[color=gray] [img]https://i.imgur.com/RUeksDd.jpeg[/img] [Center][h2][color=goldenrod]Dominic Blackmoor[/color][/h2][/center] [center][color=black][sup]____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________[/sup][/color][/center] [center][color=goldenrod][b]Location:[/b][/color] Abandoned Warehouse • [color=goldenrod][b]Time:[/b][/color] Dusk[/center] [center][color=goldenrod][b]Interactions:[/b][/color] N/A • [color=goldenrod][b]Mentions:[/b][/color] [@Infinite Cosmos] Lucian, [@deegee] Kessler,[@Potter] Tessa[/center] [center][color=black][sup]____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________[/sup][/color][/center] [center][youtube]https://youtu.be/XpErZYnqMDU[/youtube][/center] The warehouse was cold, tonight. Not from the rain seeping through its rusted seams, or the wind that slipped beneath the door and sighed across the concrete, but from the silence. That made it a kind of cold that went deeper than bones. But it was dark too. In the entire vast warehouse, a single light burned above one…specific spot. Old, yellowed, swaying faintly from a pipe overhead, that light cast shadows that moved more than they should. Beneath it sat a chair, and in that chair sat a man. Or what was left of him. He had been bound, wrists and ankles lashed tight with chains, head slumped forward as if in sleep. But there was no rest in the way he sagged, no peace in the mess that had been made of him. His chest was flayed open in strips, raw and blackened in places where something hot had kissed the skin again and again. Fingers missing. Teeth scattered across the floor like forgotten pennies on the ground. His face... torn, partially peeled, brutalized until it barely resembled the man it once belonged to. But the [b]cut[/b] was still there. That aged and worn leather vest that had seen years of wear, tear, and pride. It was tattered, soaked through with blood, but unmistakable. The Iron Fangs patch front and center, loud and proud, just like Logan always wore it. Dominic Blackmoor sat across from him, silent, unmoving, his broad shoulders hunched forward on a crate dragged in from the dark. One boot flat against the ground, one arm resting on his knee, the other curled loosely in his lap. His head was tilted just slightly, eyes fixed on the body, storm-gold and quiet, the light above painting slow shadows across his beard. He had been there for a while, and he hadn’t spoken when they first brought him to the body. He just motioned for the others to leave, and out of respect for him…out of respect for Logan, they did so without question. Still, he hadn’t spoken. Not yet. It should have taken time to recognize him with the way he was mangled and covered in his own viscera. But Dominic hadn’t needed much. He’d known before they told him…before the body was even cold. Somehow he could just [i]feel[/i] it. The ring still clinging to what was left of his hand was just the verification. The proof of what he already knew, what he was so fucking afraid would be true. Logan Delaney. His second. Dominic’s “Red Right Hand”, as he always called himself. His brother in every way that mattered. Dominic reached into the inside of his coat and pulled out an old cloth. It was faded and worn smooth at the edges. He unfolded it slowly, then leaned forward with a patience that didn’t match the ache burning behind his ribs. There was a smear of blood just below Logan’s eye. Dried, dark, and thick. Dominic touched it with the cloth, wiped it gently, then again…moving in careful circles. [color=goldenrod]“You were strong,”[/color] he murmured, his voice low and rough, barely more than a breath. Not even really a whisper. [color=goldenrod]“I know you fought. I bet you made them pay for every second.”[/color] He wiped a bit more from Logan’s cheek, though the damage there was too deep for cleaning to matter. Still, he tried. [color=goldenrod]“I should’ve been here,”[/color] he said softly, the words sinking like stones in his soul. [color=goldenrod]“I should’ve known.”[/color] There was no vampire stench in the air. No sour, floral rot. No magic clinging to the walls like old perfume. Whoever had done this wasn’t one of them. Dominic could’ve smelled it from the door. This wasn’t a kill for hunger. This was cruelty, pointed and personal. This was someone sending a message. It was the third time this year a wolf had been found like this. The third stolen from them, the third one desecrated, buried without answers. But this one... this one carved deeper. Logan had been a part of every plan, every war, every dream. He had kept the Irons steady when Dominic faltered, had seen to the youngbloods, had laughed loud and thrown fists when needed, always the last to leave and the first to bleed. There was no one more loyal. Dominic swallowed hard. He hadn’t cried since the night he ended his father’s reign of terror and assumed his place as Alpha. But now, in the stillness, his eyes burned and blurred, and a single tear slipped down the side of his face. It fell onto the cloth, but there was no acknowledgment of it…he didn’t even stop wiping. [color=goldenrod]“You hated when they called you soft,”[/color] he said after a while. [color=goldenrod]“But you were, old man. You cared more than you let on…always did.”[/color] The words caught in his throat, twisted there, stuck between sorrow and rage. His hand trembled, just slightly, as he wiped another smear of blood from Logan’s brow, then brushed his hair back behind one ear. [color=goldenrod]“I see you, brother,”[/color] he whispered. He sat there for a long time after that, just breathing. Just... being. Then he reached down, took Logan’s hand in both of his, and slowly slid the ring from his finger. The weight of it in his palm felt like a final word. He stared at it for a moment, then turned it over and slipped it onto his own hand, where it settled against the thick bone too tight but exactly where it belonged now. [color=goldenrod]“Your hunt is over,”[/color] Dominic said, his voice raw now, gravel and thunder held back by force of will. [color=goldenrod]“Time to rest.”[/color] He stood. Carefully, with reverence, he reached down and unbuckled Logan’s vest, peeled it from his ruined frame, and folded it with both hands, pressing it flat against his chest as if the weight of it might keep him grounded. He turned toward the door. The metal groaned softly as it opened, and the scent of rain spilled in from outside. A shadow crossed the threshold. A woman stepped in, her hair was pulled back tight, face drawn and red-rimmed, jaw clenched to keep from breaking again. She wore her cut over a dark hoodie, and her eyes were burning red from the tears. She met Dominic’s eyes, and something in her face cracked. He said nothing, just stepped forward and rested one large hand on her shoulder. He didn’t squeeze, didn’t pull her in. Just let the weight of his touch settle there like a promise. She was a youngblood, new to the pack. [color=goldenrod]“I’m proud of you,”[/color] he said quietly. [color=goldenrod]“I hope you know that.”[/color] She nodded once, her eyes brimming again. [color=goldenrod]“But we can’t mourn. Not yet. It’s not time. We’ve got work to do.”[/color] Her lips parted, but nothing came out. So he spoke again… This time, she would have to speak. [color=goldenrod]“How many people know?”[/color] he asked her [color=Thistle]“Just you,”[/color] she said. [color=Thistle]“me...and the newbloods who found him.”[/color] [color=goldenrod]“Keep it that way. At least for tonight. I want to be able to tell Tessa myself.”[/color] He paused, glancing back at the body one last time, his jaw tightening. [color=goldenrod]“Get Kessler and Lucian here. I need them. He would’ve wanted them here.”[/color] She hesitated, then turned to go. [color=goldenrod]“And,”[/color] Dominic added, voice barely audible, [color=goldenrod]“have them bring a bottle of Walker… Red Label.”[/color] There was silence, but her nod stood as promise. [color=goldenrod]“It was Logan’s favorite. He deserves one last drink.”[/color] The woman left, and Dominic Blackmoor stood alone again, a bloody and folded vest in his hands, a storm at his back, and a quiet rage in his chest that burned hotter than hell itself.[/color]