The communication wasn't a phone call or a handwritten note; it was a spear of cold, precise data driven into Ethan's skull through the sigil.
He was still in the abandoned brownstone, rationing his stolen human consciousness, when the mark pulsed violently, heating his chest like a stove coil. A flood of information, a sensory overlay that blurred the rotting walls of the building appeared in his mind's eye.
Ɔ Target: Solomon Reed.
Ɔ Status: Escaped Soul—Circle of Gluttony.
ƆCurrent Form: Wealth Manager, Financial District.
ƆKey Sin Trait: Unstoppable Consumption.
Ɔ
The transmission was accompanied by a slick, condescending voice clearly Lucien's: "The soul fled during transport. It hides behind a mask of high-tier Greed, Emissary. Retrieve it, or I retrieve you. This is not a suggestion."
Ethan clenched his fists. The thought of hunting another human or whatever Solomon Reed currently was made his skin crawl, but the memory of the cold, crushing silence of the abyss was a far stronger motivator. He had to prove his worth to the architect of his second life.
He shed the remains of his paramedic uniform in the stairwell, wrapping himself in a salvaged, dusty trench coat draped over a banister. The sigil, now a low, persistent thrum, pulled him toward the city center.
The Financial District was a canyon of polished steel and dark glass, reeking of Greed and ambition. The background noise of Sin Perception here was a low, powerful drone: a thousand echoes of casual corruption.
Ethan focused on the signal. It led him into the atrium of a towering investment bank, a place designed to exude effortless wealth and subtle cruelty. The air was thick with the faint red echoes of everyday avarice. But the target glowed with a different color: a bloated, sickly purple that spoke of Gluttony not just for food, but for experience, for power, for everything.
He found Solomon Reed in a private, glass-walled conference room on the fifth floor. The man looked ordinary: mid-forties, tailored suit, sleek hair. He was aggressively charismatic, selling a lie to a small group of investors.
As Ethan watched from the elevator bank, the Sin Perception shifted, penetrating the mortal shell. Reed wasn't just wealthy; he was consuming his victims. Ethan saw a flash of his victims' fear a literal spiritual feeding, the soul leaching energy from those around him, leaving them drained and hopeless. Gluttony. He was a spiritual vampire.
The reluctant hunter strode into the room.
"Solomon Reed?"
The man didn't look up immediately. "This room is private. Security will escort you out, friend."
"I'm not your friend," Ethan said, his voice level. "And security won't stop what I'm about to do."
A moment of silence stretched. The investors continued to breathe shallowly, oblivious to the metaphysical danger. Reed finally looked up. The mask cracked. His human eyes, which had been warm and reassuring, flickered. Beneath the surface, the true entity stared out: a hunger.
"You smell of the Pit," Reed hissed, his mortal voice dropping an octave, becoming guttural and demanding. "They sent an Emissary? Pitiful. I won't go back."
The moment he spoke, the soul ripped through the mortal disguise. The expensive suit sagged as the flesh within contorted. The man's skin turned to a thick, pale hide, his mouth stretching into a lamprey-like orifice—a manifestation of his unstoppable Consumption. The air in the room grew heavy and cloying, designed to suffocate.
Ethan didn't hesitate. This wasn't a human being anymore; this was a hungry, dangerous entity escaping justice. This was a mission, and a necessity.
He threw his trench coat aside. The sigil roared to life, burning with a furious, glorious red. The ambient sins of the room the petty Greed of the investors were instantly suppressed by the raw, focused power of the Wrath Circle now coursing through Ethan's core.
"You ran from judgment," Ethan snarled, his voice deepened by the Infernal Resonance. "I'm the one bringing it back."
He didn't need to touch anything. He focused the energy, not as a subtle pulse, but as a weapon. Hellfire Dominion.
Twin ribbons of shimmering, white-hot spiritual fire erupted from his palms. They weren't fire that burned wood or fabric; they were truth-fire, aimed solely at the soul.
The fire sliced through the Gluttony-soul's bloated form. The entity shrieked, a sound of agony and disappointment. The flames didn't simply burn; they consumed sin. As the fire ate away at the soul's corrupted essence, the creature shrank, its monstrous form retracting, its stolen energy dissolving.
Ethan pushed the power harder, the fire licking up his arms and wrapping him in a protective, righteous inferno. He felt good. He felt powerful. He felt Wrathful. The world simplified into an executioner's clarity: only the target mattered.
The fire did its work swiftly. The entity was reduced to a shimmering, terrified wisp of purple energy. The sigil on his chest glowed blindingly, acting as a spiritual vacuum cleaner. The soul wisp was violently sucked toward the mark, vanishing beneath his skin with a muffled pop.
The room went silent. The suit lay on the floor, empty fabric. The terrified investors, paralyzed by the intense wave of spiritual distortion, slowly began to regain their wits, looking at the empty space where Reed had stood, and then at the soot-stained man in the center of the room.
The Infernal Resonance had delivered its terrible recompense. He hadn't just used the power; he had absorbed the essence of the Gluttony-soul's sin. He felt the rush of energy a wave of supreme capability, clarity, and dangerous satisfaction. He could feel the Gluttony a profound, quiet hunger for more power now residing alongside his Wrath.
It was addictive. Utterly, fundamentally addictive.
His fingers twitched with the ghost of the flame.
I did it. I hunted, judged, and destroyed a monster.
He had saved lives by taking one. He had brought order to the chaos. And for that, he was rewarded with a dark, exquisite pleasure that settled in the core of his spirit.
Ethan looked at his reflection in the glass wall. The gold rings in his eyes were brighter now, sharper, hungry.
Lucien's voice, a soft, triumphant whisper only he could hear: "See, Emissary? The cost is merely the acceptance of your true nature. Welcome to the hunt."
Ethan felt a deep sense of self-loathing, yet beneath it, the chilling truth: he couldn't wait to use the fire again. The price of his second life was paid in the coin of his own accelerating damnation. He had taken his first step down the path of the Emissary, and the infernal bargain was sealed.