The doors to the dance floor burst open with a loud thud, drawing all eyes in the room to the figure that stumbled inside. Lukas, one of the club's runners, leaned against the doorframe, gasping for breath. His shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat, and his chest heaved as he tried to compose himself.
Georg stood at the center of the room, a glass of whiskey in hand, but his attention snapped to Lukas immediately. The boy straightened, pushing himself upright with a resolve that belied his exhaustion.
"They're here," Lukas said, his voice strained but firm.
A ripple of unease moved through the room. The faint sound of chanting, distant but distinct, began to creep in despite the thick walls and soundproofing of the club. The rhythm of the voices outside seemed to tighten the air within, the tension palpable.
"How many?" Karl asked, breaking the silence.
Lukas looked around the room, meeting each gaze before finally fixing his eyes on Georg. "So many," he said quietly, his words carrying the weight of what awaited them. "More than I could count. The street's packed."
Georg set his glass down on a nearby table with a decisive clink and pushed himself to his feet. His face was calm, but his eyes burned with determination. The room fell silent as he turned to face his people, every one of them waiting for his words.
"Listen," he began, his voice steady and clear. "We must show them that we are not cowards. We're not going to hide behind the doors of this club." He glanced at the bar, at the tables, at the faces of those who had stood with him through thick and thin. "We're not going to give them the satisfaction."
A murmur of agreement swept through the crowd. Big Boy crossed his arms, a grim smile on his face, while Marie de Sachelles nodded sharply, adjusting her gloves as if preparing for battle.
Georg stepped onto the stage, the weight of the moment pressing on his shoulders as he faced his people. The faint sound of chanting outside grew louder, but inside the club, a tense silence hung in the air. He raised a hand, calling for everyone's attention. Slowly, the murmurs died down, and all eyes were on him.
He took a deep breath and began, his voice steady and resolute. "I know what you're feeling right now. Fear. Uncertainty. Anger. And you know what? That's okay. But I want you to look around—look at each other. This is not just a club. This is not just a district. Stuwerviertel is ours. It's where we've built our lives, no matter what anyone says. They call this the land of the fallen."
Georg paused, letting the words hang heavy in the air. His gaze swept over the faces before him, each one carrying a story, a struggle, a fight to belong.
"But the truth is, we have not fallen. Not really. We are the ones who have risen after every stumble. We are the ones who refuse to stay down, no matter how hard they try to push us. And we won't start falling now—not today, not tomorrow, not ever."
A ripple of energy passed through the crowd. Georg could see it in their faces, the shift from fear to determination.
"They want to tear us down because they don't understand us, because they fear what we represent. But we—we—are stronger than their fear. We're not just fighting for this club or this street. We're fighting for the right to exist as we are, without shame, without apology. So when we step out there, we're not just defending a building. We're defending everything we've built together."
He straightened, his voice growing louder, bolder. "And we will not fall. Not today."
One by one, heads began to nod. Lilian reached out to clasp Karl's hand, while Big Boy thumped a fist against his chest in solidarity. Quiet murmurs of agreement turned into voices of resolve.
Stuwerviertel was indeed the land of the fallen—but Georg had shown them that together, they could rise, and this day would be no exception.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
The Alliance halted in front of the club, their ranks forming a solid wall illuminated by the flickering light of candles and torches. Their chants of "Long live our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ!" filled the air, echoing off the surrounding buildings. A mix of determination and self-righteous fervor lit their eyes as they stood firm, their gaze fixed on the club's imposing façade.
At the edges of the scene, the residents of Stuwerviertel watched in silence. Their expressions ranged from disdain to indifference, but the contempt in their eyes was unmistakable. They leaned against crumbling walls and stood on crooked steps, arms crossed, their presence a quiet protest against the spectacle unfolding before them.
The street was alive with tension. Police officers dotted the perimeter, hands hovering near their holsters, their eyes scanning the crowd for any signs of violence. Photojournalists jockeyed for position, cameras ready to immortalize whatever might unfold, while reporters scribbled furiously in their notepads or whispered into microphones.
And then the doors of the club opened.
The first to emerge were the women, stepping out one by one, their heels clicking against the stone stairs. A collective gasp rippled through the Alliance, their chants faltering for a brief moment.
