A few months ago, the brothers lost their parents — not to chance or fate, but to blood. Their deaths were deliberate, carried out by their oldest enemies, a cruel message written in fire and ash. Since that day, the three of them had been left picking up the pieces of a shattered home, surrounded by a silence that felt more like a curse than comfort. The holidays, once filled with warmth, now echoed with emptiness.

On Christmas Eve, just minutes before midnight, Mercedes pushes open the balcony door. The gust of icy wind cuts like glass, making their skin prickle. Outside, the world is still. No snow, no sound — just the pitch-black sky pressing down like a weight.

Evan stands by the railing, cigarette smoldering between his fingers. Beside him, Daemon leans against the wall, hands buried in his coat pockets, his jaw set tight. The two older brothers say nothing, but the silence between them hums with shared grief — and fury.

The shadows move with them — crawling, writhing, almost breathing. They coil protectively around their boots and stretch out like claws toward the distant streetlights, as if hungering for vengeance.

Evan’s hands are raw from the cold, but he doesn’t flinch. Daemon exhales slowly, a thin mist trailing from his lips. Neither looks back until the soft creak of the sliding door pulls them slightly out of the darkness.

They don’t turn fully. Just enough to let Mercedes know they see them.

“What do you need?” Evan’s voice is distant, cold — but there’s a storm simmering beneath the calm. A storm that knows who’s responsible.