The crowd wore black.
CJ's parents stood at the front, his mother's shoulders shaking, his father's face carved from stone. His siblings—younger, so much younger—didn't understand why everyone was crying. They held hands and stared at the hole in the ground.
The coffin was being lowered.
David stood at the back, Israel beside him. Jane was there too, a few feet away, not looking at either of them. The minister spoke words about dust and ashes and returning to the earth. David didn't hear them. He heard CJ's laugh. He heard CJ saying "bro" like it was a punctuation mark.
Bro, did you see the match?
Bro, you're being weird.
Bro, we need to talk.
The coffin hit the bottom. Dirt began to fall.
Jane left first. She didn't look back. Israel stayed. David stayed.
The dream held them there, in the black and white, in the dirt and the dust, until the hole was full and the crowd was gone and only the three of them remained.
Then bright light.
PRESENT — DAVID'S ROOM — 6:05 AM
David woke up laughing.
Not because something was funny. Because the dream had happened so many times now that his brain had started treating it like a rerun. Same burial. Same dirt. Same Jane leaving.
"This dream again," he said to the ceiling.
He sat up.
The green headband was on his nightstand. He picked it up, ran his thumb over the fabric, and put it around his forehead. His hair had grown—coiled black curls pushed back from his face, the low taper fade sharp and clean. Three months of training had filled out his frame. Still lean, but harder now. A rangy 5'11½" that moved like it knew what it was doing.
He stood. Stretched. Rolled his shoulders.
The semester was over. Three months of break. No classes. No lectures. Just the Covenant and whatever came next.
He walked out of his room.
His mother was already dressed, her bag on her shoulder, keys in her hand. She was heading to her boutique.
"Good morning, Mummy."
She turned, smiled, kissed his forehead. The way she always did.
"Good morning, Dave. You look tired."
"I'm always tired."
"It's because you were pressing phone throughout the night."
He laughed. She didn't.
"The semester is over," she said. "Three months. Rest. Eat. Don't disappear again."
"I won't."
She looked at him—really looked—the way mothers do when they know something is wrong but can't name it.
"I love you, Dave."
"I love you too, Mummy."
She left.
David stood in the empty living room, the green headband pressing against his forehead, the weight of three months pressing against his chest.
He had work to do.
SAINT PHILOMENA HOSPITAL, DAWSON ROAD,AVBIAMA,BENIN CITY.— 8:00 AM
The hospital was evacuated.
Not empty—evacuated. The parking lot was deserted. The entrance doors were propped open. A single ambulance sat abandoned near the emergency bay, its lights off, its doors hanging open.
David walked up the driveway in his Vanguard uniform—all black, fitted, the green accents at the collar and cuffs catching the morning light. He hadn't slept well. He never slept well. But his body was ready. His Faith was steady.
Jonathan and Praise waited by the entrance. Joy stood a few feet away, already preparing the concealing barrier.
Jonathan looked the same as always—solid, immovable, cobalt-blue gauntlets already manifested. Praise stood beside him, her Solar Crossbow dormant but present, the golden light gathering at her fingertips.
"You look terrible," Jonathan said.
"Good morning to you too."
"Did you sleep?"
"Define sleep."
Praise shook her head. "We'll brief you inside. The Phobia is Febriphobia. Fear of fever. Fear of heat from within. The hospital's been evacuated, but it's still in there. We go in, we exorcise it, we leave."
"Low diff right?"
"Low difficulty," Jonathan confirmed. "Three of us is overkill. But Jaron wanted it done fast."
David nodded. "Let's go."
Joy began the chant.
"He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, 'He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.'"
White light bloomed from her hands—not bright, not blinding, but solid. It spread outward in a dome, growing, expanding, until it covered the entire hospital in a translucent shell.
"Concealment in place," Joy said. "Go."
They walked inside.
INSIDE THE HOSPITAL
The air was wrong.
Not cold. Not hot. Thick. Like breathing through wet cotton. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead. Walls that should have been white were washed in a sickly yellow. The floor was damp—not water, sweat.
"Afterglow," Praise said.