The women stood with an air of defiance, their attire unapologetically bold. Garments of the finest silks and velvets clung to their figures, adorned with intricate beadwork and sequins that shimmered in the torchlight. Necklines plunged daringly, and some wore long gloves that reached their elbows, while others draped fur stoles over their shoulders. Their makeup was dramatic, their eyes smoky and their lips painted a bold, daring red.
Each one wore a sultry smile, as if daring their audience to look away. The moment stretched as the women posed on the stairs, their presence radiating confidence and defiance.
The crowd outside the Alliance broke into cheers and whistles. Catcalls filled the air, and some of the residents clapped and whooped in approval. The women's smiles widened at the reaction, their postures shifting to bask in the attention. They exchanged amused glances, as if reveling in their ability to command the street's gaze.
But the Alliance members were not so entertained. Heads shook in disapproval, faces twisted in distaste. Muttered prayers and words of condemnation rippled through their ranks, their torches seeming to flicker in protest.
The scene stood at a tense impasse, a clash of worlds personified by the women on the stairs and the crowd before them.
The men of the club followed and stepped forward, forming a protective line in front of the women. Bartenders, servers, cooks—all stood shoulder to shoulder, their expressions a mix of determination and defiance. These weren't fighters by trade, but their presence was imposing, their loyalty to the club and its inhabitants evident in the unflinching resolve on their faces.
Two towering figures joined the lineup—a pair of bouncers, their broad frames and stern demeanors adding weight to the club's silent stand. They crossed their arms over their chests, their eyes scanning the scene, daring anyone to take the first step toward confrontation.
The club's doors opened once more, drawing the crowd's attention. Out stepped a petite woman, her stature small but her posture exuding authority, followed by an even larger man. His shoulders were broad, his build massive, but his presence was calm, deliberate. Together, they descended the stairs, weaving through the protective barrier formed by their colleagues, their movements purposeful.
The man's gaze locked onto the Alliance's front line, narrowing at the women who sang hymns in soft but resolute tones. Their hands clutched rosaries, their voices blending in a haunting melody of prayer, their eyes half-closed in what seemed like rapture. Yet the man's glare didn't waver.
Maria stood among the Alliance, her grip tightening on her rosary as she took in the scene. The tension was palpable, a thread pulled taut between two opposing forces. Her heart pounded in her chest, the weight of the moment pressing on her.
Then Father Cohen stepped to her side, his presence steadying her. He held the cross out to her, his expression serene yet encouraging. "Here you are, Sister," he said, his voice calm but filled with conviction.
Maria hesitated for only a moment before accepting the cross. Its weight was reassuring in her hands, grounding her amidst the growing unease.
Father Cohen's smile was warm, his confidence unwavering. "It is time for you to lead our crusade. Show them what's best for them."
Maria exhaled slowly, straightening her shoulders. With the cross held high, she took her place at the head of the procession, ready to confront the unknown with faith as her guide.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Georg watched through the window, his eyes narrowing at the procession gathering outside. The faint chants, the flicker of candlelight, the stiff formation—they were all so theatrical. His gaze landed on the woman at the forefront, clad in a simple habit, a cross held high in her hand. She couldn't have been older than her mid-twenties, her frame dwarfed by the significance of the role thrust upon her.
He let out a derisive chuckle. This is their big plan? A little nun to lead them? The absurdity of it was almost insulting. Did they think her meek appearance and pious airs would intimidate him? With a smirk tugging at his lips, Georg straightened his jacket and stepped toward the door.
The entire street fell silent as he made his entrance, his every movement commanding attention. The jeers and cheers from both sides dwindled, their fervor melting away as all eyes turned to him. Georg stopped at the top of the stairs, arms loosely crossed, exuding the confidence of a ruler surveying his domain.
His sharp gaze swept across the crowd, eventually landing on the women directly behind the nun. His smirk deepened. Ah, Frau Liutberga Valenta. The true architect of this moral crusade. It was almost poetic, the leader of such a righteous cause oblivious to her husband's clandestine escapades within these very walls.
