."

"And you're still breathing."

Max's jaw clenched. "That's not the same thing."

Hawthorn coughed. His voice was dry, hoarse. "You didn't fail, Jaeger. You survived Kimaris. No one does that. You dragged my ass out when you could've run. You chose not to."

"I didn't save Ethan."

Hawthorn's eyes flicked toward him. "Ethan… Ethan wasn't there anymore."

Max flinched.

Hawthorn continued, voice quiet now. "Whatever Kimaris did to him, it undid who he was. That man wasn't your captain. He was a message in a bottle. A recording on loop. You couldn't have saved him."

Max looked away. The fire reflected in a puddle near his boot. For a second, he saw himself there – not as he was, but as a shadow hunched in front of a pyre. Someone who had nothing left but the will to keep walking.

"You know what hurts the most?" Max whispered. "I didn't cry. I didn't freeze. I didn't break. I just moved."

"Then that's what makes you dangerous," Hawthorn said. "Because the world needs someone who moves."

They sat in silence for a long time.

Finally, Hawthorn shifted, wincing. "There's a safehouse. About five blocks east. Behind a laundromat with blue signage. White door. Code is 742-Alpha-Jaeger."

Max glanced at him. "They named the code after me?"

"You're not special," Hawthorn grunted. "Just memorable. Like a grenade that talks too much."

Max snorted once, then stood. His body screamed in protest, but he ignored it. He reached down, grabbed Hawthorn under the arm, and helped him up again.

"Think you can walk?"

"I'll walk when I'm dead."

"That's not how that works."

"Sure it is. You just stop falling."

Together, they limped down the alley, leaving behind the fire, the blood, and the warehouse that once meant second chances.

Max didn't look back.

But his hand stayed clenched the whole way forward.

…………………

The safehouse was buried beneath a shuttered laundromat on Cleveland Street – one of the Grimm Institute's older shells, long since written off in the public system. The upstairs was boarded windows and cracked linoleum, but beneath the floor, behind a sealed white door and four inches of dead signal shielding, the silence was thick and still.

Max keyed in the override code Hawthorn had mumbled before passing out, then hauled the captain's bloodied body through the threshold.

A flickering light came on overhead. The place smelled like bleach and copper. One cot. A chipped sink. Steel walls scarred with impact damage from an old fight no one bothered to patch. It was bare, functional, and ugly but safe.

Max eased Hawthorn down onto the cot. The man groaned, one hand pressed to his ribs.

"Easy," Max muttered, reaching for the first aid crate. "You've got two fractures minimum. Probably more. Whatever strength boost that gem gave you, it's gone now."

Hawthorn tried to wave him off. "No med talk. Just... let me breathe."

Max didn't argue.

He stood over the cot a moment longer, then stepped away – toward the back of the room. There was a cracked mirror mounted above the sink. Max didn't look into it. He turned the tap and let water run over his hands until the blood washed off.

Victor was gone.

Ethan – lost again.

And his warehouse, the place where it all began, was burning quietly in the distance. He could smell the ash on his clothes. Could feel it in his throat.

You failed again.

Max stared at the water. Then clenched the tap off with a snap.

A sudden buzz broke the silence.

The communicator on Hawthorn's wrist blinked to life. A burst of static poured from the speaker, too loud, too sharp.

Then – Dan's voice.

"Max. Max, is that you?!"

Max turned, already stepping closer.

"Please. If you're out there – Liz is in danger. There's a demon loose. I don't know where Chloe is. Alyssa's gone. I can't find anyone. You have to come. Please—"

The message cut off. Dead static.

Silence followed.

Max's jaw tightened.

Hawthorn sat up slowly, exhaling through his teeth. "That was your guy?"

Max didn't answer right away. He stared at the communicator, heart thudding.

"No," he said finally. "Not him."

Hawthorn's eye narrowed. "That sounded like a perfect match."

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

"It's the way he said it," Max said. "Dan's brave. He's calm under pressure. Even when he's scared, he doesn't panic. He doesn't plead."

He took a slow breath.

"And he wouldn't say Liz is in danger. He'd say she's safe. Because that's what he believes. Because he knows what she means to me."

