"All right, men—you heard her."
Commander LaCroix shrugged off his uniform coat and let it fall to the floor. "Dread Hunters have breached our lookout. We're about to get real familiar with close-quarters combat. That means ditch the rifles—switch to hand-helds."
He tore off his white button-up shirt, splitting it in two with a loud rip. Wrapping each half around his fists, he paced in front of his officers like a man preparing for war.
"Get ready for a scuffle," he growled. "They're already storming up the stairwells." He stopped, turning to face them squarely. "But who are we?!"
"The Auclair Police Department!" the officers shouted in unison.
"That's right—the APD! A bunch of pissed-off Dread Hunters think they can riot in our parish. But who are we?!"
"The APD!" Their voices rose, loud and sharp.
"Who's going to protect this parish?!"
"APD!"
"What's our mission?!"
"To protect the peace!"
"Who do the people turn to in their time of need?!"
"You and me!"
LaCroix grinned like a madman. "And what do we say to the enemy?!"
"RIP!"
"In this case, sure," he smirked, rolling his shoulders. "But normally—we'd just tell'em they're under arrest."
For a moment, the joke nearly flew over their heads—but then it clicked. Laughter broke out among the officers, their commander's unexpected humor cutting through the tension like a blade. The nerves didn't vanish, but they eased. They knew what they were up against wasn't ordinary—but with LaCroix at the helm, the odds didn't feel impossible.
Then, the door exploded inward under the force of a single Dread Hunter's kick.
Instincts kicked in. Every officer raised their pistols and opened fire. A barrage of heavy rubber rounds pummeled the intruder's body, each shot slamming into him with brutal force. Though stunned, the Dread Hunter remained upright—for a second—until the relentless storm of fire brought him crashing to the floor, limp and unconscious.
LaCroix didn't miss a beat.
"Let's get them, men!" he roared, vaulting over the fallen enemy and into the corridor beyond.
His men followed without hesitation, their boots thunderous on the floor, their shouts echoing through the halls.
As LaCroix and the rest of the squad stormed ahead, one officer lingered behind, pausing over the unconscious and trampled Dread Hunter.
He crouched down, fishing a pair of handcuffs from the pouch on his hip.
With a flat stare, he muttered, stretching out his words, "I'm just gonna—" click. He locked the cuffs around the Dread Hunter's wrists. Another pair went around the ankles. Then a third set connected them together.
"Don't want you runnin' off if you wake up before we come back for you," he said, patting the Dread Hunter's shoulder like he was tucking in a sleeping friend.
Satisfied, he stood, threw his arm up, and shouted, "Hell yeah!" before bolting after the others down the hall.
THE HOTEL HALL WAS IN TOTAL CHAOS—DREAD HUNTERS AND OFFICERS LOCKED INASAVAGE CLASH. In the thick of it stood Commander LaCroix, trading blows with two Dread Hunters at once.
One wielded a pipe with nails soldered to the end. He swung it overhead with brute strength, but LaCroix sidestepped and the weapon slammed into the floor. As the Hunter yanked at his lodged weapon, LaCroix turned to the second—armed with twin daggers connected by a chain, like savage nunchucks.
With ruthless precision, the second Dread Hunter lashed out, scoring several shallow wounds along LaCroix's arms and sides. The commander moved with measured care—he knew one mistake could mean losing a limb… or worse.
As the dagger-wielding Hunter thrust forward, LaCroix struck with a clean hook to his face, then twisted around him just in time to avoid another blind swing from the nail pipe. The weapon whooshed past as LaCroix stepped in, catching its midsection with his forearm before driving a punishing uppercut into the wielder's chin. The blow snapped his head back, and the pipe clattered to the ground.
With his enemy dazed, LaCroix launched a flurry of hard, surgical strikes—each one cracking against the Hunter's skull until he collapsed, unconscious.
"Why, you—take this!" the remaining Dread Hunter roared, hurling one of his chained blades at LaCroix's head.
The weapon buried itself in the wall, just barely missing its target.
Or so it looked.
LaCroix's eyes flicked to the embedded blade. Blood dotted the steel. Then he looked down—and to his quiet surprise saw his ear lying on the floor.
Without a word, he bent down, picked it up, and tucked it into his pocket like loose change.
Then, calm as ever, he gripped the chain linking the stuck blade to the one still in the Hunter's hand. With a sharp pull, he yanked hard and stepped forward. The Dread Hunter, still clutching the other end, was jerked off balance—flung toward him like a fish on a line.
LaCroix met him halfway with a devastating headbutt, dropping the Dread Hunter like a sack of bricks.
As the last of the enemies lay unconscious, the officers moved in, methodically cuffing them together, ensuring their restraints were tangled and awkward enough to keep even the strongest from moving in unison.
After he bandaged his cuts and taped over where his ear used to be, LaCroix made his way to one of the street-facing windows. He cracked it open and leaned out to check on Jackie down below.
"Don't worry," he called. "We're coming to back you–"
A vehicle came hurtling through the second-story window, shattering glass and brick as Jackie's shout rang out:
"Get back!"