South of Falcon Port, now firmly under Draven control, lay the adjacent sprawl of Florek. It was no ordinary district. Here, the River Victory and the Red Creek converged in, their waters feeding the lifeblood of the city's most relentless pulse. Florek was the beating heart of Draven's business: never truly asleep. Casinos blazed with neon promises, nightclubs throbbed, bars spilled laughter and liquor onto the sidewalks. Fashion paraded under electric light, sequins, silk, leather, every hour a performance. They called it the District That Never Slept, and for good reason: the lights never dimmed, the music never stopped, and the money never stopped flowing.
Until tonight. Without warning, the power died. Darkness swallowed Florek whole, black, suffocating. The slot machines froze mid-spin, music cut dead, laughter choked off into confused murmurs. Then came the reason.
Hundreds of men, in packs, moved through the blackout. They poured in on foot from every direction: side alleys, service roads, the narrow cuts between buildings. Trams that had gone silent after the nine o'clock curfew for civilians now groaned back to life, now carrying men in black, packed shoulder to shoulder, rifles slung low, faces hidden beneath wide-brimmed hats and scarves. They came from Crystal Falls to the east, from the High Gate Peaks across the river, breaching the old barriers on the bridges, barriers that had stood for years, marking the jagged line between Draven and Varkis lands.
Alarms shrieked through the district, short, panicked wails that bounced off shuttered windows and locked doors. Residents knew the drill. They retreated without question: windows slammed, bolts thrown, lights snuffed even before the blackout. Families huddled in back rooms, children pressed to mothers' sides, fathers gripping whatever weapon lay closest.
The outsiders, traders from distant cities, tourists chasing glamour and vice, were not so fortunate. They stood frozen on sidewalks, champagne flutes still in hand, confusion turning to fear as the first wave of black-coated figures swept past. Hotel lobbies lit emergency lanterns; managers barked high alerts over crackling speakers:
The air in Florek turned thick with smoke and screams.
Shouts rose sharp and ragged as Varkis men surged through the streets. Bats and iron rods swung in wide, brutal arcs, shop windows exploded inward. Flames licked up from overturned oil lamps and spilled liquor, catching on curtains and awnings, painting the blackout orange The District That Never Slept was burning now, lit only by the fires its invaders had brought.
Draven loyalists, brave, foolish, or simply too slow to run, poured from doorways and alleys, pulling knives, cleavers, revolvers from coats and belts. They charged with desperate roars, swinging at anything in black. Metal met flesh; bones cracked; blood sprayed in dark arcs across cobblestones. But the Varkis tide was relentless.
Michael moved at the center of it all. Under Joshua's direct order, Because he wanted his son to take the spotlight and just in case if Val didn't make it their was a clear choice in front of William. Micheal led the spearhead, rod raised high, bringing it down again and again on any Draven fool who dared stand in his path. The iron sang through the air, connected with a wet crunch, and another body dropped. A satisfied smile never once left his face. Blood flecked his cheeks, his coat, his knuckles; he didn't wipe it away. Within minutes, half the district lay shredded: overturned cars burning, neon signs dangling like broken teeth, bodies sprawled in the gutters.
High above the chaos, in the upper reaches of Florek, an Edwardian baroque building loomed, once a grand hotel, now the fortified nerve center of Draven control in the district. Word of the invasion reached Karter Angelo too late.
The district head sat behind a massive oak desk in what had been his private office, lit now only by a half-dozen guttering candles. Sweat rolled down his thick neck, soaking the collar of his baggy suit. His fingers, fat, sausage-like, were choked by an arsenal of gem-studded rings that caught the flickering light in cruel flashes: rubies, emeralds, sapphires winking. He mopped his brow with a silk handkerchief already damp and stained.
Outside the windows, glass shattered. Boots thundered ,houts echoed up the stairwell, Varkis voices, triumphant and close. The men stationed around him, six of them, armed with rifles and shotguns, shifted uneasily, barrels trained on the double doors. But they all knew the truth: numbers didn't matter when the enemy had surprise and sheer volume on their side. Reinforcements were a fantasy. Every communication line had been cut, telephone wires sliced, radio sets smashed in the first wave. Karter was isolated, helpless, trapped in his own gilded cage. He did send a messenger but it cold be too late till he delivered the message.
....
