Lightning bled across the gallery's glass ceiling, raw veins of white lighting the world with a kind of brutal honesty. It was a night that felt stretched, elastic—one that refused to settle, refused to let its heroes or its monsters believe for a second that anything was safe, or ever would be. Amal found herself standing beside Min-jun, feeling every ache, every quiver of the storm echoed in the rhythm of her own pulse.
The music from Elias and Ga-young became the thread holding the room to reality. Poignant, trembling, sometimes loud enough to make every sharp breath in the gallery vibrate, it wove comfort through the waiting. All around them, the cast of allies and adversaries—Viktor pacing, Rowan Sinclair hunched and haunted, Saira Mirza fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve—prepared for a confrontation that even the bravest among them feared might be the last.
Min-jun pressed his palm to the small of Amal's back, grounding her. Scent and touch, warmth and cold. "If you want to run, now is the window," he murmured, the smallest quirk of a grin fighting through storm-lit fear. But she stood taller, bold and stubborn. "You haven't lost me yet," she replied, her voice low and certain.
As the lightning flickered, throwing shadows long and wild, Ji-yeon Bae wove between the knots of friends and strangers, handing out slim vials of some iridescent liquid. "Insurance," she said, her tone both doctor and conspirator. "A last-ditch shot for anyone who gets bitten and wants to hang on." Laughter broke out somewhere behind her, desperate but genuine.
Suddenly the room shifted—a ripple through the tension as if some old, silent predator had knocked at the boundary of all their fears. The main entrance boomed. The air thickened, metallic and electric, and stepping through the flash of flickering security lights came Reva Desai and Viktor Renard, flanked by Sacha Viard, Callum Wright, and Mira Patel. Their eyes gleamed—predatory but also uncertain, as if even now, something scared them more than the darkness outside.
"We're not here for your lives," Viktor said, his low voice slicing through the air. "We want what's ours—what belongs to immortals. End this and none of your precious humans will die tonight."
Rowan Sinclair, all battered edges and moral certainty, spat back: "You lost the right to demand anything the night you marked Amal as prey."
A hush fell. For one suspended heartbeat, it was Amal who broke it: stepping forward beside Min-jun, chin high, voice ringing. "I am not your prize. If tonight ends in blood, it won't be spilled without a fight and it won't be forgotten." She glanced at all—Sumin, Ji-yeon, Saira, even the traitors, drawing courage from each story etched in rage or regret. "We didn't survive this long to kneel for legacy, or for fear."
Reva smiled, a knife's edge curving her mouth. "Little artist, you're outnumbered."
"Not outloved," Min-jun murmured, so only she heard.
Then the room exploded—metaphorically and almost literally—as the storm above them crested and a window shattered from the sudden roar of wind. Alarms shrieked; power flickered. Chaos bloomed.
Hae-jin Song, all reckless courage, darted onto the floor, shielding Ga-young as she caught her violin before it crashed. Agni Basu and Byung-ho Choi herded Prisha, Tara Malik, and the cat out of harm's way. Mira Patel, caught between fear and loyalty, swung at Sacha, who shrieked in indignation, sending the crowd scattering.
Amal and Min-jun held their ground as Reva advanced, silver knife glinting in the riot of lights. Min-jun lunged, immortal speed making him a blur. Amal, driven by every raw emotion in her chest, tripped Reva with a broken stanchion and caught Min-jun as he nearly collided with Viktor in the melee.
Pain yanked her senses open wide—a glimpse of Ji-yeon dragging Sumin to safety, the smell of blood sharp above the sweat and ozone, the sound of Ga-young's music rising wild as longing. Amal twisted, kicking Reva's weapon away, the hardwood bruising her knee as she slammed into Viktor, taking him by surprise. "You want legends?" she spat. "You'll get one."
Suddenly, everything coalesced—music, storm, fear, love. Min-jun pinned Viktor, eyes gone feral and desperate. "You can end this," he hissed. "All you have to do is let her go." Viktor glared—then, for a split second, something human flickered, and he released his grip.
Outside, sirens wailed closer. The crowd, battered but breathing, gathered itself. As Reva and the other would-be conquerors retreated, the gallery seemed to exhale—storm giving way to calm, disaster twisting itself into a strange, luminous hope.
Min-jun hauled Amal upright, blood and paint streaking their hands. "You're reckless," he whispered through a shaky smile. She touched his cheek, tremors and all. "We have to survive if we want a happy ending."
Laughter bubbled up—shaky, emotional, a war-cry and a prayer. For one long, miraculous breath, they all just…stood together. Hearts racing, promises sealed, the longest night finally breaking into possibility.