The storm hadn't broken.
Rain dripped from the exposed girders above, the ruins of the old chapel soaked and crumbling. Lightning flickered behind broken stained-glass. The summoning circle they'd come to investigate had been wiped clean—almost too clean.
Michael moved through the debris in silence, scanning for sigils, for blood, for anything useful.
Beryl was crouched beside an overturned stone pulpit, gloved fingers brushing over a cracked floor tile. "Nothing. They left in a hurry or—"
Crack.
The gunshot echoed through the ruin.
A glimmer of light—arcane, violet—raced toward her.
Michael moved before he even thought.
He twisted, stepped in front of her, and—
Boom.
The magical round struck his chest dead center.
The blast hurled him back, smashing through the side wall, crashing into wet rubble and smoke.
Beryl screamed his name.
She was already running—gun drawn, mist rising from the glowing impact crater in the wall. Her heart slammed in her chest.
She reached him in seconds.
Blood stained his coat. The fabric was burnt, seared away to the skin. But the skin was…
Healing.
Too fast.
Beryl froze mid-step, wide-eyed, watching the wound close over charred muscle and bone.
No.
Not healing.
Regenerating.
Michael—Antonio—grunted, sitting up with smoke still curling from his chest. He looked at her, calm despite the pain.
She raised her gun slightly. "What the hell are you?"
He didn't flinch.
"A demon," he said, voice low. "Or close enough."
Silence.
Then: "You used your body to block that."
"You'd be dead."
"I had cover."
"You weren't fast enough."
She stared at him—gun wavering.
And then, slowly, she lowered it.
Michael stood, rain running down his face. He brushed his burned coat aside and retrieved his sword from the ground.
"We're not done," he said.
She hesitated. "You sure you're—"
"Alive," he finished. "Let's go find the bastard."
The shot had come from the scaffolding above the tramway line—about a block away.
The sniper had left a trail. Scorch marks from magical casing, the faint scent of sulfur. Not demon. Human. Arcane-crafted bullets. Clean. Professional.
They moved through the alley fast—Michael first, Beryl just behind. She hadn't spoken since the reveal. He didn't expect her to.
She still followed.
That was enough—for now.
They found him on a rooftop three buildings over. Tall, thin, coat fluttering in the wind. A rifle as long as a man's leg, glowing faint purple with residual energy.
He turned when they arrived—pale eyes behind brass-rimmed glasses.
"Oh," he said, disappointed. "You lived."
Michael didn't answer.
He moved.
The sniper conjured wards with one hand, fired with the other.
Michael ducked the first burst, split into two clones mid-sprint. Beryl flanked right, gun in hand, eyes sharp despite the rain.
One of Michael's illusions took a shot to the head—disintegrated.
He blinked into position beside the sniper and slashed. The man blocked it with a conjured shield—an angular arcane wall that cracked under pressure.
Beryl's bullet shattered the ward.
Michael's blade finished the rest.
Blood hit the rooftop tiles.
The sniper staggered back, clutching his side.
Michael stepped forward, expression unreadable.
"Why target her?" he asked.
The man spat blood. "You're the one they want. She was leverage."
"Who's they?"
"You'll find out," he grinned. "Or you won't."
Michael didn't blink.
Then he struck the hilt of his sword against the side of the man's head—hard.
The sniper collapsed.
Michael stared down at him, rain pooling in the grooves of the rooftop.
Then he turned to Beryl.
He looked the same.
But now, she could feel it.
That wrongness beneath his calm. The strength barely held in check. The fire behind his eyes that wasn't human.
And he hadn't denied it.
She didn't speak at first.
Then: "Why didn't you tell me?"
Michael's answer was simple.
"Because I didn't want to."
"You thought I'd hate you?"
"I thought you'd leave."
She holstered her gun, slowly.
"I still might."
He nodded once.
"But not today," she added.
Michael looked at her for a long second.
Then the corner of his mouth twitched—just slightly.
"Lucky me."
She crouched beside the unconscious sniper, nudging him with her boot. "So let me get this straight… You're fast, strong, and can make copies of yourself like some kind of demon ninja?"
Michael was already checking the sniper's pulse again, adjusting his grip on the obsidian pendant beneath his shirt.
"Not copies," he muttered. "Illusions. I can travel through them."
"Semantics," Beryl said, standing. "Still cheating."
He glanced at her.
She raised a brow. "Antonio Marino, huh?"
He hesitated.
Then stood. "My real name is Kael."
She blinked. "...What?"
"Kael," he repeated. "Demon name. Michael's the human one."
She stared a second too long. Then nodded. "Alright. Kael-Michael. Still gonna call you Antonio when I'm mad, though."
A brief silence.
"I won't tell Machiavelli," she said.
"He probably knows."
"Then I won't confirm it."
They both looked down at the sniper—still breathing, still out cold.
Michael crouched, brushed back the coat, and found a ward stitched beneath it. He tore it free and crushed it under his heel.
"Clever bastard," he muttered.
Beryl stepped over and nudged the sniper's gun with her boot.
It was massive—arcane-forged, clearly expensive. Custom grip, spell-bound trigger, energy core still glowing faintly.
She knelt, picked it up, and whistled. "Oooh," she said, aiming at a broken streetlamp. "I like this."
Michael raised an eyebrow. "You're stealing his gun?"
"He shot me. I'm taking his wallet too."
She turned the scope toward him.
Then paused.
A beat of stillness.
She narrowed one eye, mock-serious. "The only good demons are dead demons."
Michael didn't move.
Then she grinned. "Kidding."
She lowered the rifle, laughing. "Damn. You really don't flinch."
Michael exhaled through his nose. "Because I've met people who meant it."
She looked at him more gently then.
"I don't," she said.
He nodded.
That was enough.