“Navy Harlow.”

Jax shakes his head, a short, stiff movement, as if the name had too much physical weight to remain in the air. The refusal is immediate, undeniable.

“No fucking way.”

“Who is that?” Kate and Andy ask almost simultaneously, exchanging a quick, confused glance.

“Wait…” Jay raises his hand, his eyes widen, and he points at his brother. “Navy Harlow… Nana?” His face breaks into an incredulous smile, almost too excited for the situation. “Holy shit. Is that Nana we’re talking about? You guys still talk to Nana?”

The silence that follows is uncomfortable.

“No,” Malakai replies first. His voice is low and heavy. “We haven’t spoken to her since that day…” he hesitates for a second, as if measuring his words is pointless. “Since everything.”

Jay’s smile gradually fades.

“Okay, dramatic pause aside…” Andy insists, crossing his arms. “Can someone explain who the hell this woman is?”

Jax doesn’t look at anyone when he answers.

“A murderer.”

Kate frowns in surprise, while Andy lets out a short, incredulous laugh.

“Excuse me, what?”

“A witch accused of murder,” Malakai corrects, with excessive caution. “Arrested based on circumstantial evidence. Nothing concrete. No direct witnesses, no clear magical signature.” He takes a deep breath. “In the first year of her sentence, she filed several appeals.”

“And she gave up.” Jax interrupts, finally raising his gaze. His eyes are cold. “Because she was guilty.”

“Or because she realized the system had already decided for her,” Jay retorted, resting his hip on the table. “I don’t know... To this day, it’s never quite sat right with me. Something was wrong with that case.”

“You weren’t there,” Jax replied curtly.

“Neither were you. What were we in? Our last year of high school?”

“First year of the Academy.”

The tension grows rapidly, invisibly, but dense enough to compress the air in the room.

“Regardless...” Malakai interjects, before the discussion escalates. “Navy Harlow is one of the few living people who deeply understands the interaction between dragon blood and umbria magic. In practice. Not just from books.”

“In criminal practice,” Jax retorted.

“In real-world practice,” Malakai holds his gaze. “If we’re dealing with someone who understands the symbolic, magical, and biological value of this blood, then she’s an asset.”

“A risk,” Jax replies without hesitation.

Andy runs a hand over his face thoughtfully.

“So let me see if I understand… We have an assassin who may be using dragon’s blood to amplify magic, we don’t know how or why, and you want to discard someone who literally understands this?”

“It’s not a matter of wanting to,” Jax growls. “It’s a matter of not repeating mistakes.”

Kate observes the two in silence for a few seconds before speaking:

“What kind of mistake?”

Jax doesn’t answer.

Malakai lowers his gaze for a moment.

“She’s serving time for the same type of crime we’re investigating. Why would we involve a murderer in this?”

Silence returns. Heavier than before.

Jay exhales slowly.

“Look... I know there’s a story there. A nasty story. But, right now, we’re after an assassin who’s always one step ahead.” He stares at Jax. “And, whether you like it or not, maybe Navy is the only one that knows how he thinks.”

Jax clenches his jaw, visibly torn between anger and something deeper – something he refuses to name.

“She’s not coming back for that,” he says finally. “We’re not going to involve her.”

Malakai raises his face.

“You can’t decide that for her.”

Jax’s gaze is sharp, almost cutting.

“Yes, I can. As the team leader, it’s decided.”

Andy exchanges a quick glance with Jay.

“Right now…” Andy says firmly, “We need all the help we can get. Even if you don’t like it, boss.”

The silence that follows is dense, almost physical. Jax leans back in his chair, runs a hand over his face, and lets out a short, humorless laugh.

“No,” Jax says dryly. “Anything but that.”

“We don’t have that luxury,” Malakai retorted, his voice firm but low. “Not this time.”

“You know what she is,” Jax insists. “And you know what happened the last time she was involved in an affair.”

“I know what they said happened,” Malakai corrects, holding the other’s gaze. “And I know where she is now.”

Andy leans forward, attentive.

“Where?”

Malakai takes a deep breath before answering, as if pulling something too old out of his chest.

“Blackmoor Penitentiary. Maximum security wing.” He pauses briefly. “Inmate number H-7714.”

Jay lets out a low whistle.

“Shit… maximum security wing?”

“Imagine what happened for it to have ended like this,” Malakai continued. “Andy, I want you to contact the administration. Request a formal interview. Nothing out of the ordinary... yet.”

Andy frowns.

“Do you think they’ll let you?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” Malakai says. “What matters is that we need to hear what she has to say.”

Jax pushes the chair back, standing up.

“Have you all gone mad? She was convicted of murder. The prosecution will never-”

“Leave it to me,” Jay interrupts, raising his hand. “If there’s a legal loophole for temporary release for investigative cooperation, I’ll find it. Even if it’s just for a few hours. Even if I have to be handcuffed.”

Jax stares at his brother, incredulous.

“Would you do that? Why?”

“Given the kind of thing that’s going on?” Jay shrugs, his smile fading. “Yeah. I would. One, because we need help. Two… it’s Nana. I thought she’d been extradited… but if she’s around here, I want to see her again; and, who knows, maybe help her.”

Malakai observes the scene in silence. He knows he has crossed a line. He knows that, from then on, nothing would be simple. Still, he does not back down.

