PUSHING FORWARD, THE SOUTHERN GROUP—NOW BACKED BY JACKIE—SECURED AN evacuated street, taking control of a three-story hotel and its rooftop. From their vantage point, they had clear sightlines and cover. On the road below, Jackie stood alone, waiting.
She had given only one instruction: provide suppressive fire, and nothing else. That's all they'd be able to do. Most of the officers hadn't fully grasped what she meant at the time—how one person could stand against an approaching force of Dread Hunters with nothing more than a single firearm and their support to slow the enemy down—but soon, they would understand.
All she asked was that someone cover her back while she took care of everything in front of her.
From a hotel window, Commander LaCroix watched her. Arms folded, jaw tight, his thoughts drifted to the phone call he'd received before leaving the department.
The phone rang just as he was gearing up.
"Commander LaCroix," Chief Nkosi's voice came through, calm but firm.
"Chief Nkosi, what is it, sir?"
"Change of plans," the chief said. "Everyone's running lethal ammunition now. You and your men included."
"But sir," LaCroix had protested, "I'm the last one at the station. I already sent my men ahead."
"Ah. You don't say." Nkosi had sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, what's done is done. I'm sending backup your way. And LaCroix… treat them like an extension of me. No questions, no pushback. They know the enemy better than we do, and frankly, they might be the only person capable of stopping them."
There'd been a pause before Nkosi added, almost as an afterthought, "Actually, it's probably better you didn't bring the lethal rounds. Might just make things harder for her."
Now, as the memory faded, LaCroix blinked and refocused on Jackie—still standing calm in the middle of the road.
Her voice rang out clear.
"Eyes up, men! They're here."
As the Dread Hunters came into view, Jackie figured she might as well set the tone herself.
Without hesitation, she drew her revolver in a flash and fired a single round. One of the Dread Hunters dropped with a scream, clutching his leg as he hit the ground. Jackie holstered the gun just as smoothly, standing tall in the middle of the street as the others turned to face her.
"Whoa, did you see that, Commander? She dropped him in one shot!" one of the officers shouted.
LaCroix squinted. Did she mean to hit his leg, or was that a missed execution?
"Come at me, boys!" Jackie called out, her voice carrying over the quieting street. "That was the only warning shot. Next ones'll be direct."
That did it. The Dread Hunters let out war cries and charged, just as she'd expected. Melee fighters rushed ahead, guns trailing behind—creating the perfect screen to reduce the chance of her getting shot.
The trap was set.
As they closed in, Jackie met them head-on. Her fists and boots moved like weapons of their own—precise strikes, brutal counters, elbows to jaws, knees to ribs. One by one, they fell around her.
Meanwhile, from above, the officers opened fire—peppering the charging Dread Hunters with non-lethal rounds. Those with guns were kept suppressed, while those with blades and bats were knocked off balance.
In the middle of the chaos, Jackie kept moving. Kept fighting.
Alright, Jackie, she told herself. You're doing what's right. Not what's easy. You asked for this power. You took it willingly. That makes it your burden. Your duty.
Her knuckles cracked as another enemy dropped.
And right now, there are corpses that need to be put to rest.
Clearing her mind, Jackie drew her revolver again.
Weaving past one Dread Hunter, she closed the distance with another and pressed the barrel directly against his forehead. His eyes crossed, locking onto the gleaming metal between them. He had no time to react before she pulled the trigger.
The shot rang out like a thunderclap, snapping his head back with brutal force.
The chaos around her blurred, replaced by something she hadn't felt in years—a familiar rush. The heat of battle. But it wasn't like Mille Dan, not like the way it had been with Noir. That was stealth. Ambush. Mud and shadows. This was different. This was a warzone. No hiding, no slipping away. Just a raw, face-to-face fight against overwhelming numbers. Jackie had clawed her way out of battles like this before.
She knew this type of fight well.
The bullet had done more than just kill—it had obliterated him, leaving a glowing hole in his forehead. As the Dread Hunter collapsed, the back of his skull blown wide open, something unnatural began to happen.
His skin cracked and turned black, charred like burnt wood. Then it split. His flesh peeled off in chunks, dissolving into a foul, tar-like sludge. Within seconds, what remained of him was nothing but a dark puddle hissing on the pavement.
From the hotel window, Commander LaCroix staggered back, covering his mouth as nausea clawed its way up his throat.
What the hell did I just see? What kind of weapon does that? If that's what it takes to kill a Dread Hunter… then what are they? And more importantly—who is she?
Sensing danger, Jackie ducked low—just narrowly avoiding the chop of a makeshift clever. Its blade was crudely fashioned from a repurposed road sign, jagged and rusted along the edges. The Dread Hunters weapons and utilities were notorious for their roughly improvised aesthetic. They were both brutal and effective.
With a sharp pivot, she swept the attacker's legs out from under him. He hit the ground hard. Rolling on top of him, she pressed her barrel to his forehead, pushing herself upright as she pulled the trigger.
Jackie's bullets were no ordinary rounds.
They were soul-forged—ammunition crafted through her power as a soul weaver—a title reserved for humans capable of manipulating their own soul. Each weaver's manifestation was unique but this wasn't Jackie's. This was simply a technique she'd learned to combat corrupted entities from afar.
"Hey! Where's my support?"
"Sorry, Ms. O'Hara, we're a little preoccupied up here!" an officer called down from above.
Some of the Dread Hunters had found their way into the halls of the occupied buildings, forcing the men to shift their attention inward before they could even offer proper cover fire.
"Alright," Jackie muttered, steadying her breath. Then louder:
"You can't kill them—trust me. Just knock them out and chain them to something solid. A pipe. A post. To each other if you have to. I'll clean up once I'm done out here."
Her voice rang with certainty, even in the chaos.
She wasn't asking for help. She was making a promise.