The room was dark.
Not the darkness of absence—the darkness of presence. The kind that pressed against your skin, that filled your lungs, that made you feel like you were standing inside something alive and patient and utterly indifferent to your existence.
Angel stood in the corner, her long flowing dress brushing the floor, her dark hair catching what little light remained. She wasn't afraid. She had never been afraid of the dark.
She was afraid of what lived in it.
"Scotto."
Her voice was soft, almost tender. Like she was speaking to a lover or a child.
The figure in the center of the room didn't move.
He was eight feet of carved darkness. Massive shoulders. Thick chest. Arms like pillars. His skin was the color of a room with no windows—deep, absorbing, hungry without urgency. Two long horns curved from his skull, sweeping back like a ram's, polished and organic. Three red eyes watched her—two deep-set beneath a heavy brow, a third centered on his forehead with a circular marking like an eclipse.
His ears elongated to his abdomen, decorated with rings and studs and small chains that caught no light. His hair was pale blonde, almost white, short on the sides with a single thick lock falling past his shoulders.
He wore loose dark trousers, a wide belt, and ten long sash-like strips that hung from his waist and moved slowly, deliberately, like they were underwater. No shirt. No shoes. His body was enough.
"Angel."
His voice was low. Resonant. It vibrated in her chest.
"I told you not to come."
"I had to try."
"You tried." He tilted his head—the first movement he'd made since she entered. "I answered. The answer hasn't changed."
She stepped closer. The temperature dropped. The light flickered.
"The contract—"
"Is unnecessary."
"Scotto—"
"I am enough for myself."
His third eye pulsed. The inner ring contracted. The outer ring expanded. For a moment, it looked like an eye within an eye, watching something only he could perceive.
"I don't need a human anchor. I don't need a deal. I don't need your lord's shadiness or his protection." His voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. " I am still becoming. And I will become what I choose, not what your contract holds."
Angel's jaw tightened.
"You're a Phobia."
"I am aware."
"You need to feed."
"I am aware."
"The Vanguards will come for you."
His third eye pulsed again.
"Let them."
She stared at him—this beautiful, terrible thing, born from fear and already more self-possessed than any human she'd ever met.
"If you change your mind—"
"I won't."
"—I'll find you."
She turned to leave.
"Angel."
She stopped.
"Avoid the blonde one. The tall one. The one with the doves." She said.
She looked back. His three red eyes were fixed on her, unblinking.
"If he comes," Scotto said, "I'll savor the experience too."
The door burst open.
---
"CONTACT!"
Three Vanguards flooded the room.
The first—Agnes, a woman with sharp features and sharper eyes—dropped into a crouch, her Sanctite sniper rifle already extended, the blue glow of her Faith cycling through the scope.
The second—Amaka, taller, broader, her movements economical—palmed two green orbs that hummed with contained energy. They pulsed in her hands like hearts.
The third—Patrick, lean and fast, his white daggers already drawn—spoke into his comms without looking away from Scotto.
"Control, we have eyes on the target. Trapping barrier is in place. Repeat, trapping barrier is active. Concealment would let him escape through. This is a fight to exorcise."
A crackle. "Confirmed, Patrick. Jaron has cleared your team for engagement."
Patrick lowered his hand.
"Go."
Angel was gone.
The door was closed. The windows were sealed. The trapping barrier—invisible, absolute—had turned the room into a cage.
Scotto stood in the center, unmoving, his three red eyes watching the Vanguards arrange themselves around him.
"Three," he said. Not disappointed. Just... noting.
"Three is enough," Agnes said, her eye pressed to the scope.
"The five before you thought the same."
The room went cold.
Patrick moved first.
His white daggers flashed—not at Scotto, but around him, carving arcs of light that should have boxed him in, limited his angles, forced him into a kill zone.
Scotto wasn't there.
The daggers passed through empty air. Scotto was three feet to the left, his head tilted, his third eye tracking the trajectory.
"Interesting," he said. "You move far more advanced than the others."
Patrick didn't answer. He was already moving again.
Agnes fired.
The blue sniper bullet crossed the room in a heartbeat—straight for Scotto's center mass. He didn't dodge. He didn't need to. The bolt passed through him like he wasn't there.
"Umbral Body," Amaka said. "He can dematerialize. Gifts still hit, but only if he's solid when they arrive."
"Then we make him solid."
Amaka threw her green orbs.
They didn't fly straight—they sought. Tracking Scotto's heat signature, his Faith signature, the shape of his darkness. They curved mid-air, adjusted, closed in from two angles simultaneously.
Scotto raised one hand.
