The Ghost That wouldn't die

Damon gripped his phone tighter, his knuckles turning white as he reread the message. You should've made sure I was dead. Vincent. A slow, simmering rage spread through Damon's veins, but beneath it was something worse—an unsettling awareness that Vincent wasn't done. He wasn't the type to crawl into a hole and lick his wounds. He was the kind of monster that thrived on revenge. Damon exhaled sharply and stood, ignoring the tight pull of the stitches in his side. The pain was a reminder of how close Vincent had come to killing him. And he wouldn't make the mistake of underestimating him again. The city stretched out beneath the penthouse windows, bathed in the cold light of dawn. New York never slept, but even now, the streets below seemed eerily quiet. Too quiet. A soft rustling behind him made him turn. Alina stood in the doorway, wrapped in one of his shirts, her eyes shadowed with exhaustion. 'You should be resting," she murmured, stepping closer. Damon studied her, noting the worry etched into her face. 'So should you." She crossed her arms. 'Kind of hard when the man I—" She hesitated, then shook her head. 'When you nearly bled out in my hands last night." His gaze softened. 'But I didn't." 'Doesn't mean I'm not still terrified." Damon reached out, brushing his fingers along her wrist. She let him, but there was a distance in her eyes. 'What happened?" she asked. 'What's wrong?" He hesitated, debating whether to tell her. But there was no point in keeping secrets anymore. He handed her the phone. She read the message, her breath hitching. 'He's alive." Damon nodded grimly. 'And he won't stop until one of us is dead." Silence stretched between them before Alina clenched her jaw. 'Then we end it." Her words sent a jolt of something dark and possessive through him. This woman. She wasn't running. Wasn't cowering. She was standing beside him, ready to face the storm. Damon cupped her face, his thumb grazing her cheek. 'You don't have to do this." Alina covered his hand with hers. 'Yes, I do." A muscle in his jaw ticked. He wanted to protect her. Wanted to keep her far away from the bloodshed. But he knew her. Alina wouldn't stop until this war was over. Neither would he. By noon, Damon had gathered the team in his office. Marco sat at the edge of the desk, arms crossed. Rafe leaned against the wall, flipping a knife between his fingers. Alina stood beside Damon, her expression unreadable. Damon tossed the phone onto the table. 'Vincent's alive." Rafe whistled low. 'Well, shit." Marco's expression darkened. 'We should've drowned him ourselves." 'We're about to fix that mistake," Damon said coldly. He turned to Marco. 'Get me everything—hospital records, surveillance, anything that shows where Vincent might have gone after he went into the water." Marco nodded. 'On it." Damon's gaze flicked to Rafe. 'You still have contacts in the underground clinics?" Rafe grinned. 'I'll put out some feelers. Someone's bound to have patched him up." Damon turned to Alina. 'I need you to stay out of this." Alina narrowed her eyes. 'Not happening." 'Alina—" 'Damon, don't start. If Vincent's alive, that means I'm still a target. And if I'm a target, I want to know what's happening." Damon sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. 'You're impossible." She smirked. 'So are you." Marco chuckled. 'God, you two are exhausting." Damon shot him a look. Marco shrugged. 'Just saying." Rafe pushed off the wall. 'Alright, boss. Give us a few hours." As they left, Alina turned to Damon. 'So what now?" Damon exhaled slowly. 'Now we find him first." And this time, he wouldn't leave Vincent alive. The first lead came quicker than expected. By evening, Marco had tracked down security footage of a man matching Vincent's description limping into an underground clinic in Brooklyn. Damon, Rafe, and Alina arrived within the hour. The clinic was a small, nondescript building tucked between an old laundromat and a pawn shop. It reeked of antiseptic and desperation. Damon pushed through the doors, his presence alone enough to make the few people inside tense. A nervous-looking doctor glanced up from a patient's chart. 'We're closed." Damon ignored him. 'A man came in last night. Wounded. Tall, dark coat, bleeding badly. Where is he?" The doctor swallowed. 'I—I don't know what you're talking about." Damon stepped closer, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. 'Try again." The doctor's hands trembled. 'H-he left this morning." Alina stepped forward. 'Did he say anything? Did he leave a message?" The doctor hesitated before nodding. He reached under the counter and pulled out a bloodstained envelope. 'He said you'd come." Damon took it, tearing it open. Inside was a single note. You should've finished the job, old friend. Now it's my turn. Below the words was a photograph. A picture of Damon's penthouse. His gut twisted. Vincent had been watching them. Rafe cursed. 'He's playing games." Alina gripped Damon's arm. 'We need to go. Now." Damon's grip on the paper tightened. Vincent had declared war. And Damon intended to end it. By the time they returned to the penthouse, tension crackled in the air like a storm about to break. Damon swept the place for signs of intrusion, his every sense on high alert. Nothing was out of place, but that didn't mean Vincent hadn't been here. Marco's voice crackled through the earpiece. 'Boss, we've got movement." Damon stiffened. 'Where?" 'Warehouse district. Security cameras picked up someone matching Vincent's profile near the docks." Damon exchanged a look with Rafe. 'He's baiting us," Rafe muttered. 'I don't care," Damon said. 'We end this tonight." Alina stepped forward. 'I'm coming." 'No," Damon snapped. Alina's eyes flashed with defiance. 'You don't get to shut me out, Damon. Not anymore." He hesitated. Rafe sighed. 'Just let her come, man. She's already in this mess." Damon exhaled sharply. 'Fine. But stay close to me." The air was thick with the scent of salt and diesel when they arrived at the docks. The night was eerily silent, the only sounds the distant creak of metal and the lapping of water against the piers. Damon's gun was steady in his hand as he advanced, his eyes scanning the darkness. A shadow moved. Then, a voice. 'You always were predictable, Damon." Vincent stepped out, his face partially hidden in the dim light. His arm was still in a sling, but the smirk on his lips was anything but weak. 'Miss me?" Damon didn't hesitate. He fired. Vincent dodged, diving behind a stack of crates as the bullet shattered wood. Chaos erupted. Gunfire rang out. Shadows danced. Damon moved fast, weaving through the maze of containers, his focus locked on one thing—ending Vincent. Alina was right behind him, her breath coming in sharp gasps. Then, suddenly— A click. A trap. Damon's heart stopped. Vincent was one step ahead. And this time, he was ready.