Absolutely.
Here is Chapter 4,
Jack didn't make it three blocks before the pain caught up with him.
It always did.
He ducked into a service alley between a shuttered off-license and a boarded-up café, pressed a hand against the brick wall, and let his breathing slow. Steam rose from his knuckles where hellfire still clung, faint and restless, like embers that refused to die.
Sirens echoed behind him. Too many. Too coordinated.
"Damn it…" he muttered.
The demon had been sloppy, loud. Possession in a public space was always a risk, but this one had been accelerating—about to turn the woman into a full breach. If he hadn't acted, the body count would've climbed fast.
He straightened, preparing to move again—
And the alley lights snapped off.
Not burned out.
Switched off.
Jack froze.
His eyes flared red automatically, scanning.
Five heartbeats.
No—six.
Boots crunched behind him.
A voice followed. Calm. Almost bored.
"Jack Storm. Don't run."
Jack turned slowly.
Six figures stood at the mouth of the alley, rain sliding off black coats, faces obscured by matte helmets with no visible markings. No crosses. No religious symbols. No chanting.
That was new.
One of them raised a device—compact, humming softly—and the air shifted. Jack's chest tightened. His infernal core pulsed angrily, like a caged animal slamming into bars.
Suppressors.
"Relax," the voice said. "If we wanted you dead, you wouldn't be standing."
Jack clenched his fists. Hellfire sputtered—and died.
That had never happened before.
"…Who are you?" he asked.
"People who clean up messes the public can't know about." The speaker stepped forward, visor sliding back to reveal a woman in her late thirties. Sharp eyes. Scar along her jaw. Military posture.
"Director Elaine Mercer," she said. "Department of Internal Threat Analysis."
Jack snorted despite himself. "You mean demons."
Her lips twitched. "We don't use that word."
Before he could respond, the device flared.
The world went dark.
He woke restrained.
Metal cuffs circled his wrists and ankles, etched with symbols that made his skin crawl. The room was white—too white. No windows. No corners. The air smelled sterile, recycled.
Jack flexed experimentally.
Nothing.
No fire.
No shadows.
No storm.
Just… him.
A door slid open.
Mercer entered alone, carrying a tablet. She sat across from him without ceremony.
"You killed an entity tonight," she said, tapping the screen. "Extracted it without killing the host. That puts you at a success rate of eighty-two percent. Higher than anyone else we've observed."
Jack leaned back as much as the restraints allowed. "Observed?"
She ignored him. "Do you know how many deaths we've attributed to possession in the last six months?"
"Too many," Jack replied flatly.
"Four hundred and twelve." She met his gaze. "Most people think they were crimes of passion. Drugs. Mental breaks. We know better."
Jack stayed quiet.
Mercer studied him like a puzzle she didn't like. "You don't fit our models."
"Story of my life."
"You're not summoning," she continued. "Not channeling. Not praying. Whatever power you have—it's integrated. Fused."
Jack felt the faint ache in his chest where the infernal core slept.
"Congratulations," Mercer said. "That makes you either our greatest asset… or our biggest liability."
Jack smiled thinly. "Let me guess. You want control."
"We want answers."
She slid the tablet toward him. Images flashed: CCTV stills, thermal scans, blurred footage of Jack mid-fight—red eyes glowing, fire bending unnaturally around civilians.
"How did you get this power?"
Jack didn't answer.
"What do you want?"
Silence.
Mercer's voice hardened. "What happens when you're done?"
That one hit.
Jack looked away.
Mercer leaned back, exhaling slowly. "You don't know, do you."
Jack met her eyes again. "I know enough."
"Which is?"
"That demons don't belong here," he said. "And neither do I."
For the first time, Mercer hesitated.
She stood. "You're going to be held while we decide what to do with you."
Jack's pulse spiked. "I don't have time for this."
"You don't have a choice."
The door slid shut.
Darkness crept in—not from the room, but from memory.
Faces.
Screams.
The weight of lives he hadn't saved.
Then—
A whisper.
You're caged.
Jack stiffened.
The voice wasn't external. It wasn't intrusive.
It was familiar.
This is inefficient, it murmured. Allow me.
"No," Jack whispered. "Not like that."
You will fail if you hesitate.
Jack clenched his jaw. "I said no."
The cuffs rattled.
Mercer burst back into the room, weapon raised. "What did you do?"
Jack lifted his head. His eyes glowed—not red this time, but dim, strained.
"I chose."
The symbols on the restraints cracked—not shattered. Not consumed. Unraveled.
Jack stood, breathing hard.
"I don't rule hell," he said quietly. "And I don't belong to you."
Alarms blared.
Mercer stared, equal parts fear and awe in her expression.
"Jack Storm," she said slowly, "you have no idea how many people are going to come after you now."
Jack stepped toward the door as it opened automatically, shadows peeling away to clear his path.
"Then tell them," he said. "I'll be busy."
He vanished into the corridor, already feeling the cost clawing at his chest.
Another choice made.
Another step forward.
Another step closer to the end—or to something better.