The first gunshot cracked through the brothel like the sound of a bone snapping, a sharp, jarring noise that shattered the uneasy silence hanging in the air. In the span of a heartbeat, stillness turned to chaos. The gilded halls, once echoing with sultry laughter and whispered seductions, erupted into a battlefield of screaming voices, the acrid scent of gunpowder, and the unrelenting thunder of gunfire.
Vincent remained in the shadows of the alleyway, his expression unreadable, his dark eyes fixed on the carnage unraveling before him. He was no soldier in this war, but he had been its architect. A quiet, calculating force that had maneuvered the right people into place, whispered in the ears of those with grudges to bear, and loosened the chains of a long-simmering vendetta. Now, he stood as a silent witness while the empire of Madame Dupont collapsed into a storm of violence and destruction.
The first wave of attackers struck like a hammer, brutal and unrelenting. These were men with vengeance carved into their bones, with debts of blood waiting to be settled. Some had suffered under Dupont's rule, their families ruined, their loved ones taken. Others were opportunists, sensing weakness and descending like vultures to pick apart the remains. And a few—perhaps the most dangerous—simply enjoyed watching the world burn.
The first bodies fell just outside the entrance, two guards cut down before they could even unholster their weapons. The scent of iron filled the air as warm blood splattered across the cobblestones. The attackers surged forward, pistols barking, knives flashing in the dim light. The grand parlor, the heart of the brothel's luxury, became a battlefield.
Dupont's men, well-trained but vastly outnumbered, retaliated with desperate force. Heavy wooden tables were overturned, serving as makeshift barricades. Guns roared from behind their cover, filling the air with the stench of burnt powder. A bottle of absinthe, flung from across the room, shattered against the mahogany bar. A single match followed—tiny, inconspicuous, until the flame kissed the spilled liquor. Fire bloomed instantly, an orange tongue licking its way across the polished wood, casting long, shifting shadows that danced across the walls like specters reveling in the bloodshed.
Upstairs, screams pierced the chaos. The women, caught between the warring factions, ran in blind terror. Some slipped on the blood-slicked floors, hands scrabbling for purchase as they tried to flee. Others had nowhere to run, their paths blocked by men with no regard for their lives.
One of the girls—a delicate, trembling creature barely past girlhood—was seized by a brute of a man, his meaty hand wrapping around her arm like an iron shackle. She was nothing more than a shield to him, a living barrier against the bullets seeking his flesh. But it didn't matter. The gunman aiming at him did not hesitate. The bullet tore through both their chests, a single shot extinguishing two lives in an instant. The girl slumped forward, her body limp, her glassy eyes frozen in an expression of startled horror. The man behind her let out a gurgled exhale before collapsing under her weight, his final breath lost to the sounds of battle.
At the top of the grand staircase, standing like a specter of her own demise, was Madame Dupont. Her usual mask of confidence was eerily still, her face an unreadable canvas as she took in the slaughter unraveling below her. These halls, her kingdom of silk and vice, were being torn apart before her very eyes. She had built this empire with blood, seduction, and cold calculation. And now, it was burning.
Without a word, she turned, her gown flowing behind her as she moved deeper into the brothel. There was no need to stay. This war was already lost. And Madame Dupont had no intention of dying tonight.
Vincent stepped inside.
Smoke curled around his boots, licking up his legs like a living entity drawn to his presence. He moved through the chaos with eerie calm, an unseen force within the inferno he had unleashed. He carried no weapon, but he had never needed one. His mind, sharper than any blade, had already ensured that his enemies would destroy themselves.
A wounded man stumbled past him, both hands clutching a gut wound, blood pooling between his fingers as he gasped raggedly. Vincent did not spare him a glance.
Above him, the grand chandelier swayed precariously. The chains, once strong and secure, trembled under the impact of stray bullets. Shattered crystals rained down like deadly snowflakes, glinting in the flicke ring firelight. But Vincent did not flinch.
The flames were spreading rapidly. It would not be long before the entire structure collapsed, burying everyone inside in a tomb of fire and ruin.
The second wave arrived.
These men were different. More disciplined. More ruthless. They moved with the precision of executioners, their targets clear. Dupont had spent years accumulating enemies in high places, and they had finally come to collect their due.
A man with a jagged scar bisecting his face kicked through a door, raising his shotgun with methodical ease. The blast tore through a cluster of Dupont's men, sending bodies flying backward like ragdolls. Limbs bent at unnatural angles. Blood splattered across the once-elegant velvet wallpaper.
One of Dupont's lieutenants—a man Vincent recognized as a staunchly loyal enforcer—tried to flee. He made it three steps before a bullet pierced his spine, the force knocking him forward. He hit the floor, his hands clawing weakly at the ground as he choked on his own blood.
The scales had tipped. Dupont's empire was crumbling before her very eyes.
And she knew it.
She reached her office, pressing her back against the heavy wooden door as she fought to steady her breath. The room remained untouched—for now. But outside, the battle raged on, inching closer with every passing moment.
She had known, deep in her bones, that this day would come. But never had she expected the betrayal to be so insidious, so well-executed, that she wouldn't see it until it was far too late.
If she was going down, she would not go alone.
Her fingers worked quickly, unlocking a drawer. Beneath stacks of letters and ledgers lay a small, unassuming metal box. She flipped it open.
Inside—one silver key. Her escape. And her vengeance.
But just as she turned to flee, the door burst open with a deafening crash.
And she came face to face with him.
It was Lucien Boudet, her husband.
His eyes burned with the kind of rage that time could not dull, his pistol unwavering as he stepped forward.
"After all these years, you thought I wouldn't find you?" His voice was a razor's edge, cutting through the din. "You took everything from me. Ran like a coward in the night. And now look at you."
Dupont's heart pounded against her ribs. "Please, Lucien listen—"
"No more lies. No more running." His finger hovered over the trigger. "You ruined me. Left me with nothing. Now, it's your turn."
She swallowed hard, her fingers subtly reaching behind her, slipping into the folds of her dress where another pistol lay hidden.
He saw the shift in her stance. "Don't even think about it."
But she did.
The gunfire cracked through the room.
A sharp, searing pain ripped through her shoulder as she stumbled back against the desk. But her own shot had landed true—a clean headshot. Lucien Boudet's body jerked before he crumpled to the floor, lifeless.
She gasped, clutching her shoulder as blood seeped through her gown. There was no time to linger. She turned toward the safe, stuffing jewelry and cash into a small leather bag, her breath coming in short, frantic gasps.
Outside, the battle raged. The fire had spread, black smoke curling through the halls like a vengeful spirit. And then—Vincent.
He appeared in the doorway, his silhouette sharp against the inferno behind him. His expression darkened when he saw her, the gun still clutched in her trembling hands.
And then—his eyes landed on someone else.
Katherine.
For a moment, the world fell silent.
He had not known she was here. The shock paralyzed him for a fraction of a second, before everything came rushing back at once.
He had come here to ensure Madame Dupont never returned to their lives. But now—Katherine was here, caught in the storm he had unleashed.
His heart pounded, his focus narrowing.
And then—the fire roared louder, the chaos swallowing them whole.