The ghosts hit hard.
They didn't bleed. Didn't speak.
Just moved like echoes of regrets Jung Min never voiced.
One wore a broken rosary.
Another still had half a jaw.
A third looked like a boy he'd killed on accident—too fast, too young, too human.
Jung Min shot without blinking.
Each bullet whistled through guilt.
Each trigger pull reminded him why he stopped counting.
Azari held the line near the entrance.
Shotgun blasts rang like thunder.
Shells scattered across the floor like blessings denied.
"They're not real!" she shouted.
"Doesn't mean they don't hurt!" he barked back.
One of the ghosts—old Saint, sharp cloak, blade for an arm—got close.
Too close.
It swung.
Jung Min dodged—barely.
Blood trickled down his ribs.
"Shit—"
He rolled, fired up from the ground—three times.
The ghost didn't fall. Just flickered, then faded.
Azari reloaded behind a poker table flipped for cover.
"We're burning ammo," she gasped. "Fast."
Jung Min's voice was ice.
"Then we switch to pain."
Jihoon hadn't moved.
Still sipping his drink. Still smiling.
But his eyes tracked every shot. Every breath.
"You know what I like about this song, Min?" he called across the chaos.
"No," Jung Min muttered, spinning and firing at a ghost's head. "And I don't care."
Jihoon ignored him.
"It doesn't end when we die. It ends when everyone hears it."
A ghost lunged at Azari—tackled her flat.
She screamed. The shotgun skidded.
Jung Min turned—sprinted—fired—
Too slow.
The ghost raised its blade—
CRACK!
A flash of white.
The relic, still inside her satchel, pulsed with a sudden burst of light.
The ghost disintegrated mid-swing.
Azari panted beneath it. Shaking.
The relic stopped glowing.
"...What the hell was that?" she whispered.
Jung Min helped her up.
"Warning shot."
The room cleared.
Ghosts gone. Just air and ashes.
Jihoon clapped slowly.
"Impressive. You've still got it."
Jung Min pointed his gun at his former brother.
"You've got one chance. Shut the hell up and die with some grace."
Jihoon raised his hands.
But the relic in his coat—identical to Azari's—began to sing.
A low hum. Not choir. Not divine.
Something worse.
Jung Min felt it in his teeth.
Jihoon grinned.
"You think this was the fight?"
The casino windows shattered outward.
And in the street below—
real Saints were marching in.
Alive. Armored. Radiant with Choir corruption.
"Now," Jihoon said, "we begin the chorus."