Lia stepped into her luxury apartment — the kind of place that whispered status but screamed don't touch anything. White marble floors stretched across the entrance like a fashion runway. Everything gleamed. Gold accents, custom furniture, and a wine rack that could survive a nuclear war. It smelled like imported candles and passive aggression.
She froze mid-step.
Something was off.
Her trained instincts took over.
She slipped off her left heel silently and held it like a weapon. She didn't reach for the lights. No — she moved like someone who knew how to hurt a man with furniture. Every step calculated. Every breath measured.
Then — click.
The lights came on.
And standing near the window like she owned the place, Detective Mara Ivers.
Thwack!
The heel flew faster than a lie on tax day and smacked Mara right in the gut.
"Hrrgh—! Are you out of your damn mind?" Mara bent over, coughing, nearly knocking over a decorative vase that cost more than her yearly salary. "You just threw a heel at an officer of the law!"
Lia didn't flinch. "You break into my house and expect a welcome mat? You're lucky I didn't throw the other one and send you to the ICU."
Mara straightened up with a glare. "You're unhinged."
"And you're trespassing," Lia snapped, stepping out of her other heel. "So unless you're here to compliment my new rug, state your business before I start aiming for the face."
"I'm here about your nephew."
Lia rolled her eyes. "Oh, the disappearing act. Cute."
"Cut the act," Mara said, stepping forward. "A few days ago, he vanishes off the grid. Now suddenly all your debts are cleared, your accounts refilled, and you're opening a coffee shop like life's some startup fairytale."
Lia crossed her arms. "You think he did all that for me? Please. I don't need some broody teenager in a hoodie to fix my life. I pulled myself out of that hole."
"Oh yeah?" Mara raised a brow. "So the bankruptcy, the liens, the unpaid medical bills—"
"Gone. By me. The legal way." Lia snapped. "Try wrapping your discount detective brain around that."
Mara scoffed. "You? Legal?"
Lia leaned in, smile razor-sharp. "Yes. Legal. Boring. Tedious. Disgustingly adult. I built that sad little coffee shop with my own two hands—burnt espresso machine and all."
Mara grimaced. "The coffee tastes like punishment."
"Well, you would know punishment. You've been drinking your own personality for years."
Mara took a slow, deep breath. "I'm trying to find Ethan. Not trade jabs."
"And I'm trying to keep nosy cops out of my living room," Lia said. "Guess we're both failing tonight."
Mara stepped toward the door. "If you're hiding anything—"
"I'm hiding your fashion sense, now get out."
Mara turned without another word.
Lia called after her, "Want a cup to-go? On the house. Just sign a waiver in case you suffer internal damage."
The door slammed.
Lia poured herself a cup and took a sip.
She gagged. "Ugh. Still tastes like regret."
Ren knelt on one knee, his chest rising and falling like a war drum gone mad. Cracks webbed across the crystal armor on his left shoulder, blood dripping from a cut over his brow. When was the last time I was pushed this far? he wondered, silver breath curling into the cold night.
Ahead of him, the men in black still stood — suits torn, limbs twisted and then healed, grins stretched too wide across their pale faces. One wiped blood off his mouth and flicked it away like wine he didn't care for. Their bodies should've been wrecked, but they weren't. They hadn't even slowed down.
Ren pushed himself up, slow and deliberate, like a blade being drawn from a sheath. The ground trembled as silver aura bled from his body, sparking and arcing like lightning trapped in crystal. His hair fluttered. His eyes turned white-hot.
The first vampire moved — a twitch.
The second followed — a blur.
Then they all came
Ren roared. A war-cry torn straight from the soul. From the distance, a silver crystal the size of a tower erupted into the sky, cracking the ground and reflecting the moonlight like a god's blade.
Elsewhere, Kaia's arms were trembling. Her clothes clung to her body, soaked with sweat and blood, one sleeve burned away entirely. Cuts ran across her legs and ribs. She stumbled, eyes darting. The men in black kept coming, each kill undone in seconds. One she'd bisected was now walking again — spine snapping back into place like rubber.
"This is ridiculous," she muttered, hurling a bolt of electricity that only made one vampire flinch before grinning again.