Dark mass solidified from nothing—a barrier of compressed shadow that intercepted both orbs. The impact was enormous. The room shook. Dust fell from the ceiling.
When it cleared, Scotto was still standing. The barrier was cracked but intact.
"Creative," he said. " Advanced i would say. The orbs detonate on contact with dark mass, not on impact with surfaces." He studied the cracks in his barrier. "Effective. Not effective enough."
The barrier dissolved.
He moved.
Agnes didn't see him coming.
One moment he was across the room. The next, he was there, his massive hand closing around her rifle barrel. She fired—point-blank, blue light searing—but he had already dematerialized, the bolt passing through shadow, and then he was solid again, his fist driving into her chest.
The impact was obscene.
Agnes flew backward, her ribs cracking audibly, her rifle spinning away. She hit the wall and didn't get up.
"Agnes!"
Patrick lunged, his daggers slashing. Scotto sidestepped—minimal movement, almost lazy—and caught Patrick's wrist. His grip was cold, absolute.
"You're fast," Scotto said. "But you telegraph. Your shoulders tense before you strike. Your weight shifts before you move."
He squeezed.
Patrick's wrist snapped.
The dagger fell. Patrick screamed.
Scotto released him, and Patrick crumpled, clutching his arm, his face pale.
"Two," Scotto said.
Amaka was alone.
Her green orbs were gone—spent, shattered, useless. She had her fists. She had her Faith. She had fifteen seconds of experience watching Scotto dismantle her team.
She didn't run.
"You're still here," Scotto said.
"I'm still here."
"Why?"
"Because if I run, you win."
He considered this.
"That's not incorrect."
He moved.
Amaka didn't try to dodge—she couldn't. Instead, she met him, her Faith flaring green around her fists, her body low, her weight balanced. She wasn't trying to win. She was trying to survive long enough for something to change.
Scotto's first strike passed through her guard and caught her shoulder. She spun with the impact, turning it into momentum, and drove her knee into his side.
He didn't flinch.
"Interesting," he said again. "You adapt."
"I try."
She struck again—a combination, fast and precise, each blow carrying the full weight of her Faith. Scotto blocked, sidestepped, absorbed. He wasn't trying to end the fight. He was learning.
"Your Faith flickers," he observed. "Not from weakness. From efficiency. You release it only at the moment of impact. The rest of the time, you conserve."
"You talk a lot for someone who's supposed to be quiet."
"You're worth talking to."
He caught her next punch—not with force, but with precision. His fingers closed around her fist, and for a moment, they stood there, frozen.
"The five before you," he said, "they didn't talk. They fought with fear. With desperation. With the hope that enough force would overcome understanding."
His third eye pulsed.
"You fight with something else."
"Yeah?" Amaka's voice was strained. "What's that?"
"Resolve."
He released her.
"I respect resolve."
Then he struck.
She didn't see it coming.
His fist—massive, dark, compressed—drove into her stomach. The impact lifted her off her feet and threw her across the room. She hit the wall, slid down, and tasted blood.
"Amaka!"
Patrick was on his knees, his broken wrist cradled against his chest, his daggers on the floor.
Scotto walked toward her, unhurried.
"You're not dead," he said. "I chose not to kill you."
"Why?" Her voice was a whisper.
"Because killing you would end the lesson."
He stopped in front of her.
"I am learning, Amaka. Every fight. Every technique. Every moment of Faith. I'm fascinated by you. The five before you taught me five complete fighting styles. You and your team are teaching me three more."
He crouched, bringing his three red eyes level with hers.
"When I am finished learning from you, I will be stronger than I was when we began. And when the next Vanguards come, I will learn from them. And the next. And the next."
He stood.
"That is what I am. That is what I will always be. Not hunger. Not cruelty. Growth."
He turned away.
"Rest. When you wake, the barrier will be gone. You can retrieve your teammates and leave."
"You're letting us go?"
"I'm letting you learn."
"Didn't ask for that, I'm here to exorcise you."
8:51 PM
The Indomie was perfect.
David sat at a plastic table outside a small buka, his fork moving mechanically, his mind elsewhere. Tessy sat across from him, barefoot, her silver chains catching the light from the nearby streetlamp.
"How's the Indomie?" she asked.
"It's good."
"Can you taste the individual ingredients?"
David paused. "What?"
"The ingredients. Can you taste them separately? The seasoning. The pepper. The onion. The noodles themselves."
He took another bite, chewed, considered.
"No," he admitted. "It all just... blends together."
"Right." She set down her fork. "So if I put all the ingredients in the pot at once, without measuring, without timing, how would it taste?"
"Okay, I guess."
