Victor Harrow stood motionless over the grotesque remains of his firstborn son, his aristocratic features contorted into something inhuman. The corpse at his feet barely resembled Kael Stormcrest anymore - not with the way the young heir's head had been twisted a full 180 degrees, his bulging eyes still frozen in terminal terror, dark blood crystallizing where it had erupted from every facial orifice. The stench of voided bowels mixed with expensive cologne created a nauseating perfume of violent death.
With a sudden, animalistic snarl, Victor brought his onyx-tipped cane down on his son's ruined face. The impact produced a sickening CRUNCH-SPLINTER as facial bones gave way beneath the assault.
"Pathetic worm!" The Obsidian Group chairman's voice trembled with barely contained fury. "To think my bloodline would end with a sniveling rapist who couldn't even properly drug his prey before getting slaughtered by some back-alley specter!" He kicked the lifeless form, his Italian leather shoe leaving a dark smear across Kael's ruined dress shirt. "Twenty years of grooming. Millions in elite education. And you die like a common gutter thug, leaving me to explain this embarrassment to the board!"
Staff Lounge - Aftermath
Seraphina Vale came to consciousness in disjointed fragments.
First came the metallic taste of blood where she'd bitten her tongue. Then the lingering chemical burn at the back of her throat from whatever cocktail Kael had slipped into her champagne. Finally, the bone-deep ache of a body that had convulsed violently enough to fracture two ribs against the marble floor.
Memory returned in a nauseating wave - the smug glint in Kael's eyes as her vision blurred, the way his manicured fingers had begun undoing his belt before the screaming started.
And then... nothing.
Until now.
She found herself sprawled on a staff room sofa, the distant wail of police sirens filtering through soundproofed walls. A young waitress hovered nearby, face pale.
"Ms. Vale! Thank god you're awake! When security found you both, he was already..." The girl trailed off, unwilling to describe the horror.
Seraphina didn't need descriptions. The phantom sensation of warm blood spraying across her unconscious form.
Slowly, with the deliberate control of someone restraining nuclear fury, the CEO of Xuanji Group rose to her feet. Every movement sent fresh pain radiating through her drug-fogged body, but she welcomed it. The pain was fuel.
"Where's his phone?" Her voice could have flash-frozen mercury.
The waitress flinched. "P-police took it as evidence, but..." She produced a slim platinum card case from her apron. "This fell from his jacket."
Seraphina flipped it open to reveal a collection of blackened business cards, each bearing the same embossed crest - a stylized 'O' wrapped in thorns. Obsidian Group's private directory. Contacts that didn't appear on any corporate filing.
Her lacquered nails dug crescents into the leather.
"Kael Stormcrest... Obsidian Group..." Her voice was a blade of ice. "This isn't over."
Hotel Lobby - Fallout
The Grand Aurora's famed crystal chandeliers cast grotesque shadows over the unfolding chaos.
Bureau agents in tactical gear moved with practiced efficiency, their modified sidearms - loaded with sanctified silver rounds - never far from draw position. Every exiting guest underwent mandatory screening:
"Eyes on the light, please." A scanner's blue beam swept across dilated pupils, searching for the telltale black sheen of Entity possession.
"Recite your mother's maiden name." Cognitive tests filtered out consciousness-hijacked victims.
Near the concierge desk, a cluster of shell-shocked socialites whispered behind champagne flutes that now served as trauma crutches.
"Three years ago when the Jiang girl disappeared from the penthouse, they hushed it up with a seven-figure payout," murmured a woman in a ruined Dior gown. "But this? A Stormcrest heir slaughtered like a slaughterhouse pig? No amount of money will scrub this stain away."
Her companion, a telecom heir with vomit on his Gucci loafers, gave a shaky laugh. "Old Man Harrow won't bother with scrubbing. He'll burn the whole city down for this insult."
Their gossip stilled as Sophia Laurent strode past, her police insignia gleaming under the emergency lights. The normally unflappable chief moved with barely restrained urgency, her usual crisp professionalism fraying at the edges.
Command Post - Outside
Gale Winters adjusted his bifocals against the predawn chill, watching his breath fog in the air. The veteran investigator looked every one of his sixty-eight years tonight.
"South District's worse than we thought," he admitted to Sophia as she approached. "Thermals show at least twelve distinct Entity signatures in that building. Possibly more moving between dimensional layers."
Sophia's grip tightened on her duty belt. "And my sister's team?"
A pause. Too long.
"Violette's last transmission confirmed her squad had reached the third sublevel before contact was lost." Winters chose his words like a man defusing a bomb. "The C-team we sent after them barely made it past the lobby before retreating. Their report mentioned... changes."
"Changes." Sophia's voice could have cut glass.
"The building's altering itself. Walls shifting. New corridors appearing. Standard spatial anomalies for a Category 3 haunting, but—"
"But nothing!" Sophia's control snapped. "We're talking about my sister being trapped in a sentient death maze with God knows how many Entities, and you're giving me textbook classifications?"
Winters didn't flinch. "I'm giving you reality, Chief. That building's become a spiritual black hole. If Violette's still alive in there, she's surviving on borrowed time."
The unspoken addition hung between them: And we both know how unlikely that is.
A Glimpse of the Past
The memory came unbidden - a rare moment of childhood levity in their orphanage days:
Nine-year-old Sophia perched on a rickety stool, stubbornly pushing broccoli around her tin plate. "I don't need greens to get powers! I'll just punch a ghost really hard!"
Across the table, fourteen-year-old Violette hid a smile behind her spoon. "And what if the ghost punches back, little hawk?" She speared a piece of chicken from her own meager portion and deposited it on Sophia's plate. "Eat. Proper hunters need proper fuel."
Sophia had devoured it without protest. Violette's portions always tasted better - maybe because her sister somehow made even gruel feel like a feast.
Now, standing in the shadow of a crisis she couldn't arrest her way out of, Sophia's hand drifted to her breast pocket. The business card she'd pocketed earlier seemed to burn against her heart.
Cross & Cleansing Agency
Supernatural Solutions for Discerning Clients
Ethan Cross, Principal
A reckless idea took root.
Ethan's Apartment - The Hunger
The transformation was anything but subtle.
One moment Ethan Cross stood calmly in his living room. The next, every vein in his body stood in stark relief beneath suddenly sallow skin. His pupils dilated until only a thin ring of hazel remained, his breath coming in ragged, open-mouthed gasps.
Gluttony.
The newly acquired ability announced itself not as a tool, but as a sentient famine wearing his nervous system like a ill-fitting suit. His teeth ached with phantom memories of rending flesh. His stomach contracted so violently he nearly doubled over.
The mahogany coffee table suddenly looked... edible. The rich grain promised complex carbohydrates. The lacquer finish? Lipids. His salivary glands flooded at the thought.
With shaking hands, Ethan tore open the burlap sack of medicinal herbs - two years' salary worth of rare botanicals painstakingly collected for an alchemical purification ritual.
Now? Now they were appetizers.
Fingers trembling with barely restrained need, he shoved a fistful of snow lotus roots into his mouth. The bitter rhizomes should have made him gag. Instead, his molars pulverized them with terrifying efficiency, his enhanced esophagus gulping down the fibrous mass without chewing.
A system alert flickered in his vision:
[NUTRIENT ASSIMILATION: 12%]
[PHYSICAL ENHANCEMENT: +3% STAMINA]
Ethan barely registered the data. His entire world had narrowed to one primal imperative:
More.