She fired a bolt into the ceiling. It didn't explode. It opened, spreading into a small golden sphere that floated above them, casting warm light across the corridor.
"Alright," she said. "I see everything. Three floors. No civilians. The Phobia is on the second floor. East wing. Maternity ward."
"Maternity ward," David said. "Great."
"It's not sentimental," Jonathan said. "It's just where it's hiding. Let's move."
THE MATERNITY WARD
The Phobia was curled in the corner of the nursery.
It looked like a figure wrapped in sweat-soaked blankets, its skin flushed red and steaming. Thermometers jutted from its arms at wrong angles—glass and mercury embedded in flesh. Its teeth chattered constantly. When it breathed, heat waves rolled off its lips.
"You're warm," it whispered. Its voice was wrong—nursery rhymes and fever dreams and your mother calling you inside for dinner. "So warm. It's almost over now."
David felt it first.
Not fire from outside—heat from within. His blood got warmer. His head throbbed. Faith felt sluggish, like trying to run through water.
"Internal Heat," Praise said. "Stay focused. Don't let it build."
"Easier said than done."
Jonathan moved first.
"Shattering Impact."
His fist—cobalt-blue, massive—slammed into the floor. The shockwave rippled through the nursery, cracking tiles, shattering windows, breaking the Phobia's hold on the space.
The creature shrieked—not in pain, in surprise. It uncurled, blankets falling away, revealing a body that was too thin and too flushed and wrong.
David moved.
"Page 67."
Five clones manifested—green-ink copies of himself, each one armed with a weapon from his library. They fanned out around the nursery, cutting off the Phobia's exits.
Jonathan charged.
The Phobia raised a hand. Sweat poured from its skin—not water, Faith drain. Jonathan's gauntlets flickered.
"Sweating Sickness," Praise called. "Don't let it touch you."
"Not planning on it."
Jonathan ducked under the Phobia's reach and drove his fist into its chest.
"Double Impact ."
The first impact landed. A heartbeat later, a second detonation erupted from the same spot. The Phobia flew backward, crashed through the nursery window, and landed in the hallway.
"David, go."
David was already moving.
The Phobia was trying to crawl away.
"Delirium," it whispered. "You're burning up, sweetheart. You're burning."
David's vision blurred. For a moment, the hallway wasn't a hallway. It was the backyard. CJ's burial. Dirt on a coffin. Jane walking away.
Not real.
Not real.
Not real.
"Blinding Light."
Green light erupted from his palm—not a beam, a flash. The Phobia screamed, its glassy eyes seared, its fever dreams scattered.
"Jonathan, now!"
Jonathan barreled down the hallway, his gauntlets humming, Mass Addition stacked from the first engagement. He didn't slow down. Didn't hesitate.
"Shattering Impact."
His fist connected with the Phobia's skull.
The creature crumpled.
Praise fired three bolts from the end of the hallway—Unerring Accuracy, each one finding a weak point. The bolts detonated in sequence, Solar Flare, controlled explosions that shredded the Phobia's form without damaging the hospital.
The creature dissolved.
Not into ash. Into steam.
It rose toward the ceiling, toward the flickering lights, toward nothing.
Then it was gone.
The team regrouped at the entrance.
Jonathan was breathing hard. Praise was calm. David was sweat-soaked and trembling—not from fear, from the Internal Heat that was still fading from his veins.
"Low diff eh," David said.
"Low difficulty," Jonathan agreed.
They walked toward the doors.
The barrier didn't open.
Joy stood outside, her hands pressed against the white dome, her face pale. The dome wasn't clear anymore. It was stained—an off-white, sickly color, like milk left too long in the sun.
"Joy?" David called.
She didn't answer.
Her mouth was moving. She was still chanting. But the barrier wasn't responding.
"Joy!"
She looked up.
Her eyes were glassy.
"The barrier," she said. "It won't let me drop it."
Praise's Afterglow flickered above them.
"Something's wrong," she said.
The stained white barrier pulsed.
And somewhere inside the hospital, a sound echoed.
Slicing and slashing.