“She’s the only one who’s ever dealt with something like this,” he says finally. “If anyone understands what we’re facing… it’s Navy.”

And, for the first time since Sage left the morgue, the fear that hung over everyone takes on a name, a face – and a past that none of them managed to bury.

•

The ferry cuts through the fog as if breaking through an invisible boundary.

Malakai remains standing near the bulwark, his gaze fixed on the dark silhouette that slowly emerges from the gray. Blackmoor Island looms large – first, the irregular outline of sharp rocks; then, the prison towers, too tall for such a small place, surrounded by metal fences that reflect the cold morning light like blades. Further in the background, almost swallowed by dense vegetation, the military training base reveals itself in geometric blocks, rigid, too artificial to coexist with the rest of the island.

To the left, the village.

Low houses, wood aged by salt, patched roofs. Fishing boats sway, tethered to a narrow pier, some with still-wet nets, others abandoned like skeletons of a livelihood that barely holds on. There, life persists, not by choice, but for lack of alternatives. Blackmoor offers no future; it offers survival.

“Cozy place,” Andy murmurs humorlessly.

Jax doesn’t answer. He sits there, arms crossed, jaw clenched, staring at the penitentiary as if he could forcefully destroy it with his pent-up hatred. Jay watches everything in silence, his expression hardened.

The ferry slows down. The engine groans, deeply, almost weary from the journey repeated too many times.

Malakai feels the weight of the bracelet on her wrist. A constant discomfort. A reminder.

Blackmoor had always been a place of containment: containing monsters, containing soldiers, containing people who knew too much or were too dangerous to move freely. And somewhere on that island, behind concrete walls and cold protocols, was Navy Harlow.

He closes his eyes for a second – not in prayer, but in preparation.

When the ferry docks and the ramp begins to descend with a metallic creak, Malakai knows: they are not just arriving at an island. They are entering a past that none of them have managed to bury.

They leave the pier behind without ceremony.

The road that connects the village to the penitentiary winds through the island like a constant reminder that Blackmoor wasn’t made to house anyone. On one side, dense, humid, overly vibrant vegetation. On the other, high fences, barbed wire, and military signs that warn, without exaggeration, that crossing that boundary is a very bad idea.

Malakai observes everything in silence. There’s something in that place that vibrates off-key, a subtle pressure in the air, as if the entire island were anchored in overlapping layers of secrets. The bracelet on his wrist responds almost imperceptibly, the knots tightening slightly, and he instinctively covers it with his coat sleeve. He doesn’t comment. Not yet.

Andy, in the back seat, can’t stay still. His knee moves up and down nervously, and he alternates his gaze between the fogged-up window and his useless cell phone, since the signal disappeared as soon as they left the village.

“This looks like a scene from a bad movie,” he mutters. “All that’s missing is the low-lying fog and someone telling us we shouldn’t have come.”

Jay gives a half-smile, but it’s more reflex than humor. He analyzes everything carefully: the signs, the warnings, the soldiers visible in the distance. Mentally, he’s already cataloging what can and cannot be used against them if something goes wrong.

“The perfect place for nobody to ask questions,” he remarks quietly. “And for nobody to leave with answers.”

Jax drives without responding. His eyes fixed on the road, his jaw clenched. He knows places like this. Institutions built to break wills, not to rehabilitate people. With each watchtower that appears on the horizon, the unease grows, not from fear, but from anticipation. He doesn’t trust systems that require so much control to stay afloat.

When the penitentiary finally appears, nobody comments.

The building rises like a massive block of dark, brutalist concrete, devoid of any aesthetic appeal. There are no visible windows on the ground floor, only thick, cold walls and surgically positioned observation towers. Everything there was designed to monitor, contain, and silence.

Andy lets out a low whistle.

“Okay... I take back what I said. This isn’t a bad movie. It’s just a nightmare.”

The entry process is slow. Documents, authorizations, detectors, suspicious glances. Jax answers questions with short, precise sentences. Jay intervenes only when necessary, citing names, positions, provisional permits. Andy remains silent, a rare occurrence, realizing that any out-of-place comment could delay things even further.

Malakai feels.

He feels the weight of the place closing in around them, as if each wall held echoes of voices that never left. He takes a deep breath, anchoring himself, remembering his grandfather’s words. Accept your other side. Reconcile.

They are led into a windowless room, lit by white lamps – too white. A metal table occupies the center of the room, with chairs positioned in an impersonal, almost hostile way. Instinctively, everyone sits on the same side – a silent gesture of unity, or perhaps of defense.

Time is starting to drag on.

First, the prosecution is ‘still evaluating’. Then, ‘there was an unforeseen event’. Finally, the inmate ‘is being prepared’. Two hours pass as if the penitentiary were testing their patience, one by one.

Andy starts moving again.

“She’s doing this on purpose, right?”

“Not her,” Jax replies, without taking his eyes off the door. “The system.”

Jay rests his head against the cold wall, his fingers finally ceasing to move.

Blackmoor doesn’t like haste. Whoever controls the time, controls the conversation.

Malakai remains motionless. The bracelet vibrates again, more clearly now. A warning. An acknowledgment.

Footsteps echo in the hallway.

The sound is enough to instantly align everyone. Jax straightens his posture. Jay uncrosses his legs. Andy puts away his cell phone. Malakai looks up, feeling the air change, as if something ancient is about to cross that doorway.

The lock turns slowly.