Later in the evening, the Brooklyn Brew café hummed with a quiet energy, a safe haven tucked away above the streets of the city. The upstairs room was spacious, far removed from the noise below, and filled with the lingering scent of coffee and old books. The mismatched furniture, cozy but functional, served as their hideout. The team gathered around a large wooden table in the center of the room, their eyes weary but focused, the weight of the investigation pressing down on them.
Alastor leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping on the edge of the table as he surveyed the group. Jack and Rachel sat opposite him, their gazes sharp, while Mr. Thompson stood by the window, scanning the street below. Emily sat quietly at the edge, her hands folded around her coffee cup, a familiar tension in her posture. Derek, seated next to her, had an air of quiet curiosity about him, though there was something unsettling about the way he seemed to observe everything with more than just interest.
After a long stretch of silence, Emily spoke, her voice steady but laced with an undercurrent of unease. "I received an anonymous message last night," she said, glancing at the group. "Someone claims to have seen something—something tied to the cult. They said they've witnessed... rituals, things they can't explain."
Alastor straightened. His body was still deceptively youthful, but as the conversation unfolded, he felt the familiar weariness creeping through his limbs. He leaned forward, forcing himself to stay sharp. Thousands of years had taught him that nothing—nothing—was ever just as it seemed. But he wasn't what he once was. The instinct to move, to act without thinking, was still there, but it came with a cost. He wasn't as quick, not as invincible as he'd been in the past. He could feel his heart thud a bit more sluggishly than it should.
"What kind of things?" he asked, trying to push the thought aside.
Emily hesitated, her eyes flickering as she recalled the message. "Symbols, gatherings, people disappearing. They say it's bigger than we thought—more dangerous."
Rachel frowned. "Did they say where? Can we trust this person?"
"That's the thing," Emily replied, her voice dipping. "They didn't leave any contact information. Just a location, a time, and a warning: You're closer than you think."
The tension in the room thickened. The message felt off, like bait thrown into a sea of uncertainty.
Mr. Thompson muttered under his breath, his eyes narrowing as he turned away from the window. "I don't like it. Sounds like a setup."
Alastor shared the same thought, but there was something gnawing at him, urging him to go forward. "We can't ignore it," he said, pushing through the sluggish sensation in his chest. "We'll need to move carefully. Everyone, be alert. This could be the break we've been waiting for."
The group arrived at the location a few hours later, an abandoned building on the edge of town. Its windows were boarded up, the façade decaying from years of neglect. A perfect place for a clandestine meeting—or an ambush. The atmosphere felt heavy, a sense of wrongness in the air as they moved through the dimly lit halls.
Emily led the way, Derek sticking close by her side. The others followed, Jack's eyes scanning every corner, Rachel's hands ready at her sides, and Mr. Thompson a step behind, watching their backs. Alastor felt the weight of the moment, every step measured, as if the walls themselves were closing in on them.
They reached a small room at the back of the building, the air stagnant and thick with dust. Emily stepped forward, her eyes darting around the room, and then she stopped, her expression faltering. "This... this isn't right," she muttered.
Before anyone could respond, the door slammed shut behind them with a resounding crash. Alastor whipped around, his heart pounding, his instincts screaming that something was wrong.
A figure stepped from the shadows, but as they moved closer, Alastor's eyes widened. It was a man—ragged, disheveled—but there was something off about him. His eyes darted wildly, as though he were a puppet on strings, his movements jerky and unnatural.
"Who are you?" Alastor demanded, stepping forward. The others tensed.
The man stuttered, his voice a ragged whisper. "I saw it... I saw them... they're coming for you... you have to..."
But before he could finish, the sound of footsteps echoed from the hallway outside. Heavy, purposeful.
"Trap," Mr. Thompson growled. He grabbed Rachel's arm, pulling her toward the door, but it was too late. The hallway was already filled with shadows, figures moving in their direction.
"Get down!" Alastor shouted.
Gunshots rang out, splintering the air. The group scattered, diving behind anything they could find. The room erupted into chaos as figures in dark clothing swarmed in. They were everywhere—too many to count, all armed and moving with the cold precision of trained killers.
