Hector's eyes burned with focus as Lynx danced around his flames, her speed defying every expectation. Every time he launched an emerald fireball, she dodged-slipping between bursts of searing light with terrifying ease. She moved like liquid fury, faster than Hector could react, her every step a predator's instinct in motion.
The air crackled with heat, but Lynx seemed to draw strength from the chaos, her feral grin widening with each failed attack. Hector's breathing grew heavier, his mind racing to adapt. His back was pressed against a rooftop ledge. She was closing in faster than he could maintain his distance.
Slash!
The sound of claws slicing through the air was followed by a sharp sting. Hector felt the cold burn of metal tear across his arm, drawing a quick gasp. He staggered, his vision flickering with pain, but before he could regain his balance, Lynx's boot slammed into his gut with a force that sent him soaring backward.
He hit the rooftop with a thud, his body crashing into the concrete. Pain flared in his ribs as his head spun.
Lynx's voice, dark and delighted, rang out. "You fling yourself backward to reduce the impact... Clever. But it won't save you."
Hector gasped for air, slowly pushing himself to his feet, a trail of blood staining his lips. He wiped it away with a smirk, the sharp, dangerous gleam in his eyes returning. He was hurt-but not out. The fire in him hadn't dimmed.
"You're a beast of a woman," Hector muttered, his voice steady despite the pounding in his chest.
Lynx's laugh was guttural, wild, as she crouched, preparing to strike again. Her muscles rippled beneath her armor, her aura hungry for blood. The battle-hungry mania in her eyes made Hector's skin crawl. She was like a wolf circling its prey.
Hector raised his palms once more, his body buzzing with power. He ignited another emerald flame, the fireball growing brighter, hotter. The air around him shimmered with the intense heat.
Lynx's grin stretched impossibly wide as she started charging toward him, her footsteps like thunder. Every second, she closed the distance between them.
Boom!
The world seemed to crack open.
Out of nowhere, Kyle-half-dead, but still standing-plummeted from the sky. His boots hit the rooftop with a resounding thud as he landed with the force of a meteor. His leg shot out, connecting with Lynx's side in a bone-crushing kick.
Lynx was sent hurtling through the air, her body skidding across the roof like a ragdoll before crashing through the glass windows of a nearby shop, splintering the walls into jagged shards.
The sound of the impact reverberated through the street. Glass exploded outward, glittering in the moonlight as Lynx's body crashed through the store's front, a chaotic symphony of destruction.
Hector stood frozen for a moment, his heart racing. The blood in his veins seemed to catch fire.
"Kyle!" he shouted, disbelief and relief flooding his voice.
Kyle stood tall atop the roof edge, sweat glistening on his forehead, his posture unwavering, despite the blood dripping from his form. His eyes glowed, an eerie, unnatural light flickering in them as he stared down the path of destruction he'd just carved.
"AHHHHHHHHHH!"
Kyle threw his arms wide, chest rising as he sucked in a deep breath of night air, knees bent in a feral stance. His head tilted back, eyes wide, and a manic grin carved its way across his face. The moonlight-cold and electric-bathed his features in a haunting blue glow, accentuating the wild glint in his eyes and the blood still clinging to his skin.
From above, Hector watched with a raised brow, his breath still catching from the adrenaline. What the hell is wrong with this guy? he thought, still reeling from Kyle's unexpected resurrection and battle-crashing kick.
Before Hector could say anything, Kyle bent his knees and launched himself downward toward the ruined shop.
Hector followed, landing a few seconds later beside him, boots crunching against shattered glass and debris.
The inside of the store was in chaos. Broken mannequins lay scattered like fallen statues, torn clothes fluttered from bent racks, and fluorescent lights flickered violently overhead. Dust danced in the air like sparks after a fire.
Kyle stepped forward cautiously, eyes scanning every shadow. "She should've been right here..."
But there was no sign of Lynx.
Only blood.
And then they saw it.
Painted in thick, dark streaks across the cracked tile floor-written in blood, raw and deliberate-were three chilling words:
"VLAD IS COMING."
The room fell silent. Even the hum of the ruined lights seemed to fade into the background. The words bled menace. They weren't just a threat-they were a promise.
