His Private Hell - Chapter 130: Chapter 130

The silence after detonation was the worst part.
Not the explosion. Not the screaming steel or bodies collapsing through fire. Not even the splatter of blood on concrete.
Just the silence.
The aftermath.
And in it—Eella stood, skin cracked with heat, light still pulsing from her eyes. The Choir serum ran through her like a second heartbeat, faster, louder, more merciless.
She was no longer running.
She was war.
Smoke blurred the hallway. Garrison staggered beside her, one arm cradling his ribs, eyes flickering between awe and terror.
“Where’s Darcie?” she asked, voice guttural. It echoed off the walls like something that didn’t belong to her anymore.
He pointed through the wreckage. “She ran. She’s regrouping.”
“Then we don’t give her the chance.”
They moved.
Down through broken offices, bodies slumped against walls, blood smearing wood and glass like a grotesque mural. Lazarus’s men were already here—faceless mercs dressed in black, sweeping the building for any survivors.
The moment they saw Eella, they opened fire.
She didn’t flinch.
Bullets hit her and dropped like pebbles. Her skin shimmered red-hot—veins glowing with every pulse of energy the serum gifted her.
She raised a hand.
And the hallway exploded.
No metaphors. No tricks. Just power, pure and savage, as she sent a shockwave that cracked concrete, shattered bone, and threw men like dolls into the air.
Garrison ducked under the force, shielding his head.
When he looked up, they were all dead.
Eella stared down at her hands.
“I can feel their hearts before they fire,” she murmured. “I can hear the moment they decide to pull the trigger.”
“That’s not a gift,” Garrison said quietly. “It’s damnation.”
“Then I’ll use it.”
They reached the lower level—the research floor. The place Lazarus built before the company became a front. Files were already burning, systems corrupted. Someone had triggered the failsafe.
Garrison limped to the mainframe.
“Help me—if I can recover anything on the original Choir implants, we can trace the last location Lazarus broadcasted from. He’s moving fast.”
Eella didn’t move.
Her head tilted toward the ceiling.
“I hear her,” she whispered.
Garrison froze. “Darcie?”
She nodded slowly.
“Third floor. Executive suite.”
“How do you—?”
“She’s humming.”
He stared at her.
“She’s not… human anymore either, is she?”
Eella didn’t answer. She was already gone.
Darcie stood in her old office.
The same place she once rehearsed symphonies and bled her dreams into the wood panels. Now, it was trashed—paint peeled, instruments broken, walls torn out to make room for tech that hummed with Lazarus’s fingerprints.
She waited in front of the mirror.
Not to admire herself.
To remember who she was.
Then the door splintered inward.
Eella stepped through the smoke.
Eyes glowing. Blood caked on her hands. Hair tangled from fire and battle.
“Come to kill me?” Darcie asked, turning slowly.
“No,” Eella said. “I came to finish what you started.”
Darcie laughed.
“You’re glowing like a goddess, but I see it in your face. You’re terrified of what you’ve become.”
“You’re right,” Eella murmured. “Because I understand you now.”
Darcie’s expression faltered.
“I used to think you were insane. But it’s not madness, is it?” Eella stepped closer. “It’s hunger. It’s grief turned inside out.”
Darcie’s fingers tightened around the blade hidden at her back.
“I loved him before you ever looked at him.”
“And he died inside you before I ever touched him.”
That did it.
Darcie screamed and lunged.
But Eella didn’t dodge this time.
She caught the blade mid-air, bare hand closing around steel—and melting it. Liquid metal dripped to the floor.
Darcie’s eyes widened.
“I’ll say it once,” Eella said, low and deadly. “You can leave. Disappear. I won’t follow. Or you can die here.”
Darcie didn’t speak.
She grabbed a second blade from her hip.
Went low.
Eella moved faster.
One step. One hand to Darcie’s throat. Slammed her into the window so hard the glass spiderwebbed.
Darcie gasped, feet kicking.
“Why?” she choked. “Why didn’t he choose me?”
Eella’s voice cracked. “Because I didn’t ask him to.”
She released her.
Darcie dropped, coughing.
Crying.
“I was supposed to matter,” she sobbed.
“You did,” Eella said. “And now you’re ending.”
Behind them, Garrison appeared.
His gun was aimed at Darcie.
But Eella raised her hand.
“Don’t,” she said. “Not like this.”
He hesitated.
Darcie looked up, blood trailing from her mouth. Her hands trembled.
She smiled.
“You always thought love was enough,” she whispered. “But love doesn’t save anyone.”
She pulled a detonator from her belt.
Eella’s heart seized.
“NO—”
But Darcie pressed it.
The floor exploded.
Not fire. Not shrapnel.
Gas.
A cold, white mist flooded the room—chemical, engineered, vicious. It wasn’t designed to kill.
It was designed to paralyze.
Eella dropped first—legs giving out as her nerves seized.
Garrison collapsed beside her, coughing blood.
Darcie stood—immune.
“This is Lazarus’s final weapon,” she said softly. “Built for you. And now you’ll see what silence really means.”
She bent beside Eella.
“No gods. No glory. Just your body, rotting in a tower you thought you could save.”
But Eella wasn’t done.
Her hand moved.
Slow. Cracked. Fingers reaching for Darcie’s neck.
And as the gas thickened, she found her target.
Choked her.
Darcie gasped.
But it wasn’t the choke that stopped her.
It was the vial Eella slipped into her coat pocket before she injected herself. The one no one saw her steal from the vault. The fail-safe.
The poison.
“Goodnight, Darcie,” Eella whispered.
And the woman who once sang for blood… dropped like a marionette with its strings cut.
Dead.
For real.
Hours blurred.
Time was meaningless.
Eella woke to fire alarms. To Garrison dragging her limp body down broken stairs. To sirens in the distance.
“No one’s coming,” she mumbled.
“I’m here,” he said.
They found a car.
Drove blind.
Through dead city streets. Through riots and blackouts and bodies piled by factions fighting for a new throne.
Lazarus had taken more than a company.
He’d taken the soul of the city.
And now he ruled from its grave.
They reached an underground safehouse.
James was there—half-conscious, bandaged, barely alive.
He smiled when he saw her.
“You look like hell,” he muttered.
“I brought it with me,” she whispered.
They laid low.
For one day.
One.
Because tomorrow, Lazarus would broadcast again.
Tomorrow, he’d claim everything that burned.
Unless she stopped him.
Unless she became the final weapon.
At dawn, she stood in front of a mirror.
The serum still burned.
But she saw herself now.
Not the monster.
Not the match.
Just the girl who refused to stay broken.
Garrison came to her.
He didn’t speak.
He held her hand.
She looked at him.
“This ends with me.”
He nodded.
“I know.”
She kissed him once.
And then she loaded her gun.
One clip.
No backup.
No gods left.
Only vengeance.
Only silence.
Only her.