Lorelai finally found a narrow bench in the servants' corridor and sank onto it, kneading the arches of her aching feet with stiff fingers. She looked up at the window briefly and the sky had started to brighten up because of the sunrise yet the sky gave out a dusty look. The night had stretched long past reason, but at least the second shift of maids had arrived, She had been dismissed, a rare mercy from the masters. They seldom took pity on the help, Tonight a bowl of warm soup had been set aside for her in the kitchen, croutons floating like tiny islands in the broth. Not the lavish platters served to the guests, no caviar, no foie gras, but still soup from the good batch. Too coincidental. Too kind. Her brows creased as she worked the knots from her toes.
Atlas's face refused to leave her mind, He had acted… strange. Or perhaps she was the strange one for thinking so; she had never spoken to him before tonight, only heard the stories whispered in the laundry and the kitchens. Now she felt it might have heard exaggerated ones. "Lora!"
Mariana's voice came gasping from the other side of the door, sharp, breathless. Lorelai yanked the door open. Mariana stood there, face flushed and streaked with sweat, eyes wide.
"What gives?" Lorelai asked, confusion tightening her chest.
"We're doomed. The new girl spilled wine on a guest. Just now. At the party."
Lorelai's eyes flew wide. "What happened to her?"
Mariana shook her head once, quick, tight, unwilling to speak it aloud. Lorelai felt her stomach lurch. "You have to go upstairs," Mariana said, sucking in air. "We need extra hands."
Lorelai didn't want to. Every muscle screamed no. But Mariana, steady, unflappable Mariana, was shaking. That alone was enough. Lorelai nodded, snatched her apron shoved her swollen feet back into the pumps, and followed Mariana up the back stairs.
The banquet hall was nearly empty by the time they reached it. Donovan, Rose, Atlas, gone. The last stragglers were drifting toward the exits, coats draped over arms, voices low and satisfied. Lorelai stopped dead in the doorway.
A maid lay sprawled on the polished floor near the center table. Blood pooled beneath her head in a dark, spreading halo, matting her hair. Guests stepped around her without breaking stride, as though she were nothing more than a spilled tray or a crushed flower. Lorelai's stomach heaved; the soup she'd eaten rose sour in her throat.
Mariana glanced at her, reading the horror. "You go upstairs. Bring Master some water." She nodded toward the grand staircase. "I can't trust the others with this." Her eyes flicked to the girl on the floor.
Lorelai forced a nod. She swallowed the bile, straightened her apron, and climbed the stairs. By the time she reached Donovan's private office, her hands trembled so badly the tray rattled. A pitcher of water, two glasses, simple enough duty, yet it felt like carrying a live grenade. She paused outside the heavy oak door, knuckles white around the handles.
Voices leaked through the wood, growling, furious.
"What were your men doing, then?" Donovan's thunder rolled out.
Lorelai flinched, fingers frozen on the knob.
She knocked, three soft raps. The door swung inward almost at once. A guard glanced at the tray, then stepped aside without a word.
She kept her head bowed, eyes on the carpet, but the room burned into her peripheral vision.
Atlas lounged on a leather couch, legs crossed, expression blank as fresh snow. Donovan stood by the tall window, brows knotted, a metal rod balanced across the shoulder of the man kneeling at his feet. The kneeling man, sweat gleaming on his forehead, Lorelai recognized him vaguely: one of the security captains from the lower floors.
Rose stood near the desk, complexion ashen, fingers laced so tightly the knuckles.
"You thought their men would simply stay silent after what happened?" Donovan snarled. "How were you not on high alert?" The captain's voice cracked. "Boss, we weren't expecting them to come after Florek, "
Donovan drew a long, slow breath. Then he swung the rod.
It whistled through the air and cracked against the man's side. A wet thud. A choked scream.
"You didn't know?" Donovan repeated, voice rising with each word. The rod came down again, ribs, shoulder, back. Screams filled the room, raw and animal. The captain curled tighter, gasping.
Rose's fingers tightened further; Lorelai caught the brief, shared glance between them,Atlas never looked away from the beaten man. Not once. His gaze was calm, clinical, as though watching a mildly interesting play.
Lorelai set the tray on the side table. The glasses clinked, too loud in the violence. She bit her teeth together, waiting for someone to notice the mistake. No one did.
She bowed low, turned, and walked out, almost a sprint once the door closed behind her.