Chapter 4: The Demon in the Dark
The city wasn't getting quieter. If anything, the streets grew louder with every passing night, as though New York itself was waking up to the chaos spilling through its cracks.
The Blood Fang Gang had been hit yesterday, but it hadn't stopped them. Rumors spread through the academy—gang hideouts scattered across Queens, their leaders not just human but half-demonic. The rookies whispered about it like campfire stories.
Styles didn't whisper. Styles laughed.
He sat in the locker room with his boots propped on the bench, cigarette dangling from his lips. His Level marker read 15, steady and unassuming. Nobody could see the truth—that his infection had pushed him further than anyone realized. His body hummed with speed and strength, his reflexes sharpening with every fight.
To everyone else, he was a lazy rookie who never pulled his weight. To himself, he was the punchline to a joke nobody got yet.
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Scene 1: Another Secret
The locker room door creaked open. A familiar voice whispered.
"You're Styles, right?"
He looked up. One of the women from his own unit—short black hair, olive skin, piercing eyes. She was already wearing a ring on her finger, her Level marker faintly glowing 7.
Styles grinned. "Depends. If your boyfriend asks, I'm not."
She rolled her eyes but didn't walk away. She leaned against the lockers, arms crossed. "Everyone's talking about you. No weapon, no strategy, just… luck. You're either the dumbest guy in the academy or the smartest."
"Why not both?" he said, sliding closer. His hand brushed her hip. She didn't move.
By the time the mission alarm blared, her lipstick was smudged, and she was fixing her uniform with trembling hands.
Styles lit a cigarette, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. "Department women… always the boldest."
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Scene 2: Mission Briefing
The squad assembled in the operations bay.
Mission Code: 0102.
Threat: Blood Fang Overseer. Demon-hybrid, Level 50.
Location: Queens slaughterhouse.
Reward: 15,000 EXP.
Marisol muttered, "Level fifty? We're rookies. This isn't a mission—it's a massacre."
The instructor's voice boomed. "This is your test. Survive, and you prove you belong here. Fail, and you don't."
Styles blew smoke, smirking. "Guess I'll pass with flying colors."
Marisol glared. "You think this is all a joke? People die out there."
"Yeah," Styles said, flicking ash off his cigarette. "But the jokes write themselves."
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Scene 3: The Slaughterhouse
The Queens slaughterhouse loomed like a corpse. Rust dripped from broken chains, and the floor was stained with blood that no rain could wash away.
Inside, the stench hit them first—iron, rot, something fouler. Candles flickered in the dark, illuminating symbols scrawled in blood across the walls.
And then he appeared.
Seven feet tall. Skin cracked like old leather, glowing veins pulsing across his chest. His mouth split wide, teeth jagged and wet. Above his head, the marker burned: LEVEL 50.
The rookies froze.
The demon's voice rumbled. "Fresh meat."
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Scene 4: The Fight
The Overseer moved fast for his size, crashing through the rookies' formation. Weapons clattered, shots fired wildly, but nothing slowed him. One cadet went flying into the wall, coughing blood.
Marisol screamed, firing round after round into its chest. The bullets sparked uselessly. "It's not working!"
The Overseer's claws slashed downward. She froze.
And then he missed.
Styles had moved—faster than anyone saw. One hand yanked her back, the other catching the Overseer's wrist mid-swing.
The rookies gasped.
"Guess he's right," Styles muttered, cigarette still between his lips. "We are fresh meat."
The Overseer roared, pulling against him, but Styles' grip tightened. The infection pulsed through his veins, black lines flashing under his skin before vanishing. He twisted—
CRACK.
The Overseer's arm bent the wrong way.
It screamed.
Styles ducked low, fists hammering into its gut, ribs snapping under the blows. His speed blurred him across the slaughterhouse, every punch slamming the demon into walls, tables, concrete.
To the rookies, it looked like chaos, like the Overseer tripped, stumbled, and slammed into everything on its own. To Styles, it was precision—every strike calculated, every dodge a hair's breadth.
The Overseer collapsed, twitching. Styles stood over it, smoke curling from his lips.
"Guess dinner's canceled."
Scene 5: The EXP
The Overseer dissolved into thick black smoke, the room filling with the stench of sulfur.
Above the rookies' heads:
+15,000 EXP.
Most cheered, some crying with relief at the sudden level jumps.
But in Styles' hidden vision:
+30,000 EXP.
Level Up → 45.
He smirked, exhaling smoke. Forty-five already. At this pace, I'll Prestige before they even graduate.
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Scene 6: Suspicions Grow
Back at the academy, the gossip turned sharper.
"That's three missions in a row."
"No weapon. No wounds. Enemies just… collapse."
"He's cheating the system."
Marisol cornered him outside the cafeteria. Her eyes burned. "You're hiding something. I saw it—your speed, your strength. That wasn't luck."
Styles blew smoke into her face. "You stare at me this much, people are gonna think you've got a crush."
She shoved him, furious. "I'll find out what you're hiding."
He grinned. "Maybe I'll tell you. Over dinner. Or breakfast. Your choice."
She stormed off. The model from yesterday appeared at his side, tugging on his sleeve, laughing at his jokes.
Styles slipped an arm around her waist. Suspicion keeps me interesting. Secrets keep me safe. And women keep me entertained.
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Scene 7: Nightfall
That night, Styles lay in his shelter bunk, staring at the ceiling. His veins pulsed faintly black, glowing before fading. He clenched his fist, the bunk frame bending effortlessly.
His body buzzed with energy. His speed made every lie easier. His strength made every fight shorter. And his grin made everyone think it was just another joke.
He lit a cigarette, smoke curling through the dark.
Level 45. Three missions. Nobody's catching me. Nobody ever will.
He laughed softly, the sound echoing in the empty room.
Tomorrow, there'd be another mission. Another woman. Another secret.
And Styles would own them all.
[TO BE CONTINUED…]