Nathaniel stumbled backward, staring at the impossible.
Benedict Black. Alive. Whole. Smiling like death had been just a long, cruel joke at his expense.
"You," Nathaniel rasped. "You're dead."
Benedict chuckled, low and cold. "Death is for cowards, son. You should know better."
Behind him, the tanks hissed, the glass fogging with the breath of sleeping monsters—the Widowmakers 2.0. Better. Stronger. Deadlier.
Nathaniel's stomach twisted.
"You built all this?" he demanded.
"No," Benedict said, stepping closer. "You did. You just didn't know it."
He tapped the side of Nathaniel's head. "You and your little rebellion? All part of the plan. The Vault? A distraction. Lorena's 'death'? Theater."
Nathaniel's fists clenched. "You used me."
"You were born to be used," Benedict said softly. "Just like them."
He gestured to the sleeping assassins in the tanks.
Perfect weapons.
No conscience.
No mercy.
No choice.
Above, the opera house crumbled into chaos.
Alfreda shoved through the wreckage, heart hammering. The entire building groaned under the weight of betrayal and bombs.
She caught a glimpse of Lorena, slipping away through a secret passage.
Coward.
Celeste fired another shot and missed.
"Where's Nathaniel?" Alfreda screamed.
Celeste pointed to the yawning pit in the floor. "Down there. With God knows what."
Alfreda didn't hesitate.
She dove in.
Nathaniel backed away as Benedict advanced.
"You think you're free?" Benedict said. "You think love, rage, loyalty—any of it matters?"
He smiled, a dead thing's smile.
"You're just meat wearing dreams, Nathaniel."
Nathaniel's lip curled. "Maybe."
He raised his gun.
"But meat can still bite."
He fired.
The bullet tore through Benedict's shoulder, spinning him backward.
But the bastard laughed even as he bled.
"Good," Benedict snarled, advancing again. "Show me teeth, boy."
Alfreda hit the ground hard, pain shooting up her legs.
She heard the gunshot.
Heard the laughter.
And she ran toward it.
Through the tanks.
Past the monsters.
Toward her monster.
Nathaniel lunged at Benedict, gun discarded, fists swinging.
The two collided like tectonic plates, a father and son tearing each other apart.
Flesh.
Bone.
Blood.
Nathaniel fought with every ounce of fury he had, but Benedict fought like a man who had nothing left to lose—and worse, a man who didn't care if he lived to see the end.
Alfreda skidded around the last corner just in time to see Benedict slam Nathaniel against a tank.
The glass cracked.
The thing inside twitched.
"No!" she screamed.
She hurled a dagger—perfect, clean, lethal.
It buried itself in Benedict's side.
He turned, eyes wild, and grinned at her.
"My son's whore," he sneered. "Welcome to the family reunion."
Alfreda's knives sang in her hands.
"Yeah," she said, voice like ice. "And guess what? I brought the party favors."
She pressed a small device in her palm.
Tanks began to beep.
Red lights flashed.
The countdown began.
Above them, Ezra saw the floor start to implode.
"Son of a bitch," he breathed, and bolted for the exit, dragging Celeste with him.
The entire opera house was about to come down—and he wasn't about to become a footnote in someone else's tragedy.
In the pit, Nathaniel wrenched himself free, panting, bloody, alive.
He grabbed Alfreda's hand.
"We have to go," she said.
He stared at his father, still grinning even as he bled out.
"This isn't over," Benedict promised.
Nathaniel leaned close.
"It is for you."
And with that, he and Alfreda ran.
The tanks exploded first.
Then the walls.
The opera house didn't collapse gracefully—it screamed as it died, vomiting fire and smoke into the night sky.
Nathaniel and Alfreda burst into the freezing air just as the ground buckled behind them.
They hit the asphalt hard, rolling, gasping.
And watched the Widowmaker's cradle burn to ash.
Ezra's car screeched up beside them.
Celeste leaned out the window, wild-eyed.
"Get in!" she screamed.
Nathaniel shoved Alfreda inside, followed a second later by himself.
Ezra floored it, tires screaming.
Behind them, the Widowmakers' legacy turned to rubble.
Nathaniel leaned his head back against the seat, chest heaving.
Alfreda touched his blood-slicked hand.
"You okay?" she asked.
Nathaniel laughed—a raw, broken sound.
"No."
A beat.
"Good."
Far, far away, in a hidden room beneath another city, Lorena Black watched the opera house burn on a dozen different screens.
She sipped champagne, eyes gleaming.
"Now," she said softly, "we see who survives."
Beside her, a small boy sat playing with a knife.
A boy with Nathaniel's eyes.
A boy no one knew existed.
Yet.
Lorena smiled down at him.
"My precious little king," she whispered.
"Time to build a new empire."