Kyle's expression shifted. The manic grin disappeared, replaced by a cold, focused scowl.
Hector stepped up beside him, his emerald flames softly crackling around his gloves. His voice was low, grave. "She's sending a message."
Kyle nodded, jaw tight. "Or a warning."
They stared at the message for a long moment.
Then Kyle turned toward the exit, his tone dark and steady. "Vlad..."
He stepped through the shattered storefront, his eye completely white, his spiky bangs swaying to the left in the moonlight and an unsettling smile streaking across his face.
"...Let him come."
______The Vatican Inner Sanctum_____
The vaulted ceiling of the chamber arched high above, painted with depictions of angels locked in battle with demons. A golden chandelier hung silently in the center, casting warm, flickering light over a massive round table of dark, polished oak. Around it sat twelve priests, each dressed in ceremonial robes-white with crimson trim, golden embroidery glinting along the hems. Ornate crosses hung from their necks, and some clutched rosaries as they listened in silence.
At the head of the table sat the Pope-a young man, barely in his thirties, but dressed in the full regalia of his office. His mitre sat tall on his head, white and gold, and his robes shimmered slightly in the candlelight. His expression was unreadable, calm but intense, and when he spoke, the room fell utterly silent.
"It has come to my attention," he began, his voice quiet but firm, "that an evil force has begun to rise in a particular city."
The priests exchanged cautious glances.
"As the shield of God on this Earth, it is our duty to stand against such darkness."
One of the older priests leaned forward, adjusting his glasses. "Your Holiness, with all due respect... we're already fighting wars on too many fronts. Possessions in Chile, the cult outbreak in Slovakia-how can we possibly handle another crisis?"
The Pope's gaze remained steady. "Because this one is different. I have seen it."
Another priest spoke up, more hesitant. "A vision? Would you... share it with us?"
The Pope's eyes darkened, and for a moment, it felt as though the temperature in the room dropped.
"That is between me and the Father. But understand this-if we do not act, this darkness will swallow not just that city, but everything."
The chamber was silent again.
Then the Pope continued, rising slightly from his seat. "I am dispatching our finest."
He let the words hang in the air.
"Father Justus."
Some of the priests murmured, others fell dead silent.
"Give him everything he needs-access, resources, and clearance. He will lead the effort."
A younger priest on the left side of the table shifted nervously. "Where exactly is he being sent, Your Holiness?"
The Pope's eyes narrowed, then answered with deliberate precision.
"Draken City."
The room was still once more. Even the candle flames seemed to flicker more slowly.
The airplane hums steadily, a low whisper above the clouds. Most passengers are either asleep or quietly lost in glowing screens. Soft overhead lights cast a dim glow, flickering gently as the plane begins its descent.
A flight attendant strolls the aisle with the kind of practiced grace only repetition can perfect. Her smile is warm, eyes alert. She stops beside a man seated by the window.
Father Justus.
He sits still, contemplative. A long dark coat drapes over his broad shoulders, its fabric thick and weathered from use. His posture is relaxed but alert-the kind of calm that doesn't come from peace, but from experience.
At his feet sits a heavy black briefcase, chained to his wrist. Its shape is unmistakable-a cross, edged in silver. Sacred, yes. But it feels more like a weapon than a relic.
The attendant tilts her head, amused.
Flight Attendant (playful):
"Long night, Father?"
Father Justus (dryly, without looking at her):
"They're all long when you're flying into Draken."
She chuckles, mistaking the gravity in his tone for dry humor.
Flight Attendant:
"Been there before?"
He finally turns his head slightly, eyes catching the city lights blooming in the distance. His voice lowers.
Father Justus (softly):
"Once. The city won't remember me... but I remember it."
He says nothing more.
The attendant lingers for a second, unsure how to respond, then nods politely and moves on.
Outside, the lights of Draken City spread like veins across the dark earth-bright, pulsing, alive.
Father Justus watches them in silence.
His fingers tighten briefly around the silver edge of the chained briefcase.
My name is Kyle Damian.
I live with my mom, Dorothy Damian.
My dad passed away when I was five.
I have no idea what's going to happen next-
But whatever twisted plot the creator throws my way,
Just know... I'm giving them hell.