It was 10:45 PM on Sunday, when the neon lights of a bustling club outside Haul's Academy pulsed over Angela.
Overwhelmed by thoughts of Michael's disappearance and the strained rift with her friends, she drowned her sorrows in drink after drink, her vision blurring as she slumped against the bar. Her designer dress clung to her, disheveled from her unsteady swaying, and the alcohol numbed her spiraling mind.
Her phone buzzed insistently, cutting through the thumping bass. It was Becky. Angela fumbled to answer, her words slurring. "Hey, Becky…"
"Angela, where are you?" Becky's voice shook, laced with urgency. "Michael's missing! Please, tell me you know something."
"Michael? I... I haven't seen him," Angela mumbled, rubbing her forehead. "He vanished after the chaos at his house. I don't… I don't know—"
"Angela! You need to be careful," Becky interrupted, voice rising with panic. "There's talk of those occultic groups roaming around. They might come after you!"
Angela felt a shiver as the hairs on her neck prickled. "What do you mean? I'm fine, just a little tipsy."
Before she could reassure herself further, two unmasked men edged closer, their gazes fixed on her with predatory intent. Anxiety gripped her.
"Becky, I… I think someone's here," she whispered, her heart pounding.
"Get out of there! Now!" Becky urged, but Angela barely registered the words, frozen in place.
Suddenly, two masked figures in black swooped in with blinding speed. One hoisted her over his shoulder, and the other cleared a path through the screaming, panicking crowd, shoving dancers aside.
Angela's scream ripped through the chaos, raw with terror, but it was drowned out by the thumping bass as she was taken.
Nine club security vigilantes charged in, boots pounding the floor as they lunged at the masked men. A brutal fight erupted—fists flew, grunts echoed, and the air crackled with tension.
... The occultic men showcased their acrobatic skills, dodging punches like shadows. They leapt off walls and performed flips, unleashing precise strikes that sent the vigilantes reeling.
"Angela! Hold on!" Becky shouted through the phone as she watched the chaos unfold on her end, heart racing. "I'll call Rossie!"
Back in the fray, a vigilante ducked just in time as one masked man swung a clawed hand, barely missing his face. The other unmasked man grappled with a strong security guard, using his size to slam him into the bar. Glass shattered, and Angela winced, agony coursing through her as she heard the sounds of violence.
The vigilantes fought fiercely. One managed to rip off the mask of a masked man, revealing a scarred, furious face. But as the televised struggle shifted, that man drew a dagger from his back pocket, plunging it into the vigilante's spine. He crumpled lifelessly, blood pooling around him.
Angela's phone, still connected, captured the mayhem—screams and thuds echoed through the line.
"Becky!" she cried, desperate and terrified.
"Angela! I'm here! Are you—" Becky's voice cracked, cutting off mid-sentence.
The unmasked man snarled and fixed his mask back in place.
"Let's go," he commanded his partner. In a chaotic flash, the two occultic men vanished into the night, successfully kidnapping Angela as the club descended into shocked silence.
Angela's heart raced, her breath caught in her throat.
Was this the end?
Would her friends come for her?
As darkness surrounded her, she vowed to fight back—no matter what.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
It was 11:45 PM and the oppressive fog cloaked the abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Haul's Academy like a shroud.
Rossie, the Moonlight Gardener and Bearer, moved with purpose, her face concealed beneath a sleek black mask etched with lunar runes, a protective layer between her and the occultic threat that loomed ahead.
Eli's bracelet pulsed softly against her wrist, its glow offering a dim light that guided her footsteps as Becky's desperate call about Angela's abduction pierced through the haze of her thoughts.
The air thrummed with danger, and her heart pounded a furious rhythm as she slipped through a shattered window, the ominous chant of unseen voices echoing ominously inside.
The warehouse interior loomed dark and menacing, shadows stretching along the rusted beams that groaned under the weight of buried secrets.
Rossie's gaze darted around, her senses heightened, searching for any signs of movement.
There—bound to a chair in an isolated pool of darkness was Angela, her head slumped, disheveled from both alcohol and the struggle, her breaths shallow and ragged.
Two masked occultic men stood guard, their stances relaxed, yet dangerous—one gripping a blood-stained dagger, the other sharpening wicked claws against a stone, their presence a chilling promise of violence that sent a tremor of fear through Rossie's limbs.
Eli's power surged within her, sending warmth through her skin, which tinged a faint green as she assessed the threat, ready yet cautious.
A floorboard creaked beneath her weight, and the men whirled, eyes narrowing behind their masks, suspicion sharpening their features. The dagger-wielder lunged with lethal intent, a blur of motion fueled by greed and malice, but Rossie was faster—her moonlight agility propelled her into a breathtaking blur, leaping onto the side of the wall with a grace that defied gravity.
She kicked off with tremendous force, spinning mid-air to dodge the clawed man's vicious swipe, her movements a dance of shadows that outpaced their every strike.
The dagger slashed through the air where she had just been, embedding dangerously into the beam, and she used the momentum to vault over them, landing lightly behind the chair.
"Stay back!" she hissed, her voice distorted by the mask, a warning wrapped in urgency. But the men pressed on, undeterred by her presence, malicious intent igniting their resolve.
The clawed man flipped toward her, claws glinting ominously in the dim light, while the dagger man retrieved his weapon, circling as if hunting for the perfect kill shot.
Rossie's heart raced as she leapt again, her reflexes sharp, scaling the wall to evade their onslaught, the tension coiling tighter with each passing second—any misstep could signal her end. She dropped, tackling the clawed man with the force of the moon's might, pinning him as he thrashed beneath her.
The dagger man charged, but she rolled, sending him crashing into a stack of crates with a bone-jarring thud that echoed through the warehouse like a death knell.
The fight intensified, and the occultic men's skills tested her limits. Rossie leapt to the rafters, her mask glinting ominously in the gloomy light. She dove from the shadows, delivering a precise blow to the dagger man's temple that rendered him unconscious, his body collapsing without a sound.
The clawed man, furious and relentless, roared and lunged, but Rossie was ready.
She sidestepped, using his own momentum against him, slamming him into the wall, where he slid down, unconscious. The silence that followed the clash was deafening, pressing in around her like the fog outside.
Desperate to free Angela, Rossie rushed to her, quickly untying the ropes that bound her friend, who groaned weakly, her eyes fluttering open.
"Hold on," Rossie whispered urgently, scooping her friend into her arms, adrenaline surging as determination washed over her.
.....The warehouse trembled with residual energy, the weight of the recent violence still hanging heavily in the air. She slipped out into the night, the cool breeze refreshing against her flushed skin, Angela's safety her sole focus, the chilling echoes of the parador's influence absent from the fray.
Minutes later, Mia and Tom arrived, their footsteps crunching ominously on the gravel outside. They froze, eyes widening as they stared at the unconscious forms of their men sprawled haphazardly on the ground, the warehouse exuding an eerie stillness. Mia's hand tightened on the parador pendant, its glow flaring ominously as she hissed,
"Someone's meddled with our plans. Find them."
The suspense lingered in the air like a storm ready to burst; while Rossie's escape was narrowly orchestrated, the occultic pursuit was far from over, a looming threat that promised more chaos to come.