Hawthorn was silent.

Max dropped into the folding chair, arms resting on his knees. His face looked older in the red emergency light.

"So, what was it?" he asked. "A recording? A mimic? A psychic leak?"

Hawthorn's voice was quiet now. Measured.

"There are things," he said. "Entities that don't need to touch you to get inside. They echo you. Echo fear. Echo need."

Max looked up.

"What kind of things?"

Hawthorn hesitated.

"Not demons. Not exactly," he said. "Not ones you can punch or burn. They reflect you back at yourself. Copy what's weakest. The kind of things Grimm doesn't like to talk about in reports. The kind of things that get buried behind containment doors with no names."

Max swallowed.

"So, it's not Dan calling for help."

"No," Hawthorn said. "But something's definitely using him. Or at least what it thinks he is."

"And that something is inside the Institute?"

Hawthorn nodded once.

Max leaned back in the chair, eyes flicking toward the ceiling.

Dan. Chloe. Alyssa. Liz.

Alone.

"Damn it," he whispered. "I should go. I should—"

"No," Hawthorn interrupted. "You could. But you'd be walking into something that feeds on panic. That message wasn't an SOS. It was bait. And you felt it."

Max didn't speak for a long time.

When he did, it was quieter than before.

"Dan's stronger than that. Chloe's smart. Alyssa doesn't flinch. And Liz… Liz is the reason I started all of this. Still out there, still silent. But I know she's fighting too. Even asleep, she's stronger than anyone gives her credit for. And I'm going to make sure she has a world to wake up to."

He looked at Hawthorn.

"This time, I trust them to handle it."

Hawthorn studied him.

"You sure?"

"No," Max said. "But I'm sure of this – Kimaris still has Victor. And somewhere, Ethan's alive. And I'm not leaving Sydney until I bring both of them home."

The communicator lay silent on the cot.

Max picked it up, switched it off, and set it gently down.

"Hold the line, Dan," he whispered. "I'm holding mine."

…………………

The safehouse was quiet again.

Max sat cross-legged on the floor, working one-handed to rewrap the dressing on his ribs. His shirt lay in a crumpled heap nearby – burnt and bloodstained beyond recognition. The cuts across his side had stopped bleeding, but the bruises were dark and deep, spiralling like constellations across his ribs. Hawthorn lay on the cot, stripped to the waist, half-conscious and groaning as the medical nanite patch on his chest flickered with dull blue light.

Max glanced over.

"You stable?"

Hawthorn gave a half-shrug. "Pain's better than silence."

There was a pause.

Then Max asked, "That dagger of yours. The one that cut Kimaris."

Hawthorn shifted slightly. "What about it?"

"It wasn't soulfire. And it wasn't Institute-made. I've never seen a weapon cut like that before – not even Ferron's work."

Hawthorn exhaled, slow.

"Because it isn't."

He reached under the cot with his good arm, dragging his tactical vest forward. From a hidden sheath in the lining, he pulled the blade.

It looked simple – six inches of dull black steel, no sheen, no runes, no glamour. The hilt was unmarked, wrapped in faded grey cloth. But the moment Max's eyes landed on it, he felt something stir. The same pressure he'd felt when Aamon first coiled into his soul. A cold weight – like being watched by something that hadn't breathed in centuries.

Max didn't reach for it.

Hawthorn laid it across his lap.

"I didn't buy power," he said quietly. "Didn't sell my soul for money. Or strength. Or immortality."

He looked up at Max, face pale.

"I bought this."

Max blinked. "You made a demon contract... for a knife?"

"Not just any knife." Hawthorn's voice was low. "One blade. One purpose. I was twenty-one. Barely survived a rift incursion in Jakarta. Watched my whole squad get folded in half by something with mouths on its knees. I was the only one who made it back. And I didn't want that ever happening again."

He tapped the weapon gently with two fingers.

"So, I called one. Not a Lord. Not even a Corrupter. Just a Fiend – old, half-mad, starved for centuries in the lower rings. Barely clever enough to speak. But still dangerous."

Max said nothing.

