Chapter 40: alone
Part 1: The Seduction of Power
The call came at 9:47 PM. Michael Miller was sitting in his cramped apartment, staring at the evidence board he had built on his living room wall. Photos of the Architect. Photos of Noah Carter. Photos of the dead children. The faces stared back at him, accusing, demanding answers he didn't have.
His phone buzzed. Justin.
"Michael, come to my place."
It wasn't a request. It was a command. Michael didn't know why he obeyed. Perhaps it was the exhaustion. Perhaps it was the hunger—the desperate, clawing need to be something more than a detective who had spent thirteen and a half years chasing promotions that never came.
Twenty minutes later, he stood in Justin's apartment. It was sparse, functional, devoid of personality. A place for someone who didn't want to be remembered.
Justin studied him with cold, calculating eyes. "How many years has it been since you were at this post?"
"Thirteen and a half." Michael's voice was flat. "No promotion yet."
"Do you think you lack power?"
The question hung in the air like a blade. Michael felt it cut through every excuse, every rationalization, every lie he had told himself.
"Yes."
Justin smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "Good. Let me tell you something."
He leaned in close, his breath warm against Michael's ear. His voice was calm, cold, precise.
"You can be the Architect."
Michael's heart stopped. "H...how?"
"It's easy. He is dead. I am his subordinate. And Noah is my mate."
The words didn't make sense. They were impossible. But Justin spoke them with such certainty that Michael found himself believing.
"So what can we do now?" Michael asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"One guy is getting killed for sure. Just track Noah's mobile number and get his IP by the telecom antenna there." Justin extended his hand. "Are you ready for this?"
Michael reached out. "Ye—"
Justin cut him off. "It needs excessive care. Just be in exile on a remote island after you become the Architect. Remember, his reputation is not good."
"Yeah yeah." Michael shrugged off the warning. He didn't hear the danger in Justin's voice. He only heard the promise of power.
---
Part 2: The Journey
A day later, Luna Carter boarded a plane at Eldridge Airport. Her destination: Kansas. Her mission: to find Noah. To face him. To learn the truth.
If the allegations were true, this was it for Noah.
Meanwhile, Justin and Michael boarded a different flight. Their destination: Pioneer Square. Their purpose: something that would soon unfold in ways neither could predict. Michael told his colleagues it was a trip. A vacation. A lie so casual it barely registered as a lie at all.
Luna arrived at the farmhouse in the late afternoon. The Kansas sun was low on the horizon, painting the wheat fields in shades of gold and amber. The house was silent. Empty.
She walked through the rooms, her footsteps echoing on the hardwood floors. No Eleanor. No Noah. Just a chair in the living room, and a bullet hole pierced through the back.
Luna knew.
She had assumed Noah's father was dead long ago. And now Eleanor was gone too. The bullet hole told her everything. Noah had killed his own mother.
She didn't cry. She didn't scream. She simply turned and walked out, the door swinging shut behind her.
She took a cab to Hotel Krata—the hotel Noah had told her about. On her way, she saw police cars. Barricades. Yellow tape.
"Why is this area barricaded?" she asked a policeman.
"There has been an accident. Don't talk about it. Just take the other route."
"Ok," Luna agreed.
But she didn't take the other route. This was the shortest path from the farmhouse to the hotel. Noah must have been through this route. The accident must be around Noah.
Her heart pounded. Her hand drifted to the pistol in her bag. She was ready.
---
Part 3: The Hunt
Thirty minutes earlier, the Old Man had arrived at the New Townman Hotel.
He walked through the lobby like a storm front passing over a quiet sea. People fled. The receptionist, a young woman with tired eyes, felt her smile dissolve.
"Is there someone named Noah Carter?"
"No," the receptionist said.
The Old Man cut her off. "Just show me the fucking list."
She gave him the list. He studied it, his clear blue eyes scanning the names, the room numbers, the timestamps. Noah had been at Hotel Krata twenty-six hours ago. He must have left at that time. The rooms booked after that would be his.
There were six: 16, 52, 66, 47, 98, 11.
He would check 16 first. Then 11.
He walked down the corridor, his footsteps deliberate, unhurried. He passed room after room, each door a closed mouth, each number a countdown.
He reached Room 16. He opened the door.
Noah was there.
The rage boiled up inside him—a fuel of anger so intense it threatened to consume him. But he didn't let it show. He smiled.
"Oh son," he said in amusement. He stepped forward and closed the gate behind him.
Noah's face lit up. "Dad! Why didn't you come? It has been so much time!"
He stood up to hug him. The Old Man hugged him back. For a moment, they were just father and son, reunited after years apart.
Then the Old Man took out a knife and stabbed him in the back.
Noah gasped. The Old Man pushed him and threw him on the floor.
"Motherfucker, this is why I fucked myself up for this. This disgrace of a son I have who kills his own mother."
He approached Noah and slammed his head against the wall. "Why did you kill your mother, you motherfucker?" He landed punches on his jaw.
Noah saw an opening—the knee joint, the stomach. He landed a punch to the Old Man's stomach. Then he took out the knife and stabbed it into the Old Man's right leg.
Adrenaline rushed through both of them. Neither said a word.
Noah grabbed his pistol. "I was already prepared for this. Suck my dick."
He fired at the Old Man's head. He missed by inches.
The Old Man landed a headbutt, threw him, got down on his knees to punch him. Noah fired another shot at his left shoulder. The Old Man didn't react. He took the knife away and pointed it at Noah's neck.
Noah aimed the gun. He fired.
But there were no bullets.
He threw the gun and started pushing the knife. He was successful—he got to the floor on his knees. The Old Man stood up and held Noah above his head.
He was about to drop him face first when the flashback came.
---
Part 4: The Flashback
"Papa, can I fly?" Young Noah was just five years old, his eyes wide with wonder.
"Yeah son, let us go to the lawn and then you will fly."
"Will I become Superman?"
"Yes, son. You will be Superman. You are my and Eleanor's Superman. Help people. Be kind, and you don't need powers."
"I want to be Superman right now!" Noah started crying—not a real cry, but a humorous one.
"Yeah yeah, you will be Superman." The Old Man laughed. He held him and lifted the young boy above his hands.
"I am Superman!" Noah said.
---
Part 5: The Fall
The memory hit the Old Man like a physical blow. He could not hold the emotional weight any longer. His arms trembled. His knees buckled.
He fell to his knees and said, emotionally, "I can't."
Noah didn't understand. He couldn't understand. The feeling that gripped his father was something he had never known—a love so profound, a grief so vast, that it paralyzed.
Noah punched him. He held him and slammed him against the wall. He stabbed him in the chest.
And there, in that dingy hotel room, the Old Man was killed by his own blood.
---
Part 6: The Aftermath
The fight was over. The rage faded. The adrenaline drained away.
Noah looked down at his father's body. The knife was still in his hand. The blood was still warm.
And then, the weight of what he had done crashed down on him.
"Sorry paps," he whispered. "Sorry paps. Oh my god, what have I done?"
He clutched the corpse, hugging it tightly. Tears streamed down his face. This feeling was genuine. This grief was real.
He had killed his mother. He had killed his father. He had killed everyone who ever loved him.
He was alone now. Truly alone.
---
Chapter 40 Ends
To Be Continued...
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