The echo of the gunshots outside had ceased just a few seconds ago, but in the hallways of the police station, the silence became more oppressive than the noise. The light flickered like an irregular breath, bathing the walls in a sickly tone.
[Felix, Ron, report.]
In front of the warehouse door, Yumi looked at the corner at the end of the hallway and called out, her eyes narrowed.
[Felix, Ron] —she insisted when she got no answer.
But she only received silence.
[I'll go check] —said Flora, taking a step forward, but Yumi stopped her with her hand.
[Help me block this] —she said as she closed the warehouse door.
The sound of the bolt sliding into place resonated louder than normal. It was a sound that seemed to carry something deeper than simple security.
They all immediately understood her intention and began to pile objects against the door.
In the process, Yumi observed the busy Margareth.
[The cameras were destroyed] —Margareth said without stopping her work, anticipating Yumi's question.
Yumi gritted her teeth, but said nothing and continued stacking furniture.
[Tsk. Why are the shelves bolted to the floor?] —Teresa cursed, having tried unsuccessfully to move one of the shelves.
[Obviously for security.]
[Your security makes me feel insecure.]
Flora found no words to answer Teresa. Because, as illogical as her complaint was, reality spoke for itself.
The protocols designed to protect them in times of peace—anti-seismic anchors, automatic locks, containment systems—were now shackles. Every hallway felt like a trap, and every door, a gamble.
"Crack!"
Before they could utter another word, the doorknob turned.
"Crack! Crack!"
First calmly, like a person casually trying to open a door.
"Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!"
But quickly, the forcing began.
The metallic sound of the knob became a language: the intruder's impatience, the weight of many hands on the other side.
Yumi and the others tensed, but they didn't stop; one after another, the boxes piled up against the door.
"BOM!"
[Get down] —Yumi shouted as gunshots rang out, followed by the screeching sound of metal colliding.
"BOM! BOM!"
Several more shots followed. The people on the other side were shooting at the door's lock.
At the same time, the girls moved to the side to avoid being hit by a stray bullet.
"GRIIII!"
The goblins and the cat growled. Flora had drawn her pistol and the rest of the girls raised their melee weapons.
"Pop! Pop!"
The door began to be forced open, slowly pushing the barricade back.
[Quick, form a barricade around Margareth] —Yumi ordered again, which made them all hesitate for a second.
But they quickly lowered their weapons and went back to piling up anything within reach, this time as a wall around Margareth.
[Chief, this has gotten difficult] —Yumi spoke into the radio, her eyes fixed on the door that was still being hit and pushed. The small crack already made it possible to see vestiges of the mob on the other side.
But the response she received, far from being a lifeline, made Yumi's complexion darken.
[What a coincidence… Things are ugly here too] —Wiston's voice was tense, and the sounds of gunfire echoed incessantly through the radio, sending a bad feeling through Yumi's mind.
[Astrad. Put him on the radio] —she demanded immediately, without even asking about the situation.
[…I'm afraid that's impossible…] —Wiston finally said, after a few seconds of silence.
At his words, Yumi's heart skipped a beat.
[Where is he?] —she asked, her eyes already bloodshot.
The rest of the girls were also attentive. Their need to hear the answer was no less than Yumi's, but their hands didn't stop.
"Keep moving no matter what," a habit that had already been burned into them by Astrad.
But Wiston's next words made them all freeze in place.
[He's in the middle of the goblin camp, fighting the entire horde…]
Yumi's lips trembled at the illogical, but somehow not unexpected, answer.
Not just her; all of their eyes trembled from the shock.
But before any of them could react.
[Yumi… We're running out of bullets, and the caliber we have can't stop that orc chief… if your mission fails…] —Wiston's voice presaged a sinister reality, but Yumi didn't give him the chance to finish.
[I won't fail] —whether intentional or not, Yumi's voice suddenly changed.
Cold, with a flash of murderous intent, but above all, determined.
[…Hehehe, then move your ass here with the damn weapons. Over and out.]
[Yes, over and out.]
When Yumi put her radio aside.
"CRACK!"
A furious mob entered, shouting curses. They seemed to move with a unified purpose, their steps shuffling and their empty gazes fixed on Yumi and the others. They ignored stumbles, impassive, like puppets guided by the same invisible string.
The girls quickly grouped together behind the pile of boxes that could barely be called an obstacle.
[Monster!] —shouted a survivor as he raised his weapon.
Both Yumi and Flora recognized it as their colleague's weapon.
But they didn't give themselves time to feel the pain of the loss.
"Bang!"
[ARGGG!]
A shot rang out, followed by an irate cry, as Yumi fired her weapon and the bullet struck the refugee's weapon directly.