Hawthorn continued, voice quiet. "It asked what I wanted. I told it the truth: I wanted a weapon. Not power. Not money. Just a blade that would never fail. No enchantments, no theatrics – just one strike that always found blood. One knife that could cut through demon-kind. Every time."

He held the blade up to the light. It didn't shine. It drank the light.

"The contract activated like they always do – my soul lit up, power surged... and the Fiend lunged, ready to devour me the moment it was done."

Max's jaw tensed. "And you killed it."

Hawthorn nodded once. "First thing this knife ever tasted."

The silence that followed wasn't empty. It had weight.

Max watched Hawthorn's cloudy white aura flicker.

"The moment I drove it in," Hawthorn said, "I felt something. The blade took the kill. Took something from the demon. Like... the act of death itself made it stronger. That's the trick no one tells you – demon contracts are a doorway. But what you do afterward defines the shape of what's inside."

He passed Max the blade.

Max took it – carefully. The steel was cold, colder than anything that should be inert. It didn't vibrate or whisper. But it watched him.

Hawthorn continued. "Not all contracts are made for power. Some are made for certainty. Excalibur? Demon-forged. Odin's eye? Sold for knowledge. Soulsteel itself—Ferron's whole damn forge – built on a contract."

He let that hang.

"You want to win against Kimaris? A Demon Lord? Anyone that plays beyond the skin of the world? You're going to need more than fire. You're going to need certainty."

Max stared at the blade.

"So, what – you're offering me this?"

"No." Hawthorn shook his head. "I'm warning you. Everything has a price. Even faith. Even hope."

Max handed the blade back. Slowly. Respectfully.

"I'm done making deals," he said. "I already gave up too much."

Hawthorn tucked the blade away again.

"You say that now," he murmured. "But desperation's a door. And you're knocking."

Max stood.

"Maybe. But if I go through... I'm dragging Victor and Ethan back with me."

…………………

Morning broke slow and grey over the safehouse, casting faint light through the reinforced windows. The place was tucked into the bustle of Surry Hills, just outside of the Sydney CBD – one of the old Institute hideouts Hawthorn remembered. Max hated how peaceful it felt. Quiet never meant safe.

He sat at the kitchen table, shirt off, fresh bandages wrapped tight across his chest and side. His ribs still throbbed, but at least the bleeding had stopped. Max now healed unnaturally fast. Hawthorn moved nearby, slower than usual, one arm in a sling and bruises blooming across his torso.

Max stared into a cup of black coffee gone cold. The silence between them wasn't awkward – it was heavy. Shared.

Hawthorn broke it first.

"You still thinking about the call?"

Max didn't look up. "Dan's not the type to panic. Not like that."

Max remembered the first time he met Dan. Quiet. He carried that quietness when he was finding his feet after April's death. But now? Dan had walked through hell and stayed standing.

"I don't care if it was a copy, a clone, or some demon-born trick – it wasn't Dan. But it sounded like him."

"And it wasn't," Hawthorn said. "You made the right call. You trusted him to hold the line."

Max nodded once, jaw tight. "Now it's my turn to do the same."

A knock came at the door.

Sharp. Measured. Three beats.

Both men froze.

Max moved first, retrieving a kitchen knife – not enchanted, not even sharp but it would do. Hawthorn grabbed his coat and unlatched the door, opening it just a crack.

No one stood outside.

Just a box.

Rough wood. Unmarked.

Hawthorn knelt and examined it without touching. "Any runes?"

"No aura signature," Max muttered. "But it stinks of blood."

They brought it inside, placed it gently on the table.

Hawthorn peeled the lid open.

Inside was a black velvet cloth. Thick. Heavy. Soaked in something dark.

Max pulled it back.

His breath caught.

A toe.

Victor's.

Still fresh. The nail cracked. The skin torn unevenly.

Max didn't speak.

There was a note.

Red ink. Written on a square of torn wallpaper.

You're late. Bring fire. Come alone. I'll be watching through him.

Max folded the paper without a word and slipped it into his pocket.

The toe stayed in the box.

He stood, slowly, fire crawling faintly along his knuckles, coiling around the rage.

