POV: Michael
The clue was too clean.
A survivor—scarred, delirious, bleeding—dragged himself into a hunter bar on the edge of Red Grave's industrial sector. Claimed he'd seen a cultist gathering. Gave coordinates. Died before saying more.
It was almost too convenient.
Michael didn't like it.
But he went anyway.
So did Beryl.
They arrived before dusk—an abandoned warehouse surrounded by rusted shipping containers and half-buried tracks. Windows shattered. Blood smeared across the walls.
No bodies.
Just a silence too sharp to be natural.
Michael stepped through the broken doors first, mist already trailing at his heels.
POV: Beryl
She didn't trust the place.
Didn't like how quiet Antonio had gone. Even for him.
But she followed.
Because despite the silence, the shadows clinging to rafters, the air holding its breath—he hadn't told her not to.
And she didn't run unless someone earned it.
They moved through the central corridor, footsteps hushed.
Then the doors slammed shut.
And the laughter began.
POV: Michael
The cultists didn't show their faces.
White masks—smooth, featureless. A dozen of them, forming a circle. Each bore a red mark carved into the forehead—the same symbol scorched into ancient ruins weeks before.
Michael didn't speak.
He drew his blade and stepped forward.
The first cultist exploded.
Not in flame—but into bone and black ichor, reshaping into a malformed beast.
The rest followed.
And the ambush began.
The Fight
Michael warped through the room—cutting down the first creature, blinking past another, leaving clones to scatter and confuse. Mist thickened, illusions flickering like afterimages.
Beryl opened fire from behind a rusted container—controlled bursts, fire-infused rounds tearing through sinew and skull.
But they were outnumbered.
And these things weren't demons. Not exactly.
They didn't scream.
They didn't fall right.
Michael severed one clean through the chest—ribs exposed, black fluid pouring from its throat.
It kept coming.
Something's wrong.
Then one reached Beryl.
She cried out—sharp, pained—as claws tore down her side, ripping coat and skin.
Michael responded without hesitation.
His mist surged. Clones erupted outward in a spiral.
He reappeared above the attacker and drove his blade through its spine—twisting, severing.
Then launched more illusions to carve a retreat path.
"Beryl!" he called.
"I'm fine!" she snapped, dragging herself behind a fallen beam.
Her sleeve was soaked in blood.
She was lying.
Michael dove into the crowd—cutting, warping, distracting—forcing the beasts into chaos. He moved like smoke, like a nightmare.
But more were coming.
He could hear them.
Scraping in the vents. Growling behind walls.
This wasn't just an ambush.
It was a message.
He reached inside his coat.
His fingers brushed cold metal.
The obsidian shard.The shadowfire.
Not yet.
Instead, he pulled a flare—cracked it, threw it.
Thick smoke filled the air.
"Move!" he barked.
Beryl didn't argue.
They ran through smoke and blood, illusions dancing around them like vengeful spirits. Behind them, the warehouse pulsed with something old and watching.
They burst through a side door—out into rain-laced night.
Then silence.
No one followed.
POV: Beryl – Safehouse, Later
She winced as he cleaned the gash along her ribs. He wasn't gentle—but he was precise.
"You're lucky," he muttered. "Missed the artery."
"Lucky's pushing it."
Michael didn't smile.
He wrapped the wound, fastened the bandage. Finally met her eyes.
"They knew we were coming."
"Yeah."
Silence settled.
Then she said, quieter, "Thanks. For getting me out."
Michael looked away.
"I wasn't going to leave you."
Something in his voice made her look at him differently.