Beside her stood Frau Luttenberger, always at her bosom friend's side, probably whispering strategies and plotting their so-called righteous revolution. Georg had to stifle a laugh. If Frau Valenta only knew of Luttenberger's scandalous dalliances with married men—rumors that had been the talk of the Vienna salons for months. A paragon of virtue indeed.
His gaze shifted to the row of nuns and friars, his expression darkening slightly as it settled on the tall man in priestly robes. So this must be him. The priest with political pull. The man met his gaze unflinchingly, his scrutiny sharp, as though attempting to pierce through Georg's composure with sheer will.
Georg didn't flinch, holding the stare with the same indomitable confidence he always carried. Let them judge me, he thought. They're no saints themselves.
His sharp gaze then fixed on the nun at the forefront, and the world around her blurred. Maria. Georg's breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, the chaos outside the club seemed to fade into silence.
The realization hit him like a blow to the chest. His fingers instinctively clenched around the rosary in his pocket, the beads pressing hard into his palm as if grounding him against the sudden storm inside his mind. Her face had matured, the youthful softness replaced by a serenity that didn't belong to the Maria he once knew. But her eyes—wide and startled as they met his—were unmistakable.
Her parted lips trembled as though she wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. That expression of shock was all he needed to confirm the truth. His father and her uncle had indeed lied. They had separated them with deceit, but the universe, cruel as ever, had brought them face-to-face again—not as childhood friends, not as lovers, but as adversaries.
No fallen woman would ever think to become a nun, he thought bitterly. The phrase ran circles in his mind, both a defense against his emotions and a scathing critique of her presence. He had searched for her in every corner of his world for years, only to find her cloistered away, dedicating herself to God in the same breath she now used to condemn him and his people.
But why? The Maria he remembered was a spark of life—a soul who laughed with abandon, danced without care, and faced the world with an unshakable defiance. The convent walls must have crushed her spirit. He nearly pitied her. Nearly.
The pity was fleeting, replaced by a sharp sting of betrayal. She wasn't just standing on the other side of the line now; she was leading it. She held the cross as if it were a weapon aimed directly at him and everything he stood for. The Maria he knew had vanished, and in her place stood a stranger cloaked in righteousness, intent on tearing down everything he had built. This was not the reunion he had once dreamed of.
Georg straightened his back, his expression hardening. He released the rosary and let his hand fall to his side, curling it into a fist. Whatever bond they once shared had been severed. He didn't know this woman anymore, and she had made her choice.
She has chosen her side, and I have chosen mine.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Maria's grip on the cross tightened until her knuckles turned white. The realization hit her with a force she wasn't prepared for. Georg.
He was the "Captain" all along. The notorious figure they had been preparing to face wasn't some stranger, but the boy who had once held her hand, whispered dreams of the future, and made promises they would never keep.
She felt the world tilt beneath her feet. How had she not known? How had it never reached her ears that Georg, her Georg, had become the man who threw away everything for a life of sin and indulgence? The man who had abandoned his betrothed, and turned his back on the decency he once claimed to hold dear.
Her gaze locked onto his, but it was no longer the gentle boy she remembered. His jaw was clenched in barely contained fury, his eyes piercing through her like they were strangers. This wasn't the Georg she had known.
Her heart twisted in conflict. Should she be furious at him? For leaving her without a word, for shattering the connection they once shared, for ignoring the countless letters she poured her heart into?
Or should she be angry at herself? For being so naïve to believe this mission would somehow vindicate her in the eyes of the Reverend Mother and Sisters who doubted her, for clinging to the hope that she could prove her worth through this crusade?
The cross in her hand felt heavier now, not with the weight of faith but with the burden of their shared past. What am I supposed to do with this? With him?
Georg's voice broke the tense silence like a knife slicing through fog. "Were you looking for me?" His tone was casual, almost mocking, but the undercurrent of something sharper lingered beneath his words.
Maria's lips parted, but no sound escaped. Her chest felt tight, her pulse thundering in her ears.
"Well," he said, spreading his arms slightly, a cruel smirk tugging at his lips, "I'm here now."
A sudden crack of lightning illuminated the sky, its flash casting sharp shadows across his face. The light made him appear larger, more imposing, like a figure carved from marble, unyielding and immovable. His eyes, however, gleamed with something far from saintly.