Max leaned on the counter, eyes narrowing. "How the hell did he find us?"

Max stopped.

His brow furrowed, then his expression darkened.

"He shouldn't be able to," Hawthorn said. "This place is off-grid. Shielded. No aura trace."

"He still found it. Just like the last place," Max said. "Same pattern. Same timing."

Max's throat tightened. "He's tracking us."

"Tracking you," Hawthorn corrected. "Me, I'm just a bonus. But he's locked on to something in you, Jaeger. Something he can smell. Your soul maybe? Or the way Aamon sits inside you."

Max's voice went flat. "I'm naked to him."

"He sees your trail even when you think you're clean," Hawthorn said. "That's why he doesn't need to rush. You light the sky up every time you breathe."

Max's hand tightened into a fist.

"Except…" he said, slowly, "...except in London. When I was in The Burrow. Inside the Grimm Institute. He couldn't track me there."

Max nodded. "Deep warding. Layered soulfields. That was the only time he lost me."

"So, he's not omniscient," Hawthorn said. "Just relentless."

Max looked at the toe again, rage simmering under his skin. "Stealth's off the table."

"Was it ever on the table?"

"I was hoping," Max muttered. "But this? It's an invitation. A leash. And he's already pulling."

"What's the play?"

Max turned toward the window. Smoke still rose faintly in the distance – from what used to be his warehouse. From what used to be his old life.

He flexed his hand. Fire bloomed from his knuckles, steady and golden.

"I walk in through the front door," Max said. "No tricks. No shadows. Just fire."

Hawthorn raised an eyebrow. "You're done hiding?"

Max didn't blink.

"I was never good at it anyway."

…………………

The safehouse had fallen quiet again.

Max stood in the hallway, leaning against the frame of the bathroom door, steam curling from his shoulders. He had washed the blood off, but not the weight.

The fire hadn't left him. Not entirely. It pulsed now beneath his skin, slow and ready. Not rage – resolve.

Back in the main room, Hawthorn sat at the table, rebandaging his ribs. His movements were tight. Precise. The pain hadn't dulled his soldier's grace.

Max dropped into the chair opposite and placed his communicator on the table.

"We leave at nightfall," he said.

Hawthorn didn't ask where.

He didn't need to.

They both knew the road was already set.

"We'll take the back roads through Camden," Hawthorn said. "There's a service route toward the Hunter region. The farmhouse is probably off-grid, isolated. Bad reception. No surveillance. Perfect for a butcher."

Max nodded slowly. "We don't play it smart. We play it loud."

"You know that there's no backup coming."

"I know. We're on our own."

Max looked up. "We always were."

They sat in silence for a while.

Outside, birds cried into the wind. A storm was gathering at the edge of the hills.

Max opened the box again – not to stare at the toe, but at the message.

Bring fire. Come alone. I'll be watching through him.

He folded it again, tighter this time.

"I should have saved him," he said, softly.

Hawthorn glanced over. "You did your best."

"Best wasn't enough."

"No," Hawthorn said. "But it was better than most. And this time—"

He stood, slow but steady.

"This time, you're not going in alone."

Max didn't answer.

He stood too.

Hawthorn offered a short nod.

Max returned it.

They began gathering supplies – old gear, blades, fire-damp cloth. Max checked the canister of tear gas, tucked spare wraps for his chain. Hawthorn loaded extra rounds. Quiet preparation.

Max sat on the edge of the bed and reached for the soulforged chain.

He didn't rush. He didn't need to. The blackened metal shimmered faintly in the light – etched with Ferron's glyphs, still scorched from the last fight. Each loop remembered blood. Not just memory – contact. The kind of steel demons feared, even when quiet.

He held the first coil in his hand for a moment.

Then, slowly, he began to wrap it around his forearm.

One loop. Then another.

Every turn bit tighter against his skin, imprinting cold steel against the heat that never left his bones. By the third wrap, the pain was gone. By the fourth, it felt like armour.

He bound it to himself like a promise.

No words. Just metal. Just fire.

When he finished, the chain was silent.

But Max wasn't.

He stood, and his breath was steady.

He was ready.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.