Vera was frozen for a breath, her breath coming in quick bursts as if she had just ran a marathon, fingers still locked around the knife’s hilt buried in her brother’s side.
"You were always going to be a problem," she whispered, her face devoid of even the faintest flicker of remorse as she stabbed him even deeper.
Then Patrick staggered backward, one hand clamped over the wound as blood seeped through his fingers. His eyes were wide with disbelief, as if his mind refused to accept that it was his sister who had done this. Then his knees buckled.
Right at that moment, footsteps thundered down the corridor.
"No!"
The scream that rent through the space was as deafening as that as a wailing banshee.
It was Moira. Their mother.
She rushed forward, dropping to her knees just in time to catch Patrick as his strength gave out completely. He collapsed into her arms, his blood soaking into her clothes as she pressed her hands desperately against his wound.
"No, no, no—stay with me," she pleaded, her voice breaking.
Then Moira lifted her head, eyes blazing as they locked onto Vera.
"What have you done?" she screamed.
Vera didn’t flinch. "I did what had to be done," she said coldly. "We always knew Elias was too soft-hearted for this mission. It was only a matter of time. Better we eliminate him than lose everything."
Moira stared at her as if she were looking at a stranger. Then her expression twisted into one of raw fury.
"You fucking psychopath," she spat. "Your brother brought us this far, and now you want to reap where you did not sow?"
The words struck harder than any blow.
Vera froze. "What...?"
But Moira was already turning away from her, shouting, "Joseph! Get help for your brother. Now!"
Joseph moved immediately only for a knife to fly past his face. It slammed into the wall behind him with a sharp thunk, the blade grazing his neck just enough to draw a thin line of blood.
He stilled.
"No one goes anywhere," Vera commanded with a lethal voice. "Elias dies."
"Get the doctors, you moron!" Moira barked, clutching Patrick tighter as the life slowly drained out of him.
Vera’s eyes flicked to Joseph. "Take another step and you die too."
She meant it.
Joseph swallowed hard and stayed where he was.
Silence fell, thick and suffocating.
Moira slowly set Patrick down, his body limp, his breathing shallow and uneven.
Then she rose to her feet.
When she turned back to Vera, something had changed. Her eyes were cold now and merciless.
"You’d fight me?" Moira sneered. "Your own mother?"
Vera did not back down. "The mission is greater than personal needs." She repeated the words Moira herself had drilled into them since childhood. "That was your mantra. Elias left because he knew he was unworthy and weak. I’d rather lose my own brother than face my ancestors knowing I brought them shame."
Moira’s laughter was mocking and hollow.
"Then perhaps I should send you to your ancestors myself. Because a wretch like you is dead to me." Her words landed like a death sentence.
Then Moira slipped her hand into the pocket of her pants and brought out brass knuckles. The metal caught the light as she slid them over her fingers with ease. Her eyes were no longer maternal, now ruthless and focused. It was the eyes of a woman who had long been in the game long before her daughter was born.
Vera reached for the straps at her pants and pulled free a knife, the blade glinting as she spun it once between her fingers before settling into a stance.
So this was how it ended. Her mother’s life or hers. And she had not come this far only to die unfinished.
"Vera—Moira—stop!" Joseph shouted, rushing between them with his arms spread wide. He spoke with desperation. "It doesn’t have to be this! We’re family—"
Vera let out a battle scream and drove her boot into Joseph’s side. He went flying to the side, collapsing in a heap while she launched herself straight at her mother.
Steel met steel.
Moira pivoted, and blocked Vera’s first slash with her forearm, the brass knuckles ringing sharply as they knocked the blade aside. Vera followed with a vicious kick aimed at her ribs, but Moira twisted away, countering with a strike to Vera’s shoulder that numbed her arm on impact.
Vera hissed but didn’t slow down.
She attacked wild and ruthlessly, her knife flashing in deadly arcs meant to kill.
Moira absorbed it all with grim control, deflecting, dodging, and redirecting them. Unlike her daughter’s, her own strikes was calculated —not to kill, but to weaken, and end the fight without ending her daughter.
"You’ve lost your mind," Moira growled, slamming her knuckles into Vera’s wrist.
The knife flew from Vera’s grip, skidding across the floor.
Vera didn’t retreat and slammed her head into Moira’s face. Blood sprayed from Moira’s nose, and she in return, grabbed Vera by the hair and drove her knee into her stomach, knocking the air from her lungs.
Vera staggered and Moira seized the opening.
Her fist connected with Vera’s jaw and the brass knuckles crushed into her bone, sending Vera crashing to her knees.
Vera gasped from the pain, blood spilling from her mouth as she struggled to breathe.
Then her mother stood over her, chest heaving, and knuckles slick with blood.
"Have your senses returned now?" she demanded. "Is this enough?"
For a moment, Vera stayed still and Moira’s shoulders loosened. Except that was her mistake.
Vera moved like lightning.
Her hand shot out, grabbed the fallen knife and slashed behind her mother’s knee with brutal precision.
Moira screamed.
Her leg buckled and she collapsed hard onto the floor, blood pouring freely as pain tore through her. She tried to crawl back, dragging herself away. Vera rose slowly, breathing hard, her eyes burning with triumph and a dark glint.
"When we meet in hell," Vera said coldly, stepping closer, "I’ll atone for my sins."
Moira’s eyes widened in horror.
"No—!" she cried, reaching out.
Vera cut her across the throat without hesitation.
Moira’s hands flew up, pressing desperately against the wound as blood spilled through her fingers. She choked, gurgling, her eyes locked on her daughter’s as life drained from them.
Then she fell still.
Vera Turner stood there, bloodied, staring down at the woman who had raised her, and she felt nothing at all.