"What do you want from me?" His voice was softer now, though no less dangerous.
Maria's grip on the cross tightened as if it were her only anchor in the storm raging within her. She forced herself to remember why she was here, why she had marched to this place despite every nerve in her body screaming to turn away. She raised the cross between them, her hand trembling slightly. "I adjure you, Satan!"
The moment the words left her mouth, Georg's expression shifted from mild amusement to outright disbelief. He raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening into a grin that was both infuriating and chilling.
"Satan?" he repeated, almost lazily. "You're calling me Satan?" He tilted his head, as though genuinely curious, and then let out a bark of laughter. "Are you serious right now?"
The people around him erupted into laughter as well, their jeers and mocking chuckles forming a cruel chorus. Georg joined them, shaking his head as if the sheer absurdity of her words were too much to bear.
Maria felt her breath hitch. Her heart twisted with something beyond mere embarrassment—it was humiliation, raw and unforgiving. Her face burned, her resolve shaking under the weight of their ridicule. But worst of all was the sound of his laughter.
She thought heartbreak was the worst pain she could endure, but this—this public mockery, set in motion by him—felt like a wound that would never heal.
The tension crackled in the air as Frau Lulu's voice rose above the chants of the Alliance. "Burn this heretic!" she cried, and the crowd took up the chant, their voices unified in a fervor that sent chills down Maria's spine.
"Burn!" they echoed, their fervent cries bolstering Maria's waning confidence.
Maria tightened her grip on the cross and raised it higher, her trembling hand finding new strength in their support. But before she could speak, the broad-shouldered man from the club let out a guttural yell, the sound cutting through the cacophony. Together with the petite woman, they stepped forward, gleaming blades glinting in their hands.
Maria's breath caught in her throat as she saw the weapons, her resolve faltering for a brief moment. But before chaos could erupt, Georg's voice rang out, sharp and commanding.
"Hold it!" His raised hand stopped the pair in their tracks, and they begrudgingly retreated a step, their eyes still burning with defiance.
Maria took a shaky breath and raised her free hand towards the Alliance, signaling for silence. The chants subsided, leaving a heavy quiet in their wake.
Georg tilted his head, his smirk returning. "So, is it over now?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Before Maria could respond, Frau Lulu stormed forward, her finger jabbing the air in his direction. "Watch your tongue, young man! Don't you dare disrespect us!"
Georg's expression darkened, the smirk vanishing as quickly as it had come. "Disrespect?" His voice rose, thick with anger. "Hell, you don't even know how to respect yourself!"
Maria flinched at the raw fury in his tone, her heart racing as she watched him, a side of him she had never seen before.
Georg took a step closer, his gaze boring into Frau Lulu's. "Did you know your husband has been cheating on you? That he'd rather be in bed with a doxy than with you?"
The accusation sent a ripple of shock through the crowd. Gasps and murmurs spread like wildfire, and Maria saw the color drain from Frau Lulu's face.
"That is not true!" Frau Lulu spat, her voice trembling with rage. She pointed an accusatory finger at Georg. "You are the Devil! No one believes your words, you filthy liar!"
Georg folded his arms across his chest, his gaze unwavering. "Believe what you want, Frau Lulu. But deep down, you already know the truth."
"You disgraceful man!" Frau Lulu screamed, her face red with fury as she stepped forward.
But before she could charge further, Frau Liutberga grabbed her arm and pulled her back. "Please, Lulu, simmer down," she urged, her voice low but firm.
Georg's smirk deepened as his gaze shifted to Frau Liutberga. The moment she stepped into his line of sight, his demeanor changed, his tone becoming razor-sharp.
"And you, Frau Liutberga," he said, his voice carrying a venomous edge. "Does your friend here know who you really are?"
Frau Liutberga stiffened, her hand tightening on Frau Lulu's elbow.
Georg chuckled darkly, taking a deliberate step forward. "I still remember what they said about you in the parlors of Vienna. Herr Hirsch? Herr Maurer? Herr Aigner? Do those names ring a bell?"
Frau Lulu's eyes darted to her friend, confusion and disbelief mingling in her expression. Now it was her turn to pull at Frau Liutberga's elbow, her grip unyielding as if she feared the woman might crumble under the weight of Georg's accusations.
