Chapter 1: Dynamic Entry

Chapter 1: Dynamic Entry

The rain fell on London like a divine judgement, slicking the glass and steel of Canary Wharf until the city bled neon. Perched on the edge of a corporate skyscraper, I was a gargoyle in tactical gear, the icy wind doing nothing to cool the fire in my veins.

<Seventeen seconds until the security patrol turns the corner on the forty-eighth floor,> a voice whispered in my mind. It was cold, precise, and thrummed with a terrifying eagerness. <The updraft is stable. Trajectory is clear. They are still alive, Kaelen. I can taste their fear. It is… an aperitif.>

"Glad you're enjoying the appetizers, Flóga," I muttered, my breath fogging in the air. "Try not to get ahead of the main course."

My vision was a schizophrenic overlay. One layer was the real world: the rain-streaked panorama of a city that never truly slept. The other was hers. A glowing, crimson sigil pulsed in my periphery, and everything of tactical importance was highlighted in the same bloody light. The anchor point for my grapple launcher, the patrolman’s path behind the glass of the opposite building, the three faint heat signatures of the girls huddled in the penthouse suite—all painted in the colour of slaughter.

Flóga Kerioú. A sliver of an ancient Greek Keres, a spirit of violent death, shackled to my soul. My cheat code. My curse. She gave me the power to hunt monsters, and in return, she feasted on the carnage. It was a simple, soul-crushing transaction.

Tonight’s main course was a ‘blood and bone’ party. A new-money werewolf pup and his coterie had teamed up with a few fledgling vampires for a night of debauchery that was about to turn fatal for their human party favours. A flagrant violation of the Constantinople Accord, the centuries-old treaty that kept the supernatural world from tearing itself, and the human one, apart. The Accord had official enforcers, of course. The Conclave. But for messes like this—too dirty, too politically inconvenient—clients like mine preferred a deniable asset. They preferred me.

<Five seconds,> Flóga hissed, her excitement a tangible pressure behind my eyes.

I didn't need a second telling. I fired the grapple, the pneumatic hiss lost in the howl of the wind. The hook bit into the steel façade of the opposite tower with a solid thunk. I checked the line, then stepped off the ledge into the abyss.

The drop was sickening, a forty-story plunge before the line caught and swung me in a dizzying arc. For a moment, I was just a pendulum of flesh and metal swinging between monuments of wealth. Flóga loved it. The raw adrenaline was a prelude to the violence she craved. I just felt the familiar lurch in my gut.

My boots hit the glass of the penthouse balcony with a muffled crunch. The music inside was a throbbing bassline that vibrated through the soles of my feet. Through the rain-beaded glass, I saw them. Two werewolves, not fully transformed but halfway there—snouts elongated, claws distended, fur matting their expensive shirts. Three vampires, their skin unnaturally pale under the strobe lights, fangs peeking past their lips. And in the centre of the room, three terrified girls, barely out of their teens, backed against a marble bar.

<Prey,> Flóga sang. <Cornered. Frightened. Perfect.>

There was no time for a subtle entry. The alpha werewolf lunged for the nearest girl.

Glass shattered inwards as I crashed through the balcony doors. Time seemed to warp, stretching and compressing to Flóga’s whims. The crimson overlay flared, painting lines of fire from my Glock’s muzzle to their skulls.

TARGET ACQUIRED. CRANIAL STRIKE.

The first shot was a clean surprise. The alpha werewolf’s head snapped back, a spray of red misting the air. He dropped like a stone before his claws could touch the girl’s skin.

One down.

The room erupted into chaos. The girls screamed. The remaining monsters spun to face me, their faces contorted with shock and fury.

<Beautiful,> Flóga purred as I moved.

She wasn't just a voice. She was in my muscles, my nerves. My body flowed with a speed that wasn't my own. I sidestepped a vampire’s lunge, the air gusting where I’d been a nanosecond before. My pistol came up. Pop. Pop. Two silver-jacketed rounds cored through the vampire’s chest. He stared at the holes in his designer suit with disbelief before dissolving into a pile of greasy ash.

The second werewolf charged, a guttural roar ripping from its throat. I dropped the empty magazine, slamming a fresh one home in a single, fluid motion. No time to aim. I let Flóga guide my hand.

