Night Confrontation Near Haul Academy
A chilling, wet fog clung to the landscape, a ghostly shroud swallowing the overgrown weeds and skeletal framework of an uncompleted building just beyond the perimeter of Haul Academy.
The air was heavy with the smell of damp earth and decay. Steel beams, slick with condensation, jutted starkly against a moonless sky, forming a modern ruin where silence reigned, broken only by the chirr of unseen insects or the scuff of tactical boots on gravel.
Detective James Carter and his patrol team—Officers Morales, Jenkins, and Patel—moved with practiced caution. Their flashlight beams sliced through the oppressive darkness, catching on glints of broken glass, coils of rusted rebar, and the discarded tools of a long-abandoned workforce.
The Book of Mistura, wrapped in oilcloth, rested in Carter's inner breast pocket. It was a cold, dense weight against his ribs, a secret he felt the very air was trying to pry from him.
Carter crouched by a rusted drainage pipe, his light tracing a series of scorch marks that radiated from a central point.
Etched into the concrete beneath were symbols he didn't recognize—not graffiti, but something older, more deliberate. They were angular and harsh, like fractured stars or claw marks carved with geometric precision.
"What do you make of this, Patel?" he murmured.
Patel knelt beside him, her light joining his.
"Looks like someone tried to start a fire. But these markings… they're precise. Almost ritualistic."
A faint crackle from Carter's radio was the only reply, a hiss of static that felt like a whisper of the encroaching tension. He felt a prickle on his neck, the primal instinct that precedes an ambush.
Then came the sound. It wasn't a footstep or a snapping twig. It was a sickening, deliberate shuffle—the grind of heavy metal being dragged slowly, unnaturally, across loose gravel. It echoed from the deeper shadows of the structure, a sound that promised something was wrong.
Every flashlight beam swiveled toward the source. Jenkins unholstered his weapon with a soft click that sounded like a gunshot in the stillness.
From the oppressive blackness between two concrete pillars, a figure emerged. It was a youth, maybe seventeen or eighteen, his clothes torn and his hair matted with grime.
But it was his eyes that froze them. They glowed with a soft, yet piercing violet light, an unnatural luminescence that pulsed with a malevolent intelligence—the unmistakable mark of Mistura's influence, filtered through the will of a puppet master Carter knew only as Michael.
The boy's gait was a horrifying parody of human movement—jerky, yet intensely purposeful, as if his limbs were being pulled by invisible strings. His head was cocked at an unnatural angle, his glowing eyes fixed solely on Carter.
When he spoke, his voice was a chilling layered chord, a cold and commanding tone overlaid with a faint, echoing whisper.
"Give me the book."
Before anyone could process the command, the youth exploded into motion. The slow, dragging shuffle vanished, replaced by a terrifying, inhuman speed. He covered twenty feet in a blur, a predator closing on its prey. Carter had no time to draw his weapon, only to raise his arms in a futile defense.
The youth's hands, impossibly strong, closed around the detective's throat. The air was crushed from Carter's lungs in a strangled gasp. His heavy flashlight clattered to the ground, its beam spinning wildly, casting chaotic, dancing shadows across the nightmarish scene. The violet eyes blazed, not looking at Carter's face, but fixated on the bulge of the book concealed in his jacket. The grip was like iron. Carter's vision began to tunnel, black spots blooming at the edges.
"Give me the book!" the voice demanded again, louder now, more desperate, the echo deepening with Mistura's venomous will.
Carter clawed at the youth's arms, but it was like tearing at steel. He could feel the cartilage in his throat grinding under the pressure. The other officers, shocked into action, yelled warnings that were swallowed by the fog.
"Police! Let him go! Now!" Morales shouted, his voice tight with adrenaline.
The youth didn't even flinch. Instead, the grip twisted, preparing to snap Carter's neck or drag him into the darkness.
"Fire if he doesn't release him now!" Morales screamed.
A single warning shot rang out, the muzzle flash a brilliant orange star. The bullet ricocheted off a nearby steel beam with a high-pitched scream, but the possessed attacker only snarled, a low, guttural sound that was not human.
Two more shots followed in a rapid, deafening burst. Both rounds struck the youth in the chest. He staggered back a single step, not from the impact, but as if momentarily confused. The violet glow in his eyes faltered.
For a heartbreaking second, the spectral mask of possession flickered, and the face of a terrified boy—Michael—shone through, his features twisted in anguish and confusion. Then the violet light flared once more before dimming completely.
