The air outside the main office was thick with the familiar scent of gun oil, old stone, and the faint, cloying sweetness of incense that never quite masked the underlying copper-tang of blood. It was the smell of Headquarters. It was the smell of home.
"What a sad story you got there, Jonny-boy," David said, not looking at him, instead examining a faint scuff on his perfectly polished shoe. "Tell me, do you want me to shed a tear for our tragic hero?"
"Shut the fuck up, David."
"Come on! Some manners. I'm extending the hand of brotherly compassion here."
"Yeah? How about you extend it toward leaving Elie from Logistics alone. I heard she's requesting a transfer to the Cairo branch just to get away from your 'advances'."
David finally turned, a hand pressed to his chest in mock offense. The gesture was effortlessly smooth, just like the rest of him—back straight, tie a perfect knot of navy silk, every hair in place. "You wound me. That is a matter of the heart. Mind your business, asshole."
"After you," Jonny shot back. He was the mirror opposite: his posture a deliberate slouch against the cold stone wall, his own crimson tie slightly askew, a silent rebellion against the institution's starch-and-discipline. His eyes, however, held a familiar, weary disdain.
They had been waiting for an hour before the giant oak double doors. Time had stolen its pristine color, leaving behind a patina of age and black mold. Above them, etched in fading gold leaf, were the words that governed their lives:
God's reign here is absolute.
A symbol of authority. A promise. A threat.
On the other side of the heavy wood, the argument was reaching a fever pitch.
"—throw another green unit at a Class 3 and I will personally audit every mission report you've ever filed, Jay!" The voice was deep, accented, furious. Imam Ahmed.
"And what's your brilliant solution? Let it carve a path through a suburb? Should we wait for it to graduate to a Class 4? Our efficiency is up! The numbers don't lie!" Father Jay's retort was a scalpel of cold logic.
The debate was a constant hum underpinning the controlled chaos of HQ. A priest hurried past, chanting a low psalm as he anointed a box of silver-tipped bullets with holy water. A group of hunters nearby laughed, the butt of a shotgun visible under one's jacket. The clatter of typewriters and the jangling of telephones provided a dissonant orchestra to the sacred and the profane.
"Hey! Jonny! David!" A booming voice cut through the din. Abdul, a grizzled hunter with a scar bisecting his lip, waved from down the hall. "You two see the old man?"
"Waiting our turn," David called back, his grin instantly professional and charming.
"Tell Jay to buy a razor! And that Ahmed's beard puts his to shame!" Abdul laughed, continuing on his way.
Jonny snorted. "If we tell him that, our next mission will be a solo hunt for a Class 5 Greed."
"Pessimist. At least we'd get a beautiful eulogy from Ahmed," David replied, his grin never fading.
With a deep, groaning shudder, the oak door swung inward. Orange firelight spilled into the corridor, revealing the scene within.
Father Jerald sat behind a massive desk that looked as old as the building itself, his broad shoulders slumped not with weakness, but the weight of command. He massaged his temples, his eyes closed. To his left stood Imam Ahmed, his dark beard quivering with indignation. To his right, Father Jay stood rigid, his pale, clean-shaven face a mask of icy frustration.
"—cannot simply use lives as a statistical currency!" Ahmed was saying.
"And we cannot protect lives by being timid!" Jay countered.
"Enough."
The word was quiet. It wasn't shouted. But it carried a finality that sucked all the sound from the room. Jerald opened his eyes. They were the colour of faded steel, and though they were said to be kind, today they were only tired.
"You would argue until the Second Coming itself," he said, his voice a low rumble. He looked from one man to the other. "Another time. Jay."
"But, Father—"
A raised hand, calloused and scarred, silenced him. "Another time. And for Heaven's sake, either grow a proper beard or shave the attempt off. You will never win that contest."
A smirk flickered across Ahmed's face. Jay's jaw tightened. "Yes, Father." He gave a curt nod to Ahmed, Jonny, and David, and strode from the room, his footsteps sharp on the stone floor.
"I shall take my leave as well, Father," Ahmed said, his anger banked to a smolder.
"Go in peace, Ahmed."
The door closed, leaving the two young men alone with the Father. The silence was heavy, broken only by the pop and crackle of the fire.
"Come closer, boys."
They obeyed, falling into a practiced, respectful stance before his desk.
Father Jerald looked them over, and for a moment, the weariness lifted, replaced by something resembling paternal pride. "Jonny. David. It has been some time since we stood in this office together. Fifteen years?"
"Yes, Father," they said in near unison.
"Fifteen years…" he mused, his gaze drifting to the flames. "Time becomes a strange currency at my age. You spend it without realizing how much is gone." He focused back on them. "But I did not call you here for nostalgia. Jonny, I am assigning you a partner. A Mentor."
Surprise broke through Jonny's practiced neutrality. "Father, with respect, I have David. We're a team."
Jerald's smile was warm but firm. "David was your training partner. You have graduated. You are a Hunter now. And a Hunter needs a Mentor for his first year in the field."
Before Jonny could protest further, the door opened once more.
The woman who entered moved with an easy, confident grace that seemed to quiet the room. She wore a practical, deep-blue work uniform, but it did little to hide the two well-worn revolvers strapped to her thighs. Her hair was the colour of wheat and cut short for utility, not style. Her eyes, a sharp, clear green, scanned the room and landed on Jonny, assessing him in a single, unnerving glance.
