The explosion's echo rolled down the street like thunder, then died into the deeper silence that always followed death. Dust drifted lazily through the fractured hallways, curling in faint spirals of smoke.
Lucien remained still at his window, one hand resting on the cracked glass. He could see the trail of blood leading from the building's base to the courtyard below. Somewhere beneath the hanging cables and shattered bricks, the clown stirred.
It didn't die easily.
He tilted his head slightly, white hair falling across his eyes. From here, he could see the faint shimmer of the possessed man's aura—a chaotic swirl of black and violet, pulsing like something that didn't belong in a world of air and flesh.
The laughter came first, thin and broken, like someone choking on their own breath. Then came movement.
The clown's body twitched once. Then again. Limbs twisted with sharp cracks. It dragged itself to its knees, half its chest caved in, yet it still laughed.
That laugh built on itself, spiraling higher until the streetlamps flickered and the night seemed to recoil from the sound.
Then came a hum. Low at first—so soft Lucien almost mistook it for the wind. But it grew, deep and resonant, vibrating through the walls. The hairs on his arm prickled.
Something was coming.
The clown's laughter stopped. It froze mid-breath, head cocking toward the street corner.
And from the swirling dust, a faint light began to take shape.
She arrived not like a savior, but like a storm.
A figure stepped through the drifting haze—tall, wrapped in dark indigo armor that caught the light like oil on water. Her boots left faint sigils where they touched the ground, runes glowing briefly before fading.
In her right hand, she carried a blackened staff etched with pulsing veins of silver. Her face was mostly hidden beneath a hood, but when the wind caught it, Lucien caught a glimpse of pale, angular features and eyes that burned with quiet fury.
The air around her rippled. The shadows bent away.
Lucien's pale eyes followed her, unblinking. "So," he murmured under his breath, "she finally decided to show."
Below, the clown hissed. The human voice buried deep within it cried out—a fragmented plea that melted quickly into the guttural growl of the possessing spirit.
The woman raised her staff, and the runes lit like fire.
"By the covenant of form and flame," she intoned, voice low but commanding, "by light that divides soul from shadow—I command thee, leave this vessel."
The ground pulsed beneath her feet. The streetlamps flickered violently, casting the alley in alternating flashes of brilliance and darkness.
"Kreeeeei!!"
The clown screamed.
Its chest bulged as if something inside were trying to claw its way free. The laughter broke into shrieks; its voice layered—human terror beneath the manic joy of the spirit. The body jerked forward, half crawling, half stumbling. Bones cracked under its own weight.
Then it lunged.
The pavement shattered beneath its feet as it charged.
The woman didn't flinch. She waited until it was nearly upon her—then swung her staff upward in a clean arc. A pulse of blinding light burst outward, carving a crescent trail through the air. The blow caught the creature in the jaw, snapping its head sideways with an audible crunch. It spun midair before crashing through a parked vehicle, metal folding like paper.
The light dimmed. The car hissed smoke.
Lucien smirked faintly. She was stronger than he remembered.
The clown crawled out of the wreckage, dragging half its leg behind it. Its laughter now sounded broken, uneven—more pain than madness. Yet the black energy writhing around its body refused to fade. The spirit fought desperately to hold the host together.
The woman's eyes glowed white.
"I said—depart."
She slammed the butt of her staff into the ground. A circle of sigils erupted beneath her, each ring inscribed with the same divine geometry Lucien recognized but had never cared to study.
The rings spread outward in waves. Every time they touched the clown, its skin blistered and smoked.
The possessed man shrieked, clawing at his own throat as if trying to rip the sound out. The black aura thickened, lashing like tendrils. The spirit's resistance manifested as a storm of debris—rocks, dust, even fragments of metal rising into the air around them, spinning violently.
Lucien's window rattled. His reflection trembled against the glass.
The exorcist raised her staff higher. For a moment, her gaze shifted upward—straight at him.
Their eyes met.
The faint blue fire in her irises flared brighter, and for a heartbeat, her spell faltered. Her lips curled, not in fear, but recognition.
Then she shouted—her voice cutting through the chaos, raw and furious.
"You bastard!"
Lucien blinked once. Then, with a lazy smile, he leaned his elbow on the window frame and continued to watch.
Below, the momentary lapse gave the clown an opening. It roared—a sound that scraped against reality itself—and lunged. Its claws slashed across her armor, sparks flying. She staggered but didn't fall. Blood darkened her sleeve.
Her response was immediate. She twisted, palm snapping forward. The air warped. A blade of compressed light formed from nothing and sliced the creature's arm clean off. The severed limb hit the ground and melted into smoke.
The clown shrieked. Black ichor sprayed across the pavement, sizzling as it hit the glowing runes.
The exorcist began to chant faster now, her words overlapping into rhythmic incantations:
"From the unmade flame to the sleeping sea, I sever the bond that binds thee…"
"Return, oh demon, to thy hollow abode! Return to the void!"
Every syllable struck like a hammer. The sigils beneath her feet brightened until the whole courtyard glowed like molten glass.
The clown's body convulsed. Its jaw unhinged further, flesh splitting open as black vapor poured from its mouth. The spirit inside howled in defiance, twisting itself into monstrous forms within the collapsing shell of its host—horns, tendrils, eyes blinking in every direction.
Still, she didn't stop.
The woman advanced one step at a time, each strike of her staff carving glowing lines into the ground. The circles of her spell contracted inward, crushing the spirit's space to move. The clown thrashed, its laughter turning to screeches that scraped against the soul.
Finally, the exorcist lifted her staff high and spoke a final phrase.
"In the name of the Twelve Gods of Creation, I bind thee!"
Lucien's eyes narrowed slightly at those words.
Down below, the final circle closed. The ground exploded with light, engulfing the courtyard in blinding radiance. The clown's body arched backward, its shadow stretched impossibly long—and then it burst apart, the spirit torn free with a scream that rattled windows two blocks away.
A surge of dark smoke spiraled upward, twisting once before evaporating into thin air.
The possessed man's corpse fell to the ground, still.
Silence returned.
The sigils flickered once and died. The only sound left was the soft crackle of burning debris and the hum of broken streetlights.
The exorcist lowered her staff. Her breathing was steady but heavy, her armor dimming as the last of her spiritual energy faded. She wiped a smear of blood from her mouth with the back of her hand and looked up again.
Lucien didn't flinch.
They stared at each other through the settling dust, separated by height, glass, and something older than either wanted to name.
Finally, he gave a small, amused shrug.
"As expected."
He turned from the window, the faint echo of her presence still brushing against the edge of his perception. He didn't have to see her expression to know what it was—suspicion, anger, maybe even fear.
He washed his hands, dried them on the towel hanging from the wardrobe, and walked back to his bed. The ceiling fan spun lazily above, indifferent to the carnage outside.
Lucien sat, the bedsprings creaking softly under his weight.
Then, without another word, he slid beneath the blanket and pulled it up to his chin.
His expression didn't change, but his eyes remained open, fixed on the ceiling.
He could already feel her energy moving closer—slowly, carefully, making her way toward his building.
She'd come for him.
She always did.
Lucien exhaled through his nose, shut his eyes, and muttered to no one, "Let's get this over with."
Outside, footsteps echoed faintly in the stairwell.
And the night went still.