Maisie and Igor arrived just in time for Jack’s grand entrance.
The crowd erupted as the leader of the White Angels bounded onto the stage, jogging forward with theatrical energy. He raised his arms high, soaking in the roar like a cult leader basking in his myth.
“Are you ready for this?!” Jack bellowed, voice sharp, electric.
“YEAH!” the crowd roared back—humans and Alucards alike, fists raised, bodies buzzing with anticipation.
“Then let’s do this!” Jack slammed a fist into the air.
The audience mirrored him. The energy was wild—zealous. Dangerous. It crackled in the air like a live wire.
Jack leaned into the microphone, eyes glinting.
“Are you tired of the upper crust bleeding you dry, humans?!”
“YES!”
“Are you tired of the rich humans enslaving you, Alucards?!”
There was a beat of silence.
Then, hesitant murmurs: “Yes. We do...”
Jack’s smile twisted. He smelled the uncertainty like blood in the water.
“OH, COME ON! SPEAK YOUR MIND!”
This time, the response rolled through the crowd like thunder.
“YESSS WE DO!”
Jack’s teeth gleamed under the lights. The puppets danced. The strings grew tighter.
“Well then!” he shouted, “Let’s get moving and shaking!”
Another uproar. Chants swelled to a frenzy.
Igor sat stiffly, his jaw clenched. He didn’t hear the words anymore—only noise. The speech was a performance. Hollow rhetoric recycled for the desperate and the angry.
Maisie, though, stared wide-eyed at the stage. The chants pulsed in her veins. The fire. The promise of justice. It was intoxicating. For a moment, she believed Jack might be the answer. The White Angels—so fierce, so righteous. It all felt right.
But beneath the heat of the crowd, a chill tugged at her ribs. A shadow of doubt.
Why did his words feel so... wrong?
She had believed once. She needed to believe.
“He’s the leader we’ve been waiting for,” her friend had insisted. Someone close. Someone she trusted. “He’s fighting for you. For all of us.”
And Maisie had listened. She wanted to believe.
But now, standing in the center of it all, the illusion unraveled. Jack wasn’t leading a revolution—he was orchestrating a trap.
The truth twisted inside her.
“Maisie.”
Igor’s voice pulled her back. His face was calm, but his eyes flicked with warning.
She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came. The roar of the crowd faded into a quiet panic in her mind.
She had been used.
“Get in the vans!”
Jack’s voice boomed again.
“If you want to change the world, White Angels are waiting! Step into the vans—we’ll take you to our facility. You’ll learn everything there.”
A lie.
Igor frowned. Maisie stood frozen, just feet away.
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “Why are they—why are you—?”
“I didn’t know,” Maisie said quickly, her voice tight, broken. “I didn’t know it was like this.”
Igor’s stomach dropped. “What do you mean?”
“I thought they were helping us,” she whispered. “But I was wrong.”
Her eyes shifted to the uniformed White Angels. No longer allies.
She stepped between them and Igor.
“I can’t let you take him.”
Jack appeared from the edge of the stage, calm, arms spread. “Maisie, you don’t understand. This is bigger than you. You’ll see—we’re protecting you.”
Maisie’s eyes narrowed. “You used me. All of us.”
Jack’s voice softened. “You think this is betrayal. But it’s salvation.”
Maisie wasn’t listening anymore. Her fists clenched.
“You never cared about Alucards,” she hissed. “You just needed weapons.”
A White Angel moved behind her—quick, efficient. Not to strike, but to restrain.
Maisie struggled, twisting in his grip.
“No!” she screamed. “This isn’t right—”
The man pressed a small device to her neck.
Her eyes widened. A wave of exhaustion crashed through her. Knees buckled. Vision blurred.
“Igor…”
Her body slumped, limp in the man’s arms.
“Maisie!” Igor lunged—but another White Angel caught him, shoving him back.
Jack’s voice was low, almost apologetic. “We don’t want to hurt her. She’ll be fine.”
Igor froze. Shock rooted him in place.
Maisie had protected him—and now she was unconscious, taken.
He didn’t have time to grieve.
“Get in the van,” one of the men ordered, grabbing his arm.
Igor’s voice was cold. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Another grip landed on his shoulder, rougher this time.
“Get in. Or we’ll make you.”
Igor tensed, ready to strike. But more men were closing in.
A sudden jab at his side. Sharp. Burning.
A needle.
His vision reeled. Limbs went slack.
The van door hissed open. The White Angels dragged him inside.
The logo on the door gleamed—an angelic figure etched in silver, halo shining. A lie.
Inside, the air was heavy. Too quiet.
“Hey.”
The voice came from across the van.
Igor turned sluggishly. An Alucard sat slouched beside him, short, stocky, with brown hair, amber eyes. A slight hunch in his back. Deformed wings.
“Me?” Igor asked, wary.
“Obviously.” The stranger grinned. “I’m looking right at you.”
Igor wasn’t in the mood.
“I’m not here to chat.”
The guy laughed. “Charming. First time at one of these?”
Igor didn’t answer.
“My master’s kid shoved me into this van like it was a joyride. With that music playing.” He shivered. “I hate cheerful music. So fake.”
Igor grunted. “I got drugged into coming. Don’t think I’m staying long.”
The stranger leaned back, unbothered.
“You’re kind of standoffish,” he said with a smirk.
“And you’re chatty for someone who’s been kidnapped.”
“Touché.”
A beat.
“I’m Tak,” the stranger said. “Tak Jagger.”
“Igor.”
They shook hands, wary but respectful.
Then the van lurched.
The lights flickered. The engine groaned.
They weren’t following city routes anymore.
Something was wrong.
Tak said, “They don’t just drive. They vanish.”
Igor’s blood ran cold.
Outside, nothing looked familiar. No traffic. No noise.
The pressure in the air shifted. He’d felt this before—in high-security transports. But this wasn’t a standard route.
No GPS. No signal.
Then—a shimmer. A forcefield passed through the van’s walls like a ghost.
Impossible tech.
Tak flipped a switch on the wall. The van jerked again—hard.
“We’re not going to a safehouse, are we?” Igor muttered.
Tak didn’t answer.
The van plunged downward, down some kind of slope. A tunnel?
Eventually, it screeched to a stop.
The music died mid-note.
Silence.
Hissss.
The doors opened.
Figures stepped in. Identical suits. Sunglasses. Neon-blue hair. Skin is smooth and synthetic.
They weren’t normal White Angels.
They weren’t normal anything.
Igor tensed. Too late.
A needle struck flesh.
Thud. A body dropped.
Another.
Then—
Tak.
“Wha—?” Thud.
Darkness.
