Ben and Lara slipped through the shattered doorway, black combat suits absorbing the crimson glow from flickering neon lights. The scent hit them first—iron and smoke, a metallic tang that clung to the air like a living thing. The floor was slick with blood, reflecting the fractured lights above, streaking reds and purples across the walls. Glass lay scattered like frozen rain, some shards still vibrating faintly from the echoes of destruction.
Bodies were everywhere. Limbs bent at unnatural angles, faces frozen in shock, eyes staring at nothing. The counter was splattered, tables overturned, chairs broken. A discarded sword glinted in the red haze, its edge smeared dark. The VIP section, once pristine, now resembled a war zone.
Ben's fists tightened around his blades, the leather of his gloves creaking under the strain. His green eyes scanned rapidly, calculating—every position, every threat, every possible trap. Lara followed, light on her feet, kunai in hand, violet eyes flicking over the carnage like a predator assessing prey. Her chest rose and fell, breaths measured, controlled, yet her knuckles whitened against the hilt of her weapon.
"They… they didn't leave a single one alive," Lara whispered, voice shaking slightly despite her training.
Ben's jaw tightened. "It wasn't human," he said, low, deliberate, the words tasting of rage and disbelief. "Whatever did this… moved faster than time itself. Look at this." He gestured at a shattered table where a man's arm had been torn clean off at the shoulder, blood still pooling beneath.
Lara knelt briefly, tracing sigils through the air, faint threads of magic testing, probing, seeking answers. "It's in Grayson's body… but… it's not him. Something… demonic. Reborn, possessed, or… worse."
The silence of the club was thick, oppressive. Each footstep they took echoed through the hollow wreckage. Broken glass crunched beneath their boots, metal groaned under the weight of overturned furniture. Even the neon lights seemed hesitant, flickering as if unsure whether to illuminate the carnage or shroud it in darkness.
Ben's gaze swept over the bodies, lingering on the dead young man who had once been Grayson. "We can't leave this. We seal it, lock it down, and exorcise it. Whatever this is… it can't get out."
Lara's eyes flicked to the shattered VIP section. Her lips parted slightly, a whisper of disbelief. "This… this is beyond anything we've trained for."
"Seal the place," he said to Lara. "That thing's still in here."voice raw with anger.
Lara nodded once, her sharp hazel eyes scanning the shadows, the faint sway of hanging lights casting shifting shapes across the walls. Her combat suit clung like a second skin, matte black broken only by thin graphite armor panels along her arms and thighs. Her hair, tied in a low, efficient braid, brushed her shoulder every time she turned her head.
That was when the club's double doors creaked open.
He walked in.
Tall, broad-shouldered, moving with the lazy poise of someone who owned the place—or didn't care if it burned.
Stone's skin caught the fractured light: pale with an undertone like brushed bronze, as if sculpted by hands that understood temptation. His hair was an untamed black fall, grazing the sharp line of his jaw.
But it was his eyes that did it—silver so bright they seemed to cut through the haze, glinting like cold steel just before a kill.
Devilishly attractive in the way that made hearts race and knees weaken, the kind of face that haunted dreams and ruined good intentions.
A black dress shirt hung half-unbuttoned, exposing the hard lines of his collarbone and the faint shadow of muscle carved deep into his chest. Black trousers, tailored and immaculate, framed the predator's stance. Every step was unhurried, deliberate—a storm disguised in fine silk.
Ben felt it first. That aura—thick, oppressive, dragging the air down like gravity had suddenly doubled.
Lara's hand twitched toward her weapon.
Stone's gaze skimmed them like they were background noise, his lips curving into a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Well," his voice rolled out smooth, deep, and mocking, "I see the clean-up crew's arrived. Too bad you're late. The party's… over."
"Shut it," Ben growled. "You're not walking out of here."
"Oh?" Stone tilted his head, silver eyes narrowing just enough to slice. "And you think you're the one deciding that?"
Ben moved first—fast, a blur across the floor, fist cutting through the stale air toward Stone's jaw.
Stone caught it. Effortlessly. His hand closed around Ben's knuckles like an iron vice, his expression bored.
"You hit tables harder," he said—and wrenched Ben's wrist sideways.
Lara was already in motion, low and fast, her leg scything toward Stone's ribs. He twisted at the last second, letting her heel skim the fabric of his shirt before his elbow drove down toward her spine. She rolled away, came up crouched, teeth bared.
"Two against one," Stone said, stepping forward, "cute. But you'll need better choreography."
Ben lunged again, this time feinting high before sweeping low. Stone hopped the sweep, grabbed Ben by the collar mid-air, and slammed him into the table. Wood splintered.
Lara charged—three rapid punches aimed at his temple, throat, and ribs. Stone blocked each with fluid precision, his forearms deflecting hers like a rhythm only he heard. Then he caught her final strike, twisting her arm behind her back in one smooth motion.
"Fast," he murmured against her ear, "but still predictable." He shoved her forward, letting her stumble before turning just in time to meet Ben's return punch.
The blow landed—finally—cracking across Stone's cheek. His head turned with it, hair falling into his eyes. Slowly, he looked back at Ben, smile widening, a thin smear of blood at the corner of his mouth.
"Oh… you're going to regret that."
Then he moved.
Stone's palm smashed into Ben's sternum, the impact sending the larger man skidding back across the floor. Before Ben could recover, Stone was on him—two jabs to the ribs, a knee driving into his gut, and an open-hand strike that snapped his head sideways.
Lara leapt in from behind—her legs hooking around his neck in a flying chokehold. Stone dropped backward without hesitation, slamming her spine-first into the floor, breaking her grip. He rose as she coughed for air, one hand shoving her aside.
They regrouped—flanking him now.
Stone's grin widened.
"That's better. Make me feel like I'm at least earning my drink."
Ben attacked first—wild, heavy blows, while Lara moved in with surgical precision, her strikes cutting for the vulnerable gaps in his guard. Stone slipped between them like water given form—ducking, weaving, redirecting their force into each other.
A knife-hand strike to Ben's throat.
A spinning back-kick into Lara's ribs.
A feint that drew Ben forward into Lara's shoulder, staggering them both.
Blood trickled from Ben's lip. Lara's breathing was sharp, pained.
Stone stood untouched save for the faint crimson line on his cheek—his silver eyes bright, almost fevered now.
"Come on," he said softly, stepping forward like a wolf into a wounded herd. "Show me why you're worth killing."
They came at him together—desperation sharpening every move.
It didn't matter.
Every blow was caught, turned, thrown back. Every kick was redirected until the sound of bodies hitting walls and floor filled the club.
In the end, they were both on one knee, bruised, breathless.
Stone looked down at them, his smile faint and unreadable.
"You lasted longer than I thought," he said. "Shame it wasn't long enough."
He stepped past them without a backward glance, the heavy door swinging shut behind him, the echo of his boots fading into the night.