"Hah!" Frau Liutberga snapped, her voice trembling with anger but laced with desperation. "It must be you who spread those rumors! Nobody raised suspicions about me! Not one!"
Georg raised an eyebrow, his smirk never faltering.
"I am a married woman," Frau Liutberga continued, her voice growing louder with each word. "A woman of respect, and not one of your kind!"
As the woman cried, her tears streaking her flushed face, the club erupted in mocking laughter. "Long live the Captain!" they roared, their voices reverberating through the streets. Georg, standing at the center of it all, did not join in their jeers. Instead, he stared down at the sobbing Frau Liutberga, his glare as cold as the wind cutting through the night.
Frau Lulu, ever defiant despite the humiliation, stepped forward. "If you don't know how to respect the ladies of society, at least respect God's commandments," she said, her voice trembling yet resolute.
Georg's lips curled into a sardonic smile. He descended the stairs slowly, each step deliberate and echoing through the tense silence. His shadow loomed larger as he approached the two women, now huddled together in a protective stance.
"Which commandment?" he demanded, his tone sharp and mocking.
Frau Lulu opened her mouth, but before she could answer, he repeated, louder this time, "Which commandment?"
Standing tall before them, he gestured with a sweeping arm toward the crowd. "Where is it written that I have to respect petty women such as you? Women who parade as righteous while scheming to ruin innocent people's lives?"
His words cut through the air like a blade. "In which catechism? Did this god of yours command you to spread hatred? To gather in mobs and chant for the downfall of others? Go forth, He said. And what have you done with that? Tell me, Sister,"—his gaze briefly flicked to Maria—"does He commend this?"
The club erupted once more, cheering and chanting their reverence for their Captain. "Long live the Captain!" they shouted, their voices drowning out everything else.
The Alliance responded in kind, their voices rising in prayer. "Our Father, who art in Heaven..." they began, their chant echoing in defiance of the club's roar.
Georg's words, though venomous, struck something deep inside her. She had come here to bring peace, not to become a witness to chaos.
If there was anyone who deserved resentment, it was him. Maria's grip on the cross tightened as her gaze hardened, locking onto Georg with an intensity she didn't know she possessed. Half a decade without a word from him, and now this? Hearing him spew venom against the women who had entrusted her with their faith and their cause? It was too much.
His anger was palpable, radiating off him like heat from a blazing fire, but it only served to ignite her own. She rarely felt anger this consuming, but Georg always had a knack for stirring something fierce within her.
Without hesitation, she began to move toward him, each step measured, deliberate, and unyielding. She raised the cross high, her hand trembling with righteous fury. To anyone else, it might have seemed like a gesture of piety, but to Georg, it was a direct threat.
His eyes narrowed as she closed the distance. Warily, he stepped back, his expression a mix of confusion and irritation. "What are you doing?" he asked, his tone sharp.
"I command you, Satan, to leave this sinner's body," Maria said, her voice ringing out, clear and unwavering.
"Lower that!" he demanded, his frustration giving way to a flicker of doubt.
"You are a demon in disguise!" she countered, taking another step forward, raising the cross even higher.
Georg's jaw clenched, and for a moment, his usual confidence faltered. Where had this Maria come from? Where was the gentle girl he had once known?
But Maria's thoughts mirrored his in a bitter twist. Where was the old Georg—the one who had once been so full of life, so full of dreams? Why had he become this man, so steeped in hatred and arrogance?
"Why don't you exorcise the horde following behind you?" Georg barked, stepping to the side to gesture at the Alliance behind her. His movements were sharp, his disdain evident. "They are the ones who need it!"
The members of the Alliance shrank back at his words, their confidence visibly shaken by his wrathful presence.
Maria didn't flinch. She planted herself firmly between him and the Alliance, the cross trembling slightly in her grip but never lowering. "Recognize that God is greater than you, and it is He who commands you! Repent in the name of God!"
Georg's laugh was bitter and cutting. "Did God give you the power of attorney to speak in His name? Where is it?" He spread his arms mockingly, inviting an answer she couldn't give. "Show it to us, show me!"
