"Hey, Agad the Imperishable!" From further down the tunnel across a thin carpet of dead and dying mercenaries, Jordan is waving to you. You think she's trying to tell you something, but you can't quite make it out. Your ears are ringing after several minutes of sustained exposure to gunfire in a tightly enclosed environment—if you were mortal, you might have been worried about permanent hearing loss.
You trudge toward her, watching for an attack that never comes. Is it all over? So quickly? It takes a moment to focus on the larger picture—the Tremere who resisted the Hunt have met final death. You can count at least five of them, bodies standing apart from those of the mortals by their advanced state of decay. None of the mercenaries left in the room are alive.
You step over a familiar-looking body and kneel down to check the face. It's LaFlamme, the mercenary you'd spoken to before the fighting started. You suppose he was right after all—he didn't make it out alive. Odd. His left hand is stuffed into a pouch strapped to his belt. The fingers have gone limp, but they're holding a crumpled piece of paper. On a whim, you kneel down and pick it up to examine it. It's a photo of a teenager—a girl maybe seventeen years old with short hair and an impish smile. LaFlamme said that Qui had saved her from the Sabbat vampires, but you swear you've seen that face somewhere before and she certainly didn't number among the mercenaries. You flip the picture over. On the back, the message is written in permanent marker: "I miss you, Dad. —Heather."
Jordan stands alone atop the platform where the Warlock leader had stood. "Two of them ran away," she shouts. "Qui and Lucca went after them. Bouchard's wounded. Had to retreat with one of his underlings." She waves you on. "Come on, we have to catch up!"