"Father," she said, her voice a pleasant, steady alto.
"Martha. Jonny, this is Martha. She will be your Mentor."
She turned fully to him, a faint, amused smile playing on her lips. "Yo."
"But, Father, David is—" Jonny tried again, a note of desperation creeping in. He looked at David, whose own cocky grin had been replaced by a look of genuine concern.
"David will have his own Mentor. He is on his way as we speak," Jerald said gently.
The two young men looked at each other. A whole conversation passed in that silent exchange—fifteen years of shared bruises, fears, and jokes. Then, as if by agreement, their faces hardened into resolve. David clapped Jonny on the shoulder.
"Don't get yourself killed, Jonny-boy."
"You either, Fancy-David."
David groaned. "Dude, you gotta stop trying to make nicknames happen. You're terrible at it."
They shared a brief, tight smile—a final moment of their old partnership.
Jonny turned back to face his future. Martha's amused smile had widened slightly, as if she'd enjoyed the private show. Without another word, she turned and walked out of the office. Jonny followed, pulling the heavy door shut behind him for what felt like the last time.
As they walked down the long hallway toward the exit, Martha didn't look back. Her eyes were fixed ahead, but her voice, sweet and light, was directed at him.
"So. What's your story, Jonny-boy?"
"Um… could we not? Only he calls me that."
"What, I don't get naming rights to my own junior?" she asked, though she didn't sound offended.
"That's… a close friends thing."
"Okay. Fair enough. So, Jonny," she said, shouldering open the heavy exterior door. The cacophony of the city—honking cars, shouting vendors, the hum of daily life—swallowed the sacred quiet of HQ. "What's your story?"
He squinted in the sudden daylight. "My mother was killed by a Pride devil. A Hunter brought me in. Now I'm here. Nothing special."
She chuckled, a surprisingly warm sound. "Well. That's one way to tell a tragic backstory." She finally glanced at him, her green eyes catching the light. "Brevity. I can respect that."
He dared a question of his own. "What about you, Martha?"
"Ho ho, not so fast, kid." She grinned, starting down the bustling sidewalk. "You haven't earned the right to my story yet."
"Isn't it just like mine?" he asked, a little more edge in his voice than he intended.
Her grin didn't falter, but it gained a new, sharper dimension. "Nice shot. But you're still a mile off."
They moved through the city streets, a river of noise and motion. Martha weaved through the crowd with unconscious expertise, and Jonny followed, unsure of their destination. The faces of the passersby blurred into a meaningless tapestry; no one noticed the two hunters in their midst.
"So, Jonny," she said, not breaking stride. "You a shooting person or a slicing kind of guy?"
"My best performances are with guns."
She smiled, a flash of genuine approval. "Ding, ding, ding. Right answer." From inside her jacket, she produced a revolver. It was polished steel, heavy and serious in her hand. She offered it to him. "Colt six-shot. Your prize. Loaded with 9mm salted steel."
Jonny took it. The weight was comforting, real.
"Salted steel is the only thing that bites a devil," she said, her tone shifting from playful to deadly serious. "Remember that. Put a regular bullet in one and you'll just make it laugh before it tears you apart. And trust me, that is not the way you want to go."
"That's it?" Jonny asked, hefting the gun.
"I've got a consolation prize knife, but I don't think you want it."
"No, I mean… no extra ammo?"
Martha's smile returned, wry now. "With that fancy suit? Where you gonna put it? That brings us to Rule One: If you're gonna take a shot, don't miss."
Her eyes were fully locked on his now, all traces of amusement gone. Her gaze was sharp, emerald, and utterly serious.
"Understood, junior?"
"Yes… Martha."
"Good."
They stopped in front of a dilapidated old building, its facade a canvas of graffiti and water stains. It stood overlooking a narrow alley, a dusty pawn shop its only neighbor. The city's roar was muted here, replaced by the smell of stale urine, cheap alcohol, and something burning.
Martha led him inside a lobby that was little more than a broken mirror and a dead elevator. They took the stairs to the second floor, stopping at a door marked 13.
The apartment inside was a stark contrast to the building's decay. The walls were a stylish mix of grey and white. To the right, an open kitchen looked onto a living room dominated by a single couch facing a wall-mounted TV. A short hallway led to a bathroom and two bedrooms. One bedroom door had a small, hand-painted sign that read: MARTHA. KEEP OUT.
"You seem very possessive of your room," Jonny noted.
"The sign is for the people who didn't get the memo about common manners," she said, dropping onto the couch with a puff. "Close the door, rookie. Listen up."
He did. The click of the latch was soft and final.
"House rules. One: You are responsible for your own laundry and dishes. If I find your crap lying around, you'll be doing mine, too. Two: If you order food, you order for me. Forget, and I will torment you in your sleep."
"Scary."
"And three: Don't touch my stuff. Consider that less a rule and more life advice for keeping your head attached to your shoulders. Understood?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Okay, call me ma'am again and I'll chop your head off. I'm not forty yet."
"Yes, Martha."
She smiled. "That's better. Your gear is in your room. Some old wolf dropped it off this morning."
A flicker of nostalgia crossed Jonny's face. "He's still alive?"
"Alive and well."
She picked up her phone, dialing a number. Before putting it to her ear, she looked back at him.
"So? What kind of pizza do you like?"
"Pizza?"
"Hunter welcome gift. On the house."