CHAPTER 9: TRIAD'S SHADOW
The assembly hall hummed with nervous energy, three hundred supernatural teenagers packed into rows of folding chairs that creaked under the weight of collective anxiety. Emergency meetings were never good news at Salvatore School—they meant someone was dead, missing, or actively trying to kill them. Given the school's track record, all three were distinct possibilities.
Alen sat in the third row beside Hope, hyperaware of the way she'd gone still when Alaric had called for mandatory attendance. The Hollow remained dormant in his proximity, but he could sense her tension in the rigid line of her shoulders, the way her fingers traced patterns on her left wrist that looked suspiciously like defensive runes.
She knows something, he realized. Or suspects something. Hope doesn't get this tense without reason.
Alaric stood at the podium, his usual casual demeanor replaced by the grim professionalism of a man delivering bad news. Behind him, Dorian fiddled with a projection system that cast harsh white light across a screen displaying the Salvatore School seal.
"I'll get straight to the point," Alaric began, his voice carrying across the hall with practiced authority. "Three supernatural teenagers have vanished from surrounding communities in the past two weeks. All were last seen in areas with known Triad Industries activity."
The reaction was immediate and visceral. Students shifted uncomfortably, whispered conversations breaking out like scattered fires. Someone in the back let out a distinctly canine whine that suggested werewolf ancestry and poorly controlled stress responses.
Dorian clicked to the next slide, and images filled the screen—missing person flyers, surveillance photos of abandoned facilities, corporate logos that looked innocuous until you knew what they represented.
"Triad Industries," Dorian said, his academic tone failing to soften the gravity of his words, "is a private research corporation with documented ties to supernatural experimentation. Their methods include vivisection, magical torture, and systematic violation of the Geneva Conventions."
Another click. More images—these ones harder to look at. Medical equipment stained with substances that definitely weren't human blood. Restraint systems designed for supernatural strength. Charts documenting pain responses across different species.
Josie made a small, sick sound beside Alen. Lizzie had gone pale, her usual dramatic flair completely absent. Around the hall, students were processing the reality that someone wanted to turn them into lab rats.
"No one leaves campus without faculty escort until further notice," Alaric continued. "We're coordinating with local authorities and supernatural agencies to locate the missing individuals, but until we know more about Triad's current operations, your safety requires constant vigilance."
Hope's hand found Alen's arm, her grip tight enough to bruise. "My father dealt with Triad before," she whispered, voice barely audible. "They don't stop. They don't negotiate. They just... take."
Alen felt something cold and calculating settle in his chest as he studied the images on screen. The moral calculus was simple—Triad operatives kidnapped, tortured, and murdered innocent supernatural beings for profit and scientific curiosity. They were unambiguous villains, the kind of irredeemable monsters the Entity's gifts were designed to handle.
Dr. Veronica Greasley, he thought, reading the name from one of the documents Dorian had displayed. Lead researcher. Documented overseer of supernatural experimentation programs. If anyone qualifies for soul harvesting, it's her.
The thought should have been disturbing. Instead, it felt like clarity cutting through moral complexity. He had the power to stop these atrocities permanently, to ensure that Greasley and her associates could never hurt anyone again. All he needed was to locate their facility and get close enough to harvest their souls.
But I can't exactly announce that plan to the assembled student body, he realized. 'Hey everyone, I'm going to hunt down the Triad scientists and ritually destroy their souls to power my resurrection magic' probably wouldn't go over well.
"Questions?" Alaric asked, surveying the room with the weary expression of someone who'd delivered too many speeches about supernatural threats.
A senior witch raised her hand. "What about the missing students? Are we mounting a rescue operation?"
"That decision rests with law enforcement and supernatural authorities," Alaric replied carefully. "Our priority is keeping current students safe."
Which means they're going to coordinate and plan and debate while people die in Triad laboratories, Alen thought, frustration building in his chest. By the time the adults finish their meetings, those missing teenagers will be corpses on examination tables.
The assembly continued for another ten minutes—security protocols, buddy system requirements, emergency contact procedures. Standard crisis management that felt wholly inadequate against an enemy willing to commit systematic atrocities for research data.
As students filed out, Alen made his decision.
He was going to find Dr. Veronica Greasley. He was going to rescue those missing teenagers. And he was going to harvest his second soul coin, no matter what it cost him personally.
The only question was whether to do it alone or with help.
The library after hours felt like a mausoleum dedicated to dangerous knowledge. Alen had claimed a corner table surrounded by books that definitely weren't part of the standard curriculum—corporate espionage techniques, facility blueprints, detailed analyses of Triad Industries' known operations. The research painted a picture of systematic horror that made his stomach churn and his resolve harden in equal measure.
Dr. Veronica Greasley, age 52, PhD in supernatural biology from an institution that probably shouldn't exist. Seventeen published papers on "Enhanced Interrogation Techniques for Non-Human Subjects." Known facilities in three states, with the closest located in an abandoned chemical plant thirty miles north of Mystic Falls.
The victim testimonies were harder to read. Survivors described months of imprisonment, surgical procedures without anesthesia, magical torture designed to test pain thresholds across species lines. One werewolf teenager had been subjected to silver injections while conscious. A young witch had been forced to cast spells until her magic burned out completely.
These aren't researchers, Alen thought, bile rising in his throat. They're sadists with medical degrees and corporate funding.
The resurrection coin in his pocket pulsed with warmth, responding to his emotional state. It wanted to be used, wanted to fulfill its purpose of trading villain souls for innocent lives. But first, he needed a villain to harvest.
