Guns raised. Fingers tight on triggers.
The Hollowed Saint stood motionless, lance resting in its grip. Silent. Watching.
It inclined its head in a courtly bow—measured, deliberate—the kind reserved for nobles and worthy enemies alike. Then it spoke. Its voice was a guttural distortion, vibrating through bone and metal alike.
"I am Sariel, the Piercing Quiet."
All three members of Delta Ash stiffened. Shock flickered across their faces—but their aim never wavered.
Sariel straightened. A faint smile touched its lips. Not cruel. Not kind. Just… wrong.
"Let's play a small game."
Rhea reacted instantly. "Don't listen to its voice!" she barked. "The Angels can manipulate minds just by speaking!"
Sariel chuckled, dry and rasping. "I'm not like the angels you faced before."
Rhea didn't rise to the bait. "Surround it. Fire on my mark."
They moved without hesitation—Rhea, Arlo, and Dima forming a tight triangle, weapons locked on target. Sariel turned its head slowly, meeting each of their gazes in turn.
"One of you is already mine," it said, smiling wider now.
"Kill that one, and I'll let the others live."
The air snapped with tension.
Arlo's heart thundered.
Dima glanced from side to side.
Rhea's grip tightened.
Dima broke the silence. "It's trying to get in our heads. Make us turn on each other."
Rhea gave a curt nod. "He's right. Don't falter."
Arlo forced a grin. "Didn't plan to."
"Let's end this," Rhea said. "Then we finish our mission."
Gunfire erupted.
Sariel rose, wings unfurling in a rush of black smoke. Bullets tore through the air—but the Saint flowed between them like liquid sky, slipping through every shot.
"Reloading!" Dima called, ducking behind cover.
Rhea and Arlo laid down suppressive fire, tracking Sariel's erratic movement as it dipped low—then surged behind Dima.
"Is he the one?" Sariel hissed.
Dima spun, firing point-blank—but the Saint vanished upward, leaving only a violent rush of air behind.
Sariel hurled its lance at Arlo.
He dove as the weapon struck, concrete detonating around him in a violent spray. Rhea and Dima fired, forcing Sariel to zigzag through the air as it reached for its weapon again.
Arlo scrambled up, rifle raised.
Too late.
Sariel feinted—snatched the barrel and wrenched it skyward. Rhea and Dima hesitated. One wrong shot and Arlo would take it.
Sariel leaned close, eyes locking onto Arlo's. Its grin sharpened.
"Or is it you?"
Arlo snarled, drew his sidearm, and fired.
The Saint vanished again—laughter trailing behind it like smoke.
"Son of a bitch is toying with us," Arlo growled.
"It's mocking us," Rhea said, forcing her breathing steady. "Why hasn't it finished us? It's had openings."
"Because it wants us divided," Dima said.
Rhea nodded. "Then we don't give it that."
Sariel circled above them, movements erratic and unreadable. The three regrouped, backs to each other, weapons raised.
Dima lowered his voice. "So what's the plan?"
Rhea thought for a heartbeat. "When it throws the lance again—we plant a claymore on it. When it dives to recover—boom."
Sariel's voice echoed from above. "Talking behind my back? That hurts my feelings."
It raised the lance.
"Here," it said lightly. "A gift."
The weapon fell from the sky.
"Better catch it."
They scattered.
Dima sprinted for Jackal, tore open a crate, and grabbed a claymore. Arlo and Rhea poured fire into the air, forcing Sariel to keep its distance.
Dima returned, planted the charge beside the embedded lance, and rolled clear.
From above, Sariel noticed nothing amiss.
They feigned an opening.
The Saint dove—silent, graceful, certain.
Its hand closed around the lance.
Click.
BOOM.
The explosion tore through the air, lighting the sky with a sudden, violent flare. Smoke coiled upward, swallowing the street in thick, choking clouds. Debris whirled like torn leaves caught in a storm, and the shockwave rattled every surface in its path.
Sariel slammed into the ground with a bone-jarring thud. Armor cracked, flecks of burning debris flying, the pulsing crimson core exposed for all to see. Delta Ash didn't hesitate. They fired together, in perfect unison. Bullets shredded the air, striking the exposed core. The crimson light shattered like glass under relentless assault. Silence fell immediately afterward, thick and oppressive.
They stood frozen for a heartbeat, chests heaving, sweat streaming down their faces, dripping onto the blood-streaked pavement.
Rhea sank to her knees. "Damn… that was rough," she murmured, voice heavy with exhaustion.
"Nearly ran out of bullets," Dima muttered, slumping down beside her, wiping grit and sweat from his brow.
Arlo approached the remains, the twisted, smoking body of Sariel. Arcs of crimson light danced along the broken edges of its armor. "So…" he said quietly, voice uncertain, "…there wasn't a traitor?"
Dima lifted an eyebrow. "Told you."
Rhea gave a short, humorless laugh. Arlo and Dima chuckled, tired and relieved, the tension of the fight finally easing.
Then—a fourth laugh joined them. Only Arlo heard it.
He froze, every instinct screaming. The laughter slithered into his ears, wet, cold, and intimate, curling inside his skull. He looked around frantically, but saw no one. The others didn't respond—they were laughing along with him, oblivious.
The sound came again, louder, closer. Arlo's eyes darted back to Sariel's body. It was still broken. Still smoldering. Yet the laughter poured from it.
Arlo's heart hammered in his chest. He staggered back. Then, impossibly, Sariel rose. Armor knitting itself together, cracks sealing, smoke evaporating. Whole. Unburned. Perfectly intact. Smiling.
Arlo jerked his gun up, but it crumbled in his hands, disintegrating to dust. His limbs trembled, eyes wide with horror. He spun—Rhea and Dima were gone. The world dissolved around him into unrelenting blackness.
Only he and Sariel remained, standing in the void.
The Saint stepped forward, deliberate, unhurried. Its wings stretched slightly, trailing darkness that seemed to devour light itself.
"The game is over," it said, cold, patient. "I win."
Light returned, harsh and revealing. Arlo stood alone.
Wetness clung to his skin—he looked down to realize he was drenched in blood. Around him, two bodies lay motionless.
Rhea and Dima. Bullet-riddled. Their faces frozen in shock, eyes wide, mouths open in silent cries that would never be voiced.
"No…" Arlo whispered, trembling, knees buckling beneath him. "No… no, no, no…" Blood ran from his gloves, dripped from his chest, pooled at his feet. The gun he had used to fire at his friends fell from his fingers, clattering against the concrete.
Shock blanketed his face, eyes wide and unfocused. "What… what happened? Did… I do this?"
Tears ran freely down his cheeks. His hands trembled violently. "I didn't… I didn't mean to… I thought we won…"
Sariel stepped beside him, calm, silent, cold as a blade. "You killed them. You trusted the wrong voice."
"I'm sorry…" Arlo whispered, voice breaking. "I didn't mean to… I didn't…" His words repeated, desperate, as blood bubbled from his lips, mixing with tears. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
The lance had already struck him. Sariel lifted him effortlessly off the ground. Blood gushed freely from his mouth and chest.
"Betrayers don't get second chances," Sariel said, voice low and lethal, as the light faded from Arlo's eyes.
The Saint dropped him. His body hit the ground with a sickening thud, sliding to rest beside the others. Silence pressed down, heavier than any smoke or ash.
Sariel's gaze turned west, sharp and unyielding. Without a word, it unfurled its wings, dark and vast, and rose into the sky.
Toward Angelo.
Leaving all three members of Delta Ash behind, lifeless.