POV: Michael
The first week was blood and silence.
He and Beryl moved through Red Grave like ghosts—two hunters in plainclothes, slipping between sewers, train yards, and crumbling cathedrals. They didn't talk much. Just nods. Quiet signals. Sharp glances when something didn't sit right.
The cult left breadcrumbs:Symbols carved into alley walls.Burnt offerings in hollow chapels.People gone missing without notice—mostly poor, mostly quiet, mostly forgotten.
Michael tracked patterns.
Beryl found bodies.
They made a good team.
POV: Beryl
She'd heard of Antonio Marino. Rumors. Whisper kills. Lone wolf. Never smiled.
But in person? He was more complicated.
Polite. Watchful. Calm—like a sword still in its sheath.
He didn't boast. Didn't posture. And when they fought, he moved like a man who understood violence—but didn't crave it.
Some hunters lived for the thrill.
He didn't.
He just did the job.
And she respected that.
Day 10 – Rooftop, Western Docks
They sat with their backs against a rusted water tank, watching flickering alleys below. A cultist safehouse had burned the night before. They waited to see who came back.
Michael passed her a small canteen.
"Water?" he offered.
She smirked. "And here I thought you were part machine."
"I hydrate. Sometimes."
She took it. "Thanks."
Silence followed—comfortable.
Then she asked, "You always this quiet, or is it just me?"
Michael shrugged. "I don't talk unless I have something worth saying."
"Cold."
"Efficient."
Beryl chuckled, shaking her head. "You're something else, Marino."
He glanced sideways. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
"Not sure yet."
Day 14 – Abandoned Station, Undercity
They fought side by side.
Six cultists. Three lesser demons. One foul portal that reeked of rot and sulfur.
Michael moved like a whisper—cutting through one, warping behind another, striking clean before screams could echo. Beryl's bullets cracked bone, fire rounds lighting the shadows in sharp bursts of light and sound.
By the end, the tunnel was slick with blood and ash.
They stood in the dark—breathless, bruised, silent.
Beryl looked over. "You okay?"
Michael nodded, blood on his lip. "You?"
She grinned. "Better than they are."
He gave the faintest smile.
Later – Safehouse
They sat near a small fire, cooking canned food neither of them liked.
"You know," Beryl said, stirring the pan, "for a guy with zero personality, you're alright."
Michael looked at her. "Was that a compliment?"
"Almost."
He handed her a plate.
She took it.
Their fingers brushed.
Neither of them pulled away too quickly.