"Bang!"
Another shot rang out. This time it was Flora, who hadn't been left behind. Her well-aimed shot went straight through the other armed refugee's head.
The lifeless body slumped to the ground, the weapon still held in its hand.
"Bang!"
A second shot from Yumi hit the man's weapon, disabling it as well.
[[[[…]]]]
It all happened in seconds. The silence that followed was almost unnatural. Only the frantic typing of Margareth proved that sound had not been stolen from the world.
But in the halted momentum, Yumi did not relax; on the contrary, a shiver ran down her spine.
The mob had stopped, but there was no panic. There were no screams. Their faces didn't show the shock of fear, only an empty, expectant patience.
The others also sensed that something was wrong.
It wasn't just their unnatural reaction; the people's physics were also abnormal. Unfocused, bloodshot eyes, pale skin with swollen purple veins, and a stillness that was more terrifying than any scream.
[You finally show your true colors] — a deep voice was heard from the hallway. It was a blood-chilling dissonance as if two people were speaking in perfect sync; a smooth baritone, superimposed on a harsh, ancient whisper, like sand scraping over glass.
But the most chilling part is that, from the depths of their hearts, a strange sense of familiarity and longing arose.
[Something is definitely wrong] —Teresa muttered, her eyes fixed on the entrance, shining with a dangerous edge.
[You who swore to protect and serve] —the voice from the hallway grew louder as people continued to enter the warehouse, making way for their messiah.
The manifest devotion on their faces made Yumi frown, as she remembered a similar case she had faced years ago.
Although this occasion was much more extreme.
[Today you will receive your just punishment for swearing in vain] —said Anícal, finally entering the warehouse with a calm stride.
But he was no longer the mayor they knew. His skin had become unnaturally pale, and the deformed shadows behind him seemed to bow, as if greeting him.
His eyes, once brown, now had a faint golden glow. His benevolent smile exuded a charisma that was hard to ignore.
Around him, the rest of the survivors idolized him while cursing Yumi and the others, whose tension had skyrocketed since they saw Aníbal.
An uneasiness pressed on their hearts as if an invisible hand were squeezing them.
[Repent…] —Aníbal tried to speak as he spread his arms.
"Bang!"
But he was silenced by Yumi's shot, which impacted right in his forehead.
[[[[…]]]]
Once again, the room fell into complete silence.
But… no body crumpled to the floor. Instead, Aníbal's benevolent smile began to widen, slow, unnatural.
The lights flickered. The temperature dropped sharply. The air became thick, charged with a cold electricity. On the wall behind Anícal, his shadow deformed: the outline of a man with open wings, with the head of an owl and a sword of smoke in his hand.
[Huhuhuhu.]
Even with a hole in his forehead, Aníbal's laugh echoed through the warehouse, as his golden eyes shone with an unhinged edge.
..................…..
JOURNAL ENTRY NO: 066 SCIENTIFIC NAME: Andras
REGIONAL ALIASES: Goetic Texts: The 63rd Spirit, Marquis, Sower of Discord Battlefield Folklore: The Angel of Massacre The Network's Hypothesis: The Patron Behind the Scenes.
NICKNAME (ASTRAD): The Motivational Coach for Psychopaths
📊 THREAT ASSESSMENT CLASSIFICATION: PARASITUS / ANOMALY Its nature is that of an anomaly, a singular extra-dimensional entity with a sadistic consciousness. Its conduct is that of a parasite, but not of bodies, rather of conflicts. It feeds on the psychic energy released by the most violent emotions: hatred, anger, betrayal, and above all, massacre.
DANGER LEVEL: RED (4 stars) The entity itself is invulnerable, but its true danger is its ability to turn a tense group of survivors into an army of fanatics with superpowers. It's not a monster; it's a demonic arms dealer that catalyzes civil wars. The threat isn't Andras; it's your neighbors after they've had a chat with him.
AGGRESSIVENESS LEVEL: OPPORTUNISTIC The aggressiveness of a social predator. It doesn't create conflicts from scratch; it seeks out perfect breeding grounds: shelters on the brink of collapse, militias with power struggles, groups consumed by paranoia. It waits for the perfect opportunity to whisper to the most resentful and ambitious individual, offering them the match to burn it all down.
🧬 COMBAT FILE (TL-DR) TYPE: Spectral (true form) / Humanoid (possessed host) AFFINITY: Shadow / Psychic (Discord)
🎯 PRIMARY WEAKNESSES: Exorcism or containment rituals, Elimination of its "champion" and their entire faction (forces it to find a new "restaurant").
📌 KEY STRENGTHS: Mental and emotional corruption, Supernatural empowerment of groups, Possession of a host to channel its power, Fomenting large-scale violence.