For a moment, Maria was silent. Her chest heaved with the effort of holding her ground, her words caught somewhere between her heart and her throat. But she wouldn't back down. Slowly, deliberately, she brought the cross even closer to his face, her silence speaking volumes.
Georg's eyes locked onto hers, his expression unreadable. The tension between them hung in the air, thick and electric, as if the world itself held its breath.
She should've kept her distance. The thought came too late as Georg's strong hand wrapped around her wrist, raising it high enough that the cross she held now felt like an afterthought. His grip wasn't harsh, but it was unrelenting, forcing her to stay in place.
He leaned in closer, and Maria's breath hitched as his face hovered just inches from hers. She could feel his breath, warm against her skin, and her pulse quickened in response to the sheer intensity of his presence. There was something magnetic about the way he looked at her now, his darkened eyes boring into hers, as though trying to uncover her every secret, her every intention.
"Why are you doing this?" he asked, his voice soft—intimately so. The gentleness was unexpected, almost disarming after the fury he had unleashed just moments before. It was meant for her ears alone, hidden beneath the chaos surrounding them.
Maria's resolve wavered as his words sank in, as his tone shifted from anger to something bordering on vulnerability.
"You are a good woman, and I can attest to that," Georg continued, his gaze never leaving hers. "They wanted to kick us out of this place because of their greed. You know that, right?" His plea was earnest, almost desperate, as though he truly believed she would understand.
Maria shook her head, her resolve battling against the warmth spreading in her chest. This is a test, she told herself. A test of faith. It felt as if the demon itself was trying to lead her astray, using a voice that once brought her comfort to now sow doubt in her heart.
"These people only wanted what's best for all of you," she countered, her voice steady despite the storm raging within her.
Georg's eyes softened for the briefest of moments, his disbelief painted plainly across his face. He shook his head slowly, almost mournfully. "Maria, my darling, I—"
But she didn't hear the rest. A jagged streak of lightning split the sky, its brilliance reflected in his stormy eyes, followed by a deafening crack that drowned out his words. The lightning moments earlier now brought its consequences. Flames suddenly licked hungrily at the wooden roof of a small building beside the club, their warm glow casting eerie shadows across the chaotic street. The residents screamed and ran in every direction, some clutching buckets of water to douse the fire while others simply fled.
Maria blinked, finally snapping out of the charged moment she had shared with Georg. She became acutely aware of how close he had been, how his breath had mingled with hers, how his words had unsettled her resolve. Shaking her wrist free from his grasp, she stepped back.
Georg's disheartened expression struck her like a blow, but there was no time to dwell on it. The crowd had erupted into action, and people surged between them, breaking their connection entirely.
Maria felt herself being jostled, her body bumping against the frenzied mob. Georg, now a few steps away, glanced around at the growing chaos, his eyes darting toward the fire and then back to her. Just as he seemed to move toward her again, Maria felt a firm grip encircle her waist.
Startled, she turned her head and found one of the friars holding her tightly, pulling her toward safety. "Sister, come with me!" he urged, his tone urgent as people pushed past them, threatening to separate them from their group.
"No, wait!" she protested, craning her neck to see Georg. The spot where he had stood was now empty, swallowed by the chaos. But something on the ground glinted faintly in the firelight—a rosary, lying forgotten in the dirt.
"I have to go back there!" she exclaimed, struggling against the friar's hold.
"But Sister, it's too dangerous!" the friar insisted, glancing at the flames that had begun to spread to the eaves of the neighboring buildings.
"Please," she pleaded, her voice rising with urgency. "Someone has lost their rosary. We can't let it be trampled on, and we must return it to its owner."
The friar hesitated, following her gaze to the small, glimmering object on the ground. He sighed but released her, stepping alongside her to shield her from the press of the crowd. Together, they weaved through the mass of people, the friar's steady presence keeping her upright as bodies collided around them.
Finally, Maria reached the rosary. She knelt and scooped it up, holding the worn beads tightly in her palm. A strange sense of warmth spread through her as she slipped it into the pocket of her habit, knowing she couldn't leave it behind.
With the rosary safely in her possession, she and the friar turned back toward their group. The flames roared louder behind them, and Maria cast one last glance over her shoulder, wondering where Georg had gone.