"Okay." She nodded. "What if I took my time? Added the right amount at the right time? Let each ingredient cook before adding the next?"
"That would be way better."
"Exactly."
She leaned back, her chains jingling.
"Do you know what makes someone a good cook, David?"
"Practice?"
"Concentration." She held up a finger. "The ability to execute the same process regardless of circumstance. Regardless of struggle. Regardless of whether there's a Phobia in the next room or your friends are lying to you or you haven't slept in three days."
David stared at her.
"Is this... a Covenant thing? You guys are actually crazy. It's concerning."
Tessy smiled.
"I might be crazy." She picked up her fork. "But I'm not the one following a crazy person."
Joy appeared at the edge of the light, her face serious.
"It's time. They've trapped the Phobia."
Tessy didn't move.
"Let them finish eating first."
"Tessy—"
"The Phobia isn't going anywhere. The barrier is up. The team is in position." She glanced at Joy. "Sit down. Eat."
Joy hesitated—then sat.
She respected seniority. And Tessy, for all her chaos, had seniority.
David watched the two women begin their noodles, his own bowl half-empty.
Five Vanguards dead.
Three more in a trapped room with something that killed them.
And we're eating dinner.
He picked up his fork and finished his Indomie.
9:25 PM
The room was in ruins.
Walls cracked. Floor cratered. Ceiling dust falling like snow. Agnes was unconscious against the far wall, her chest barely moving. Patrick knelt by the door, his broken wrist wrapped in a torn strip of his shirt, his daggers useless on the floor.
Amaka stood alone.
Her uniform was torn. Her face was bloody. Her green orbs were gone—shattered, spent, empty. She had her fists. She had her Faith. She had nothing else.
Scotto stood across from her, unharmed, unmarked, his three red eyes watching her with something that looked almost like respect.
"You're still standing," he said.
"So are you."
"I don't tire."
"Neither do I."
She lunged.
Not at him—past him. Her Faith flared green around her feet, propelling her across the room, toward the wall, toward the window, toward—
He was there.
His fist connected with her shoulder, spinning her mid-air. She twisted, kicked, caught him in the chest. He didn't move. She landed badly, her ankle turning, and he was already there, his hand closing around her throat.
"You're resourceful," he said, lifting her off the ground. "But resourcefulness has limits."
"So does patience."
"I have time."
"I don't."
She drove her knee into his stomach.
He didn't flinch.
She drove it again.
Nothing.
She reached for her Faith—the last dregs of it, the final embers—and channeled it into her palms. Green light flickered, weak, desperate.
Scotto tilted his head.
"That won't—"
The window exploded.
9:31 PM
Scotto struck air.
His fist, aimed at Amaka's chest, passed through nothing. She wasn't there anymore. She was across the room, slumped against the wall, coughing blood.
And in her place—
"Tessy."
David stood beside her, the Sanctite baton in his hand, his green Faith flickering faintly around his knuckles. He wasn't in position. He wasn't ready. He was just... there.
Tessy stood in front of him, her bare feet planted on the cracked floor, her silver chains still, her expression calm.
"Hello."
"You're not the one I was expecting."
" Does that really matter I'm here for you now."
"Disappointing."
"I'll try not to be."
She moved.
No warning. No telegraph. One moment she was standing still—the next, her fist was buried in his chest.
The impact was enormous. A shockwave rippled through the room, cracking the remaining windows, sending dust exploding from the walls. Scotto flew backward, his form blurring, his sashes streaming behind him.
He hit the far wall and kept going, crashing through into the next room, the next, the next.
Tessy lowered her fist.
"David."
"Yeah?"
"Get ready ."
"Yeah."
She walked toward the hole in the wall.
Behind her, Amaka slumped against the wall, her eyes wide, her breathing shallow.
"Who..." she whispered.
"That's Tessy," David said, watching her silhouette disappear into the darkness. "She's barefoot."
"What?"
"I don't know either."
9:31 PM (Same Time)
The room was dark.
Tessy stood in the center, her bare feet on the broken floor, her silver chains still. Around her, the darkness pressed—not passive, not empty. Watching.
"You hit hard," Scotto's voice came from everywhere and nowhere.
"You talk a lot for someone who's supposed to be quiet."
"I'm curious about you."
"Join the club."
She turned. He was behind her—three feet away, his three red eyes fixed on her face.
" Raw physical strength," he said. "Didn't even imbue your fist in faith."
" You're just lightweight I guess."
"The five before you had Gifts. They had weapons. They had years of experience." He tilted his head. "They're dead."
" Scotophobia and its monologuing I really do hate this part always."
"No." His third eye pulsed. "You're something else."
He moved.
She met him.