Prometheus’ expression hardened. "Give me the gun."
She stood frozen, the weapon trembling in her grip, her eyes wide pools of terror and confusion.
"Give me the fucking gun, you stupid fucking cow!"
The gunshot exploded through the penthouse like a thunderclap, merging with the storm outside. For a moment, everything froze: Lincoln's upraised hand, blood droplets suspended in the air between us, Ana's horrified expression as the weapon bucked in her hands.
Then reality crashed back in as Prometheus’ body jerked sideways, his weight shifting off me. His hand flew to his side where dark crimson bloomed across the pristine white of his shirt, spreading rapidly. His face contorted in disbelief.
"You shot me!" he screeched, his attention swinging to Ana.
That moment of distraction was all I needed. With his weight shifted and his focus on Ana, I finally had the opening I'd been waiting for. Twenty-six years of combat training crystallized into a single, fluid motion.
My hand shot down to my ankle. Fingers closed around the smooth grip of the ceramic blade, the familiar weight of it like an extension of my arm. The fog of pain and flashbacks cleared in an instant, my senses sharpening to predatory acuity.
Prometheus turned back to me just as I drove the knife into him.
Right into his fucking liver.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. His eyes widened, genuine shock replacing the smug superiority that had defined him for so long. His lips parted, a stuttering breath catching in his throat.
Then I twisted the knife.
A strangled noise tore from his throat as I yanked the blade free and drove it into him again. And again. And again.
Each thrust of the blade felt like cutting away a piece of the chains that had bound me for twenty-six years. Blood covered my hands, warm and slick, making the knife handle treacherous to grip. Still I stabbed, even as Prometheus’ struggles weakened, even as the light in his eyes began to dim.
In that moment, I thought of Vincent's touch—how he'd traced my scars with reverence instead of disgust, how he'd shown me I could be loved despite everything I'd done, everything that had been done to me. How he'd given me the strength to finally break free.
I became the eagle. I reclaimed my name.
My entire body shook violently. Adrenaline, trauma, and rage poured through me in waves that threatened to tear me apart. I wasn't even conscious of the sounds tearing from my throat. Not quite screams, not quite sobs, but something primal that came from the deepest part of me. The part that had been silenced for twenty-six years.
"Luka." Ana's voice penetrated the red haze of my fury. "Luka, stop. He's gone."
My arm froze mid-strike, the blade hovering above Lincoln's ruined chest. I stared down at what remained of the man who had shaped my entire existence. His face was slack now, eyes open but unseeing, mouth frozen in that final expression of disbelief.
The knife slipped from my blood-slicked fingers, clattering against the marble floor. The storm outside had quieted. In the sudden silence, my ragged breathing sounded obscenely loud.
I stared down at Lincoln's body, feeling neither triumph nor satisfaction, just a hollow emptiness where years of hatred had burned. The monster who had haunted my nightmares lay dead beneath me, nothing more than a man after all.
Ana dropped to her knees beside me, the gun clattering to the floor from her numb fingers. "I killed him," she whispered, shock evident in her voice. "I actually shot him."
"You saved me," I corrected, my voice raw and unfamiliar to my own ears.
Her eyes met mine, filled with confusion and dawning recognition. "You're really my brother, aren't you?"
I nodded, unable to form words past the knot in my throat. So many years of searching, of mourning, of whispering apologies into the darkness. And here she was, finally recognizing me.
"I remember you," she said, her accent shifting subtly as she spoke, becoming more like my own. Tears spilled down her cheeks. "Luka?"
“I’m here, Ana. It’s me.” I took her hand, twining my bloodstained fingers with hers. She collapsed forward, sobbing, and I held her.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime that seemed bizarrely ordinary given the carnage around us. I moved instinctively, placing myself between Ana and whatever threat approached.
Rhadamanthys stepped into the penthouse alone, his revolver drawn and pointed at the floor. He paused, taking in the scene with a frown. "Luka, what have you done?"
I looked down at Prometheus’ cooling body. “Finished it.”
