Henry didn't give him space to recover.
His leg snapped backwards, the kick landing hard where it hurt most. The impact folded the demon instantly, a broken groan ripping out of its throat as it dropped to one knee, one hand clutching itself, body locking up from the shock.
For a moment, it couldn't even straighten.
Its face twisted, eyes squeezed tight—not pleasure, not rage—just raw, blinding pain.
Henry turned halfway, watching him with a slight tilt of his head, katana still hanging loose in his hand.
"So even demons feel that, huh," he said, voice calm, almost thoughtful. "I figured you guys were… I don't know… somewhere in between. Not exactly man, not exactly woman. No real body, right?"
The demon sucked in a sharp breath, trying to steady itself, but the pain still hadn't passed. Its shoulders trembled, posture broken in a way that didn't fit something that was supposed to be above human weakness.
Henry took a slow step closer.
"So what is it?" he went on, studying him. "You actually feel pain… or just something close enough to it?"
The demon forced its head up, jaw tight, black eyes locked onto him.
What the hell is this guy?
The thought burned through its head, louder than the pain.
This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Humans panicked. Humans bled. Humans died.
They didn't stand there asking questions while shrugging off a killing strike.
And they definitely didn't feel like this.
Something about Henry was off—wrong in a way it couldn't place. The way he moved, the way his body didn't give, the way he just stood there like none of this mattered.
Why the hell is his skin that hard?
The thought stuck, louder than the pain.
Henry watched him for a second, then shifted his grip on the katana, the blue along the blade steady.
"So tell me," he said, voice even, "are there any demons around this place… or are you the only one?"
The demon let out a rough breath, still half-bent, then looked up with a crooked grin that didn't quite hide the strain.
"Heh… go fuck yourself."
Henry gave a small nod, like that was enough.
"Yeah," he said.
The blade moved.
A clean swing—no wasted motion. Steel cut through the neck in one smooth arc, the edge biting deep and finishing before the demon could react. The head separated cleanly, hitting the ground a second before the body followed, collapsing beside it.
Henry didn't linger.
He flicked the blade once to clear it. He didn't know any exorcism rituals, and dragging it out wasn't his style anyway.
Cutting it down worked just fine.
***
At Cold Oak, the fight had already turned brutal.
Sam hit the ground hard, breath knocked out of him as he rolled across the damp grass. The impact wasn't clean—he felt it in his ribs as he tried to push himself up, one hand pressing into the dirt for balance.
Across from him, Jake didn't hesitate.
"Jake, don't listen to the demon," Sam said, forcing the words out as he got one knee under him. "He's lying—this isn't what you think it is."
Jake didn't slow down.
"What I think," he said, voice tight, controlled but edged with something darker, "is that only one of us walks out of here."
He bent down, grabbing an iron rod from the ground—something torn loose from the old structure nearby—and brought it up into a ready grip like he'd done it a hundred times before.
"And I'm not gambling on being the one who doesn't."
Sam pushed up fully, trying to square his stance, but he was a step too late.
Jake closed the distance fast.
The first swing came from the side, aimed for Sam's head. Sam barely got his arm up in time, taking the hit against his forearm instead. The impact rattled through him, forcing him back a step, his guard breaking for just a second.
That was enough.
Jake drove forward, using his weight, his shoulder slamming into Sam's chest and knocking him off balance. Sam went down again, back hitting the ground as the air left his lungs in a rough gasp.
Before he could recover, Jake stepped in and drove his boot down into Sam's chest, pinning him flat against the ground.
Sam grabbed at his leg, trying to shove it off, but Jake shifted his weight, pressing harder, keeping him down.
"You don't get it," Jake said, breathing steady despite the fight, the rod still in his hand. "This isn't about right or wrong. It's survival."
Sam strained against him, trying to twist free, but the position was bad—Jake had leverage, and Sam was still catching his breath.
"Jake—this isn't you," Sam said, straining under the pressure on his chest as he tried to shove the leg off. "This is what he wants. He's turning us against each other."
Jake didn't ease up.
"Maybe," he replied, steady, iron rod lifting slightly in his grip. "But I'm still standing. And you're not."
He shifted his weight, setting up the angle for a downward strike.
"Yeah," a voice cut in from behind him, calm but sharp enough to freeze the motion, "but you brought a rod to a gunfight. Drop it before I put a bullet through your head."
Jake's arm stopped mid-air.
He turned.
Henry stood a few yards away, feet planted, both hands steady on the gun, aim fixed clean on Jake's head.
Jake stepped back off Sam, lowering the pressure, but he didn't drop the rod.
"Hello, Sam. How are you?" Henry said, eyes still locked on Jake.
Sam rolled onto his side and pushed himself up, one hand bracing against the ground. "Yeah… I'm fine," he said, catching his breath. "If you ignore everything that just happened."
"Good," Henry replied.
Jake's grip tightened. His stance shifted slightly—enough.
Henry fired.
The shot cracked through the clearing. Jake's head snapped back, the rod slipping from his hand as he dropped where he stood, body hitting the ground.
Silence followed.
Sam stared at him for a second.
"You just—" he started, then stopped.
Henry lowered the gun, stepping forward, scanning the area once before focusing on Sam. He slid the weapon back, then reached down and grabbed Sam's arm, pulling him up in one firm motion.
"What, you wanted me to wait until he finished the job?" Henry said, steady. "He was already committed."
*****
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