📚 ORIGINS AND COMPARATIVE MYTHOLOGY Primary Source (The Lesser Key of Solomon): The Ars Goetia grimoire is explicit and terrifyingly precise. It describes Andras as "a Great Marquis who appears in the form of an angel with the head of an owl or a black raven, riding a black wolf and carrying a sharp sword." His office, verbatim, is "to sow discord" and it is warned that he will kill the magician and his companions if not treated with due care.
The "Champions" Hypothesis (Astrad's Analysis): My theory is that Andras is the anomalous force behind the worst cult leaders in history. Figures like Jim Jones or Charles Manson were not simple charismatic lunatics. They were the perfect "hosts": broken individuals with a great capacity for persuasion. Andras did not possess them completely, but rather "empowered" them, whispering to them, giving them that unnatural charisma, and guiding their followers toward the massacre he feeds on. They weren't gods; they were tools.
Gods of War: He is the archetype of the war god in his darkest and most treacherous aspect, like Ares or Eris. Not the noble strategist, but the one who delights in the brutality of combat and betrayal between brothers-in-arms.
📝 DETAILED ANALYSIS PHYSICAL AND SENSORY DESCRIPTION: Andras operates on two levels. His Parasitic Influence is his usual state: an incorporeal presence that manifests as whispers, a sudden cold, or a shadow in the corner of the eye. When he chooses and empowers a "champion," that person radiates a dark charisma, and their eyes may glow in the dark. However, the few and confused testimonies from survivors of his massacres speak of something more: The Marquis's Manifestation. At the climax of the violence, the host can momentarily transfigure, or project a psychic image of the form described in the Goetia: an angelic being with a dark, empty owl's head, brandishing a sword of shadow. Some accounts even mention the appearance of a "wolf made of black smoke" at his side. It is not a possession; it is a revelation, a moment when the puppeteer peeks out onto the stage to enjoy the final act.
BEHAVIOR AND ECOLOGY: It is a catalyst for violence. It is drawn to the "energy" of human communities with a high potential for conflict. It identifies the individual most susceptible to corruption and turns them into its agent. Through dreams and whispers, it endows them with power and a messianic purpose, convincing them that violence is the only way to "purify" their people. Once his champion has consolidated power and the massacre begins (an internal purge, a suicidal attack on another group), Andras feeds on the explosion of terror, hatred, and despair. His goal is not the victory of his pawn; it is the carnage itself.
☣️ PROTOCOLOS RECOMMENDED ENCOUNTER PROTOCOL: DO: IDENTIFY AND ISOLATE "PATIENT ZERO." Cut the head off the snake before the entire community is infected with its ideological venom. Promote unity and communication to prevent the seeds of discord from germinating.
DON'T: Give in to paranoia or tribalism. Listen to the "new leader's" speeches. Believe that violence is the solution that everyone has suddenly accepted. Underestimate a single individual who shows a sudden personality change and an unnatural charisma.
FIELD REPORT (Excerpt from an FBI report on the Jonestown incident, declassified): "…surviving witnesses describe Jones in his final hours not as a man, but as a 'terrible angel.' They speak of a persuasion that went beyond words, a 'certainty' that was contagious in the air. Several mentioned that, when the massacre began, the shadow of Jones on the wall was not his own, but that of 'a giant bird with a sword.' Analysts attributed this to collective hysteria and cyanide. But the pattern is... unsettlingly consistent with other historical events."
🎤 ASTRAD'S NOTES (THE ONLY SHIT THAT MATTERS): "Great Marquis of Hell, sower of discord." Fuck, even demons have more impressive job titles than mine. Imagine putting that on your LinkedIn profile. This bastard isn't a warlord; he's a fucking consultant. A freelancer specialized in "conflict optimization." He arrives at a shelter, sees that people are giving each other dirty looks over the last can of beans, and decides it's an excellent investment opportunity.
It's the shittiest "support" class in any RPG. He doesn't attack, he doesn't tank. He stays in the back row, throws a 'god-level paranoia' debuff on your squad and a 'murderous rage' buff on your neighbor, and sits back to watch you farm each other. And while you and your best friend are stabbing each other over a misunderstanding, he's there, eating popcorn and gaining EXP from your suffering. He kills you without even entering the aggro range.
And that's the most brilliant and most fucked up part of all. Andras doesn't force you to do anything. He just finds that little 'son of a bitch' switch we all have in our brains and cranks the volume to the max. He gives you the power and the perfect excuse to do what, deep down, you already wanted to do. He's not a monster creator. He's a fucking talent scout. And the talent he's looking for is our own capacity to fuck up each other's lives. And, fuck, business is booming.
............…..