A walk in the Nightside

Chapter 23: A Moment to Breathe

The shelter loomed ahead, a squat and crumbling building at the edge of the Nightside. Its walls were patched with mismatched materials—planks of wood, sheets of corrugated metal, and even scraps of fabric that fluttered weakly in the breeze. A flickering neon sign above the door read "Sanctuary", though the letters were barely legible, their glow dulled by layers of grime.

Michael paused a few meters away, crouched in the shadow of a broken lamppost. He closed his eyes and let his swarm fan out, the familiar hum of their movements soothing his frayed nerves. The insects moved silently, darting through the cracks and gaps of the building to map its interior.

It was as run-down inside as it was outside. The floor was uneven concrete, scattered with old blankets and makeshift beds. A few figures huddled in the corners, their ragged breaths audible even through the swarm's observations. Homeless, downtrodden, forgotten. There were no threats, no lurking predators, just people trying to survive another night in the Nightside.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Michael exhaled. He didn't let his guard down completely—he couldn't—but the tension in his shoulders eased slightly. This place wasn't safe, not truly, but it was safer than the streets, safer than his apartment, safer than Strangefellows. For now, it would do.

He made his way to the door, pushing it open quietly. The creak echoed in the stillness, and a few heads turned, their expressions wary but uninterested. Michael didn't meet their eyes, slipping inside and finding a corner far from the others. He sank to the floor, his back against the cold wall, his body screaming for rest.

The chill in the air cut through him, his torn pants offering little protection. His body, already battered and bruised, shivered as the night's cold seeped into his bones. He reached out with his mind, summoning his swarm to him.

The insects gathered quickly, forming a living blanket over his exposed skin. Their tiny bodies generated a faint warmth as they moved, creating a barrier against the cold. It wasn't perfect, but it was enough to keep him from freezing.

"Thank you," he muttered under his breath, his voice hoarse and barely audible. The swarm buzzed softly in response, their collective presence grounding him.

Michael leaned his head back against the wall, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. His mind raced, replaying the events of the night—the burning mansion, the fight with Victoria and Jonathan, the endless sprint through the streets. He'd survived, but just barely. His enemies were still out there, and he was running out of places to hide.

But here, in this run-down shelter, surrounded by the faint hum of his swarm, he allowed himself a moment of reprieve. The air smelled of mildew and decay, the faint scent of old smoke lingering in the corners, but it didn't matter. He was alive. He could rest.

His body ached as he shifted, wincing at the sharp pain in his ribs and the dull throb in his hand. He'd need to tend to his injuries soon, but that could wait. For now, he focused on the rhythm of his breathing, matching it to the gentle buzz of his swarm.

The other occupants of the shelter kept to themselves, their muffled whispers and occasional coughs blending into the background. None of them paid him any attention, and that was exactly how he wanted it.

Michael closed his eyes again, his mind slipping into a haze of exhaustion. He wasn't safe, not truly, but for the first time in hours, he felt like he could breathe. The Nightside would come for him again—he knew that much—but for now, he had this moment. And that was enough.

Michael sat against the cold, crumbling wall of the shelter, his breathing steady but shallow. The swarm layered over his body, their tiny, collective warmth a lifesaver in the biting chill of the night. He kept them still, an act of sheer will that reflected just how far his control had come since those chaotic first weeks in the Nightside. Back then, this level of precision, of trust in the swarm's presence, would have been unthinkable. But things had changed.

Back then, he'd never have imagined letting a swarm of insects cover him like a living blanket, let alone finding comfort in their presence. But here he was, half-naked, battered, and relying on them for warmth and protection. They were more than just tools now—they were his shield, his armor in a world that wanted him dead.

He grimaced, shifting slightly against the hard floor. His ribs ached, and the deep bruises across his chest throbbed with every movement. His thumb, still out of joint from his earlier escape, sent sharp jolts of pain whenever he forgot and flexed his hand. Yet, the physical pain was secondary to the gnawing tension in his mind.

It was the Pembrokes. It had to be.

They'd been quieter than the Bennetts, less overt in their aggression, but that didn't mean they weren't dangerous. No, the Pembrokes were calculated, patient—a family that didn't act unless they were certain of victory. Michael clenched his jaw, remembering the cars outside his apartment, the lingering shadows near Strangefellows. This wasn't random.

And then there was Victoria.

Michael exhaled slowly, his breath misting in the cold air. Had she made it out of the fire? He didn't know, and that uncertainty gnawed at him. If she had survived, she would come for him, that much was certain. Victoria wasn't the kind to let a grudge go, and after what he'd done, she'd make it personal.

The thought sent a ripple of unease through him, but he forced it down. He couldn't afford to dwell on it, not now. For the moment, he was out of their reach. The shelter was too far off the beaten path, too insignificant to draw attention. His swarm buzzed faintly in his mind, their presence a reassuring hum against the storm of his thoughts.

He glanced down at himself, the swarm perfectly still over his skin, not a single movement betraying their presence. It was a feat of control, one he wouldn't have been capable of in those early days. Back then, the insects had been wild, unruly, a chaotic force that mirrored his own fear and confusion. But now? Now they were an extension of him.

Michael flexed his good hand, feeling the slight shift in the swarm as they adjusted to his movement. He'd lost his coat, his weapons, and most of his tools. Everything he'd spent months building was gone. All he had left was his swarm and his determination.