Riven's arms trembled as he launched shockwave after shockwave, watching ghouls and vampires get flung into rubble—only to crawl out again, unfazed.
The streets were painted red, but none of it seemed to matter.
Damon leaned on his axe like it was a crutch, one eye swollen shut. He looked toward the towering silver crystal in the distance, moonlight reflecting off its peak. His chest rose and fell like he'd been sprinting for days.
"We've been fighting for hours," he muttered, voice raw. "If he's finally going all out now… then there's no way we're walking away from this."
He looked at the five vampires surrounding him—jagged suits, inhuman grins, wounds that refused to stay.
They moved like machines. Cold. Precise. Unstoppable.
This wasn't a battle.
It was survival.
The vampires surged.
Like shadows given form, they descended on Ren—teeth bared, claws wide. The one in front was fast, impossibly fast, cutting the distance between them in half a heartbeat.
Ren clenched his jaw.
His knees buckled as he tried to lift his blade again. Too slow.
Too tired.
Too—
Then it happened.
A pulse.
Soft at first. A shimmer underfoot. Like dew catching moonlight.
Then came the green.
Not from Ren… but from behind him.
The air shimmered. Faint wind stirred the ash.
And slowly… the wounds across his arms began to close.
At first, he didn't register it. His muscles simply stopped screaming. His legs straightened on their own. The ragged burn on his shoulder faded, knit together by something unseen.
The green aura wasn't his.
But it was spreading.
The vampire was nearly upon him now—but it paused. Hesitated. Just slightly. Like some primal instinct whispered wrong in its ear.
Behind Ren, the shadows rippled.
And then—
A footstep.
Soft.
Followed by another.
Figures in long, flowing robes emerged through the dust. Hoods pulled low. Their hands extended, glowing green, humming with life. Not a word spoken. Their presence was silent, yet… reverent.
They were healers.
But none of them wore military colors. No symbols. No affiliation.
Just green light… and calm.
The lead vampire skidded to a stop just before reaching Ren. Its eyes narrowed.
Kaia, slumped behind a crumbled car frame, raised her head slowly. Her cracked visor reflected the growing aura of healing light—and a flicker of hope passed across her tired face.
Damon lifted his axe again, his wounds closing at an alarming speed.
The vampires hissed in unison, more annoyed than afraid. The healing was unexpected—but not a threat.
Yet.
Then… the temperature shifted.
Subtle.
A breeze blew across the battlefield. Cool.
From above, the clouds thinned. The dark edge of night pulled away ever so slightly, revealing the faintest suggestion of a hue—just a hint of gold at the horizon.
2:59 AM.
The vampires tensed.
Their confidence faltered—not gone, but rattled.
Because something ancient stirred in their blood.
Not fear of the healers.
Not fear of Ren.
Fear of time.
The lead vampire turned its head slightly to the east. Its ears twitched.
"Impossible…" it whispered.
One of the younger ones, breathing hard through its teeth, muttered, "We had hours left…"
No answer.
The vampires exchanged glances—calculated ones. Their regeneration had already begun to slow. Not stop. Just… stutter.
One of them took a cautious step back.
Then came the sound.
Not a roar.
Not a crack.
Just a note—pure and faint, like the ringing of a bell across a quiet lake.
Ding.
Then nothing.
The lead vampire raised its claw.
"Fall back—"
Too late.
Ren's eyes flashed silver again, fully healed, and behind him—dozens of tiny emerald lights blinked into existence.
The healers had brought more than just restoration.
They had brought a warning.
And a reckoning.
3:00 AM.
The restraints cut into Ethan's wrists. His blood fed the tube, drop by drop. The man standing over him didn't speak—only hummed low and broken.
"Sleep tight, don't cry... they'll bleed for you tonight..."
He wasn't humming for Ethan. He was humming for the dead.
A blade traced Ethan's ribs.
"I never wanted to do this," the man finally muttered, not looking at him. "But it's either you… or me."
Ethan's jaw tightened. Blood leaked from his lip as he spat, voice slow and sharp.
"Funny thing about survival…"
CRACK—the man slapped him hard.