Finally, the unnatural strength fled his limbs.
The youth collapsed onto the cracked gravel like a marionette with its strings cut, a final, breathless sigh escaping his lips.
Carter fell to his knees, gasping for air, clutching his bruised throat as his team rushed to his side. He pressed a hand protectively to his chest, feeling the solid outline of the book.
All around them, the fog seemed to thicken, coiling in on itself, swallowing the echoes of the gunfire until only a profound, listening silence remained.
Carter looked from the fallen boy to the battered book, his resolve hardening into something grim and unyielding. He whispered into the suffocating quiet.
"This… fight is far from over."
Hospital Vigil
The rhythmic, soft beeping of the heart monitor was a sterile counterpoint to the chaos of the night before. Detective James Carter lay on the hospital bed, a landscape of tubes and wires connecting him to the machines that watched over him. His face, though pale, was undeniably alive.
A constellation of deep, finger-shaped bruises circled his neck, and bandages covered the worst of the scrapes—a battle-scarred survivor of a war no one else understood.
Beside him, Clara Carter sat vigil, her cheeks streaked with dried tears. She held his hand in both of hers, a fragile anchor in her sea of fear. Her voice, when she spoke, was a tremor of relief and lingering terror.
"James… you should have called me. When the department called, they were so vague. We thought—" she choked on the words, unable to voice her darkest fear.
He squeezed her hand, the effort visible on his face, and managed a faint, reassuring smile.
Before he could form a reply, the hospital room door swung open with a soft whoosh and Rossie rushed in. Her eyes, wide with panic, immediately found her father. A wave of profound relief washed over her, so potent it almost buckled her knees.
"Dad!" she whispered, her voice breaking. She crossed the room in three quick strides, her hand coming to rest over his. She leaned in close, her carefully controlled composure shattering as tears spilled down her cheeks.
"I'm so glad you're alive. I love you."
Clara reached out, her own tears starting anew, and patted Rossie's back, a small circle of shared comfort in the sterile room.
James turned his gaze from his wife to his daughter. His voice was low and raspy, but it held a new weight that commanded her full attention.
"The forces we're facing… Rossie, they exceed anything we've ever seen. That boy—the one who attacked me—he wasn't just on drugs. He was no ordinary kid. Twice he was shot, center mass, and yet…" He trailed off, the memory replaying in his mind.
Rossie's expression sharpened, the grief in her eyes giving way to an intense, analytical focus.
"Is he dead?"
James nodded slowly, the movement pained.
"Yes. The shots eventually stopped him, but it wasn't… normal. The influence, the power that gripped him—the Mistura's power—it's relentless. It fought to the very last second."
Rossie straightened up, her gaze turning to her mother, then back to her father. Her voice was steady, but laced with an urgency that made Clara flinch.
"I want to see him."
Clara's brow furrowed, a fresh wave of concern washing over her.
"What? Rossie, why?
Why would you want to see the body of the boy who tried to kill your father?"
Rossie's eyes narrowed, her mind already working through the arcane possibilities.
"Because, Mom, if he was truly possessed by Mistura—if Michael used him as a vessel....then he wouldn't be 'dead' in the way we understand it.
That kind of power doesn't just vanish. It lingers. It leaves a residue, an echo in the flesh.
I need to see what's left. I need to understand what we're truly up against."
James studied his daughter, a flicker of awe and surprise crossing his battered features.
"Mistura's power… it really is that dangerous?" he asked softly, the disbelief of a career cop clashing with the brutal reality of what he'd just survived.
Rossie took a deep breath, the weight of her knowledge a visible burden on her shoulders.
"The Book of Mistura isn't just a book, Dad.
It's a conduit. A key. It bends will, twists souls, and burns out its vessels like cheap fuses. Anyone touched by it so directly is never truly gone. Their spirit might be shattered, but the power that used them leaves a mark—a psychic stain you can't see until it's too late.
It can be a trap, a beacon, or a warning."
She glanced out the window at the distant city lights, her reflection a pale ghost against the dark glass. Her voice dropped, quiet but resolute.
"We can't fight this like a normal case. This isn't about evidence and criminals anymore. It's about wards and rituals. It's something else entirely."
James nodded, the last of his skepticism erased. He saw the truth not only in his daughter's words but in the memory of those blazing violet eyes. His grip tightened on Rossie's hand, a silent pledge passing between them.
"We'll face it together," he rasped. "And we'll be ready."