Rachel's hand flew to her holster, her gun already out and aimed, but the sheer number of assailants was overwhelming. Before she could get off a shot, a figure lunged at her, forcing her to sidestep, her gun-arm faltering. She was outmatched.
Alastor's heart raced as he crouched behind an overturned table. He glanced at Emily, her face pale, her hand gripping Derek's as they huddled together.
"We need to get out of here," Alastor said through gritted teeth. "Now."
Jack and Mr. Thompson moved quickly, covering the group's escape route as they ducked and weaved through the gunfire. The sound of pounding feet, the shouts of masked assailants, filled the air. They barely made it out through a side door, running through the alleyways, their breaths ragged with fear and adrenaline.
As they ran, a single bullet whizzed through the air, headed straight for Rachel. In the split second before anyone could react, Alastor's eyes flashed with an unnatural intensity. His body blurred, a streak of motion almost imperceptible to the human eye, as he moved with an impossible speed.
The air seemed to freeze around him. Time slowed, his every step deliberate but rushed, the ground beneath him not a challenge but a blur of forgotten distances. His age, the weight of it all, seemed distant as the thrill of the chase surged through him. Still, he could feel it—his body wasn't as it once had been. The years, the centuries, they were creeping up on him in ways he couldn't outrun. The sharpness he once had was dulled now, his movements just slightly off, his body showing its age despite the youthful appearance. But even now, he was fast enough.
He gripped the bullet with his fingers, its sharp edge still hot from the gunpowder. He barely registered the motion as his hand moved with precision, a fluid blur that defied human understanding. The moment the bullet fell into his palm, it was already over. The world resumed its speed around him, and he dropped the bullet to the ground, the act so subtle that none of the others even noticed.
Rachel didn't even realize how close she had come to death. The others had barely noticed anything out of the ordinary. Alastor, a man from another world—Levanzo—didn't need to show off his abilities. The secrecy was everything, even as his body groaned under the weight of thousands of years of history.
The group dashed into the street, and Alastor slowed to a normal pace, his superhuman speed concealed in the blur of their frantic escape. They made it to safety, breathing heavily, but unaware of how narrowly they had avoided tragedy.
The building was now surrounded. The cult knew they were onto something. The game had changed.
Later that night, as they regrouped in the safety of the Brooklyn Brew Café, the gravity of what had happened settled over them.
"That was no coincidence," Alastor said, his voice low, his fingers clenched tightly around his coffee mug. The mug was warm, but his grip was cold. "They knew we were coming. They knew we were onto them."
Jack was the first to speak up. "So, the witness? A setup?"
Emily nodded grimly. "I don't think they were ever a witness. I think they were meant to draw us in."
Rachel's eyes narrowed. "But why now? Why try to scare us off when we're getting so close?"
"Because they know we're getting close," Mr. Thompson said. "And they don't like it."
Derek, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, shifted in his seat. "We've all seen what they're capable of. But... there's something I haven't told you."
Everyone turned to him, suspicion rising in their gazes.
"I'm not just here because I want to help," Derek continued, his voice steady but his eyes guarded. "I've been following them for years. And I think... I think they might have had their eyes on me long before I met any of you."
Alastor's stomach twisted. "What are you talking about?"
Derek exhaled slowly, the weight of his confession hanging in the air. "They've been using me. I've been... involved in their plans, whether I knew it or not."
Emily's face was a mask of disbelief, and for a moment, Alastor's heart sank. Could they trust him?
The tension in the room was palpable. The investigation had just gotten a whole lot more complicated.
Alastor was barely able to process the weight of Derek's confession when his phone buzzed on the table, breaking the silence. He glanced at the screen, his breath catching in his throat.
It was a message.
A video.
He clicked it open, his fingers trembling as the footage loaded. The first thing he saw was a darkened room. Figures were gathered around a table, their faces hidden. A symbol flashed briefly on the screen, one he recognized all too well.
The camera panned, and then—
A figure appeared, someone he hadn't seen in years. Someone who had vanished long ago.
His heart stopped.
The message that followed was short, chilling: They're coming for your family. You'll be next.
Alastor's blood ran cold.
The game had just gotten deadlier. And now, someone close to him was in the cult's sights.
The clock was ticking.