TARGET ACQUIRED. FEMORAL ARTERY. INCAPACITATE.

A round tore through the creature’s thigh. It howled and stumbled, blood pumping onto the pristine white rug. It wasn't a kill shot. Flóga liked to play with her food.

"Finish it!" I snarled, the words half mine, half hers.

I vaulted over a sofa, my combat knife already in my hand. The blade, etched with minor runes, slid between the werewolf’s ribs and into its heart. It shuddered, the feral light in its eyes dimming, and then it was just a dead man in a ruined shirt.

Two vampires remained. One, a burly brute, threw a marble coffee table at me. I ducked, the heavy stone splintering against the wall behind me. The other, younger and wirier, saw his chance. While I was focused on his friend, he made a break for it.

He didn't run for the door. He sprinted towards the shattered remains of the balcony.

<WITNESS!> Flóga shrieked in my head, the tactical calm gone, replaced by pure, predatory rage. <DO NOT LET IT ESCAPE! THE HUNT IS NOT OVER!>

I dispatched the brute with two quick shots to the chest and a final one to the head, not even watching him turn to dust. My eyes were locked on the escapee. He scrambled over the balcony railing, his vampiric strength letting him find purchase on the building's decorative architecture.

"Damn it!"

The cost was already setting in. My muscles screamed in protest, a fiery agony that felt like acid being poured into my blood. Every second I channelled her power, she burned me out from the inside. But I couldn't stop. A loose end wasn't just unprofessional; in this world, it was a death sentence.

Ignoring the screaming girls—they were safe now, someone else’s problem—I followed the vampire onto the balcony. He was already two floors down, moving with the spider-like agility of the undead.

<Faster, Kaelen! He is mocking us!>

"I'm going!" I grunted, leaping onto the railing. For a human, the drop would be suicide. For me, it was a calculated risk. I dropped, catching a flagpole a story down, the impact jarring my arms in their sockets. My body screamed, but Flóga’s power flooded me, numbing the pain with a rush of exhilarating strength.

The chase was a vertical ballet of death. Down we went, floor by floor, a predator and his prey scaling a glass mountain in the heart of London. He was fast, but I was relentless, a human bloodhound powered by a goddess of death. He’d smash through a window into an office, and I’d be right behind him, the crimson sigil in my vision never wavering from his back.

We crashed through an empty trading floor, a lawyer’s office, and finally burst into a deserted multi-level parking garage on the fifth floor. The air was cool and smelled of concrete and exhaust fumes. He was tiring, his movements growing sloppy.

He skidded to a halt behind a concrete pillar, panting. He thought he had a moment to breathe. He was wrong.

Flóga’s overlay highlighted his path.

I didn't follow. I raised my pistol, took a steadying breath, and aimed at the concrete pillar three feet to the vampire's right. I fired.

The silver-core round didn't pierce the concrete, but it didn't need to. It ricocheted, exactly as Flóga had calculated. The vampire yelped as the bullet tore through his calf, sending him sprawling onto the grimy floor.

I walked towards him, the sound of my footsteps echoing in the silence. He looked up at me, his face a mask of terror and hate. "Who sent you? The Conclave?"

"My client values privacy," I said, my voice rough.

<Let me taste his despair,> Flóga whispered, her voice like silk and razors.

I ignored her. I aimed my pistol at the centre of his forehead. This wasn't for pleasure. This was a job.

"The Accord is the Accord," I said, and pulled the trigger.

The shot was deafening in the enclosed space. Then, silence. Only the soft patter of rain from outside.

The crimson glow in my vision flickered and died. And then the pain hit me.

It was a tidal wave of agony. Every muscle fibre felt like it had been set on fire, torn, and then doused in salt. My head throbbed, a brutal migraine that promised hours of torment. The power always had its price. Flóga feasted, and I was left with the bill.

I slumped against the cold concrete pillar, my gun heavy in my trembling hand. Flóga was quiet now, a sated, contented presence in the back of my mind. She was leaving me alone with the aftermath.

Six dead. Three traumatized humans. A penthouse in ruins. And a body burning out.

Just another Tuesday night in London.