But that would be enough. It had to be.

He let his head rest back against the wall, staring up at the cracked ceiling. The Pembrokes were likely the ones posting guards all over the Nightside, their reach extending into every dark corner. He didn't have concrete proof, but the pieces fit. The Bennetts, after all, were in shambles—or at least he hoped they were. He'd taken out Jonathan, and if luck was on his side, Victoria hadn't made it out of the inferno.

Still, Michael couldn't afford to count on luck. Not in the Nightside.

He closed his eyes, focusing on the hum of his swarm. The insects were his armor now, his protection in the absence of his coat and weapons. They kept him warm, their presence steady and unwavering, even as exhaustion threatened to pull him under.

"Things change," he muttered to himself, the sound barely audible over the faint buzzing in his mind. And in the Nightside, things changed fast.

He would rest for now, let his body recover as much as it could. But when the time came, he would move. The Pembrokes wouldn't stop until they had him, but Michael wasn't planning on making it easy. He'd survived this long in the Nightside, and he wasn't about to let them take that away.

For now, though, he let the swarm lull him into a restless sleep, the faint warmth of their presence a small comfort in the cold, unforgiving dark.

Michael sat in the corner of the run-down shelter, the hum of his swarm steady and calming in the back of his mind. The warmth they provided was enough to keep the chill at bay, but the weight of his situation still pressed heavily on him. His body ached from the bruises and wounds he'd endured, and his mind buzzed with half-formed plans and questions.

The Pembrokes were the immediate problem. If Victoria had survived the inferno, she wouldn't stop. Jonathan might be dead, but the family had other resources, other players. The presence of those cars outside his apartment and the unnatural figures near Strangefellows confirmed it—they weren't giving up.

But this wasn't just about survival anymore. Michael had been running, reacting, barely staying ahead of his enemies. That wasn't enough. Not here. Not in the Nightside. If he wanted to live—really live—he needed to change the game. He needed to take the fight to the Pembrokes.

His swarm buzzed faintly, a pulse of encouragement that mirrored his growing determination. He leaned back against the cold wall, his eyes narrowing as the beginnings of a plan took shape in his mind.

Michael smirked faintly, though the gesture hurt his cracked lips. The Pembrokes were calculating, sure—but everyone in the Nightside feared the unknown. His swarm would be his weapon, not just in battle, but in the shadows.

"I'll make them look over their shoulders every second of the day," he muttered to himself.

The swarm would infiltrate their properties, disrupt their operations, and sow chaos. They didn't need to kill anyone—not yet. Fear and confusion would work just as well. He imagined their offices swarming with insects, their homes filled with stinging wasps and tarantula hawks, their every move shadowed by the relentless presence of his swarm.

He'd leave messages, cryptic and unsettling, tailored to unsettle even the most composed of the family. "You can't hide from the swarm." He'd make them think he was everywhere, always watching, always one step ahead.

But fear alone wouldn't be enough. The Pembrokes had resources—money, connections, influence. Michael needed to find their weak points and exploit them. His swarm would scout their properties, eavesdrop on conversations, and gather intel. He could use what they feared most against them.

"Who's pulling the strings now that Jonathan's gone?" he mused. "Who's their weak link?"

He'd need help for this part. Someone who knew the Nightside's darker corners better than he did. His first thought was Alex, but he couldn't drag Strangefellows into this—not directly. Still, Alex might know someone who could help. A fixer, an informant, someone willing to dig into the Pembrokes' affairs for the right price.

Michael's eyes hardened as he considered the inevitable confrontation. Fear and leverage would weaken the Pembrokes, but the only way to end this was to strike at the heart of their power. Whoever had taken Jonathan's place as the head of the family would need to be dealt with, and decisively.

"Hit them where it hurts," he whispered. "Make it so they can't get back up."

He'd plan the attack carefully. His swarm would scout their stronghold, mapping every detail, every guard, every potential threat. He'd need weapons, too—his revolver, enchanted rounds, and maybe something new. His magic wasn't strong, but it was versatile. He could prepare wards, explosive spells, and fire-enhanced insects to turn the tide in his favor.

When it was over, when the Pembrokes were crippled or destroyed, Michael wouldn't slink back into the shadows. He'd let the story spread—the man who took down the Pembrokes, the one who survived against impossible odds. It wasn't arrogance driving him; it was survival. In the Nightside, a reputation was as good as armor. If people thought twice about crossing him, it could save his life.

"Make them think I'm untouchable," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Make them afraid to try again."

The sound of a distant cough pulled Michael from his thoughts. One of the other shelter occupants stirred, shifting under a pile of threadbare blankets. Michael glanced at them briefly before focusing back on his swarm.

He couldn't stay here long. The shelter was a temporary reprieve, but the Pembrokes would eventually figure out where he was, especially if they had the resources he suspected. He needed to move soon, to start putting his plan into action.

With a groan, he pushed himself to his feet, wincing at the sharp pain in his ribs. The swarm buzzed around him, a faint, comforting hum. He'd need supplies—clothes, weapons, and a place to regroup. Strangefellows would be a start. Alex might scoff, but he'd help, even if it was just to point Michael toward someone who could provide the intel he needed.

Michael adjusted his tattered pants, his bare chest still covered in a faint layer of soot and blood. The insects shifted over his skin, their warmth steady as they clung to him. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what was to come.

"This ends on my terms," he muttered, stepping toward the door