"You're planning something stupid."
Hope's voice cut through his concentration like a blade. She stood beside his table with arms crossed and an expression that mixed concern with exasperation.
"Define stupid," Alen replied, not looking up from a floor plan of the suspected Triad facility.
"The look on your face right now. The way you've been researching corporate black sites for the past three hours. The fact that you're studying infiltration techniques instead of doing homework like a normal person."
Hope slid into the chair across from him, her proximity immediately calming the research-fueled anxiety that had been building in his chest. The Hollow remained dormant, allowing him to think clearly without its malevolent commentary.
"Normal people don't have the power to actually do something about this," Alen said quietly. "Normal people have to wait for adults to coordinate responses while innocent kids die in laboratories."
"And abnormal people get themselves killed playing hero without backup or a real plan."
Alen finally looked up, meeting her blue eyes directly. "What if we don't go in without backup? What if we bring the right people and do this smart?"
Hope's expression shifted from exasperation to something approaching interest. "Keep talking."
"Josie and Lizzie. They're powerful, they care about protecting innocent people, and they're not going to let bureaucracy stand in the way of doing what's right." Alen leaned forward, warming to his argument. "We locate the facility, plan a surgical strike, get the prisoners out before Triad can relocate or eliminate evidence."
"And if we get caught? If this is a trap? If Triad has defenses we don't know about?"
Then I use my Word of Command to freeze their entire security force while siphoning enough power to craft spells that don't exist yet, Alen thought. Then I hunt down Dr. Greasley and harvest her soul while she's still screaming.
"Then we adapt," he said aloud. "We're not helpless, Hope. Between your tribrid abilities, my siphoning, and the twins' combined magic, we can handle a few corporate researchers."
Hope studied him for a long moment, her brilliant mind clearly cataloging risks and benefits. "This isn't just heroism," she said finally. "What aren't you telling me?"
That I need villain souls to power resurrection magic. That saving those prisoners is secondary to finding harvestable targets. That I'm planning to become an executioner in service of a greater good you can't understand.
"I need to prove I'm not the coward who ran from Klaus," Alen said instead, weaving truth and necessary lies into something approaching honesty. "I need to know that when people are in danger, I'm someone who acts instead of hiding behind other people's authority."
The manufactured guilt from his false memories gave weight to the deception. Hope could see the genuine pain in his expression, the desperate need to redeem himself for failures that felt completely real despite their artificial origin.
She believes me, he realized as her expression softened slightly. She sees the boy trying to make amends for cowardice, not the cosmic interloper planning ritual murder.
"Fine," Hope said after a moment. "But we do this smart. Full reconnaissance, detailed planning, exit strategies for when everything goes wrong. And if this feels like a trap at any point, we extract immediately."
Relief flooded through Alen's chest. "Agreed."
"Good. Now explain to me how we're going to convince your sisters to commit multiple felonies for the greater good."
Finding Josie and Lizzie proved easier than expected—they were in the common room, supposedly studying but actually engaged in their usual routine of Lizzie complaining about everything while Josie provided patient commentary.
"This whole lockdown thing is ridiculous," Lizzie was saying as Alen and Hope approached. "We're supernatural beings, not delicate flowers that need protecting from every corporate boogeyman."
"They kidnapped three teenagers," Josie replied mildly. "That seems like adequate reason for caution."
"Or adequate reason for righteous vengeance. I vote vengeance."
"You always vote vengeance, Lizzie."
Alen cleared his throat, and both twins looked up. Lizzie's expression immediately brightened with the anticipation of drama, while Josie's grew concerned at the serious look on her brother's face.
"We need to talk," Alen said quietly. "Somewhere private."
Five minutes later, they were huddled in an empty classroom while Alen laid out his plan. The missing teenagers, the Triad facility, the moral imperative to act while adults debated and coordinated.
"We can't wait for official responses," he concluded. "People are dying while we sit here following safety protocols."
Josie looked uncertain, her natural caution warring with her desire to help innocent people. "Dad said lockdown for a reason. If Triad is as dangerous as he claims—"
"Since when do we follow rules when people are in danger?" Lizzie interrupted, eyes bright with the possibility of legitimate violence. "Besides, we're talking about corporate assholes who torture kids. They deserve whatever's coming to them."
"It's not about what they deserve," Hope said carefully. "It's about what we can live with. If we do this, there's no going back. We're taking responsibility for whatever happens."
Including the soul harvest I'm planning, Alen thought. Including the executions that will fund future resurrections. Including the moral weight of playing judge, jury, and cosmic executioner.
"I'm in," Lizzie said immediately. "Josie?"
Josie studied her brother's face, seeing the determination that had replaced his previous uncertainty. "You really think we can do this? Rescue those people without getting ourselves killed?"
"I think we have to try," Alen replied. "Because if we don't, who will?"
After a long moment, Josie nodded. "Okay. But we plan this properly. No rushing in without understanding what we're facing."
"Agreed," Hope said. "We do this smart, or we don't do it at all."
As they began discussing logistics and timing, Alen felt the weight of leadership settling on his shoulders. These people trusted him, believed in him, were willing to risk their lives based on his judgment.
Don't let them down, he told himself. Save the prisoners, harvest Greasley's soul, and get everyone home alive. Simple.
The resurrection coin pulsed with warmth against his leg, eager for the villain's soul that would transform it from potential energy into actual power.
By tomorrow night, he'd either have his second coin or they'd all be prisoners in Triad laboratories.
There was no middle ground.
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