His Private Hell - Chapter 127: Chapter 127

The wind howled like a warning, ripping through the rooftop as Darcie descended—no longer the broken, beautiful girl Eella remembered, but something ancient and wrathful, molded in Lazarus’s fire. Her leather-bound figure moved with the inhuman grace of something that no longer felt pain. No longer mourned. No longer loved.
She landed softly on the scorched rooftop between Eella, Garrison, and James—glass shards fluttering around her like deadly feathers.
“You should be dead,” Garrison rasped, voice strained with betrayal. His gun was drawn now. A tremble ran through his hand.
Darcie smiled.
“I was,” she purred. “But the Choir always has room for a soloist.”
Eella’s stomach lurched.
“Lazarus brought you back,” James muttered, stepping in front of Eella.
“No.” Darcie cocked her head. “I chose to come back.”
Her eyes locked onto Eella. “He offered me a crown, but I asked for your head.”
The rooftop ignited. Not with fire—but with tension. Every breath, every twitch of a finger, every flicker of lightning, felt like the world held its breath to witness what would happen next.
Darcie’s eyes sparkled with hatred. “You took everything, Eella. My Garrison. My song. And now you think you can wear the ruin like it’s your birthright?”
Eella stepped forward.
“You died in my arms.”
“I died a fool,” Darcie spat. “Believing I was chosen. But he never chose me, did he?” Her voice cracked, just slightly. “You were always the wound.”
James’s gun was up now. “You don’t want to do this.”
“Don’t I?” she whispered. “Because I brought gifts.”
Behind her, three figures stepped onto the rooftop—cloaked in crimson, faces wrapped in porcelain masks. The Second Choir.
Not instruments. Conductors.
Garrison moved fast.
One shot. Clean. Straight through the head of the first conductor.
But they didn’t fall.
The bullet dissolved mid-air, swallowed by an unseen force that bent the rain around them.
“What the hell?” James cursed, ducking as the second conductor raised an arm—shooting a pulse of sound so sharp it shattered glass three floors below.
Eella covered her ears too late. Blood trickled.
The Third Conductor moved toward her—lithe, graceful. Feminine. Familiar.
The mask dropped.
Astrid.
Eella froze.
No. Not Astrid.
Not her sister.
But it was.
Astrid’s lips trembled, eyes hollowed out. “I told you I didn’t die in that fire.”
Eella gasped. “You were with him?”
Astrid’s expression didn’t shift. “He offered me silence, and I accepted.”
“Silence?” Eella stepped forward. “You called it peace once.”
Astrid smiled, dead and distant. “Peace and silence aren’t the same. You’ll learn.”
She attacked.
Eella ducked, instincts flaring. The blade skimmed her scalp. She spun, landing a punch to Astrid’s stomach, but it was like hitting stone. No emotion. No pain.
“Astrid, please—”
“No more family,” she whispered. “No more mercy.”
James pulled Eella back, just as Astrid’s second strike came.
Behind them, Garrison and Darcie fought like shadows—movements too fast, too vicious for the eye. He tried restraint.
She didn’t.
Her knives danced, one cutting a deep line across Garrison’s ribs. Blood soaked his shirt.
“You’re still holding back,” she snarled. “Why?”
Garrison’s voice cracked. “Because you’re not the monster you pretend to be.”
Darcie screamed.
“I am now!”
And she stabbed—
Straight into his shoulder, twisting the blade until he collapsed.
Eella screamed.
But then James moved like lightning—dragging Eella away, shouting into her ear over the rising wind.
“Rooftop’s compromised—we need to get to the vault. There’s something Lazarus doesn’t know you still have.”
Eella’s eyes widened. “The key.”
James nodded.
Beneath them, the building groaned.
The Choir’s signal was infecting everything—tech failing, lights flickering, the structure moaning under the weight of betrayal.
Astrid pursued them—silent as death.
Down four floors. Fire. Smoke. Screams in the lower corridors as Lazarus’s men flooded in.
They passed familiar faces dying in hallways.
The world was ending—and it was her fault.
Inside the vault, James shut the reinforced door. Astrid’s footsteps stopped.
“She’ll wait,” James said, breathing hard. “She always waits.”
Eella reached for the hidden panel in the wall. It blinked. A six-digit code.
“Garrison said only you knew it,” James muttered.
Eella hesitated.
Her fingers hovered over the keypad.
“What if this is it?” she asked. “What if opening it kills everyone?”
James didn’t blink. “Then at least you choose who dies.”
Her hand moved.
She keyed in: 061979.
The vault hissed open.
Inside—a briefcase.
Black. Silver latches. Bloodstained.
Eella stared.
“I thought we burned this.”
James shook his head. “You burned the copy.”
Inside the case: a red vial, pulsing like it was alive.
Choir origin serum.
The prototype.
The thing Lazarus built before he perfected mass indoctrination.
One dose.
One person.
Eella turned to James.
“You want me to take it.”
“I want you to end him,” he said. “This is his song. End it with silence.”
She trembled. “What happens to me?”
James didn’t answer.
The roof above them split.
Darcie dropped through the ceiling—blood on her hands, eyes wild.
She saw the case.
Her voice dropped to a snarl.
“You think you can out-sing me?”
James pulled his gun.
Darcie was faster.
He fell.
One clean shot through his thigh. Screaming.
She stalked toward Eella.
“You take that,” she whispered, “and you become me. Worse. You become him.”
Eella backed away. “Maybe that’s what I need to be.”
Darcie lunged.
And Eella, with one breath, injected herself.
The world fell silent.
Then—everything screamed.
Her blood burned.
Her skin split.
Her bones shattered and reformed, veins glowing red, white-hot light erupting from her eyes and mouth.
Darcie stumbled back.
“No—no—you were never meant to survive it!”
But Eella stood.
Tall.
Glowing.
Burning with every Choir code, every Lazarus frequency, every stolen scream.
She smiled—and it was terrifying.
Behind her, the walls cracked.
Footsteps echoed.
Garrison—bleeding, broken—stepped into the room.
His gaze locked on hers.
“No matter what you’ve become,” he whispered, “I’ll follow.”
Eella looked at him, eyes inhuman.
“No,” she said. “You’ll kneel.”
And he did.
As the building collapsed, the Choir above sang their final song.
Volume Three would not begin with love.
It would begin with war.