Detective Samuel Vance is called to a grisly crime scene—a mutilated body left inside a church with Latin inscriptions burned into the walls. He begins suspecting a pattern tied to older, unsolved cases.
The rain fell in sheets against the stained-glass windows of St. Augustine Church, distorting the images of saints and martyrs into grotesque smears of color. Detective Samuel Vance stood just outside the heavy oak doors, cigarette in one hand, his other resting on the cold steel of his holstered weapon. The flickering glow of police lights bathed the church's stone facade in pulses of crimson and blue, an eerie juxtaposition against the holiness it once promised to the city of New Orleans.
"Detective," a uniformed officer called from the doorway, his voice muffled under the downpour. "You're gonna wanna see this."
Vance took a final drag of his cigarette, exhaled a plume of smoke into the rain, and flicked the butt into the puddles forming along the cracked cobblestone street. He wiped a hand through his wet, graying hair and stepped inside.
The scent hit him first—blood, incense, and decay. It was thick, cloying, and unmistakable.
The nave stretched before him, dimly lit by flickering candlelight and the harsh glare of crime scene lamps. At the altar, sprawled in a grotesque imitation of devotion, lay the victim. A man, mid-forties, dressed in tattered priest's robes. His chest had been sliced open, ribs splayed wide like grotesque wings, and his heart missing entirely. Latin phrases, seared into the skin around the gaping wound, glowed faintly with the afterburn of whatever instrument had been used to carve them.
"Christ," Vance muttered under his breath, stepping closer.
The forensic tech, a wiry man named Daniels, knelt beside the body, carefully documenting the scene. "We've got a hell of a signature here, Detective. Same inscriptions, same MO as the others."
Vance crouched down, his dark eyes scanning the ritualistic marks with a grim familiarity. It wasn't the first time he'd seen them.
"Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi," he murmured aloud, his finger hovering over the burned letters that stretched across the victim's collarbone. Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world.
Daniels looked up. "You read Latin?"
"Enough to know when someone's trying to play God."
He pulled out his notepad, scribbling down details that gnawed at his gut. The victim's hands were clasped together, bound tightly with rosary beads soaked in blood. His eyes were gone, gouged out with surgical precision, leaving empty sockets staring into the vaulted ceiling.
A shiver crawled up Vance's spine. He glanced around the church, its once-majestic grandeur now tainted by the brutal act committed within its walls.
"What do you make of the inscriptions?" Daniels asked, adjusting the lighting for a better photograph.
Vance sighed. "It's not just scripture. It's a pattern." He stood up, gesturing toward the surrounding architecture. "Two weeks ago, a body was found at St. Michael's. Same mutilations, same burns. And before that, St. Catherine's."
Daniels frowned. "You think it's connected?"
"I don't believe in coincidence, Daniels. Whoever this is—they're working with purpose."
A voice interrupted from behind them. "Then maybe it's time we start listening to what they're preaching."
Vance turned to see Catherine 'Cat' Reyes, a reporter with the local crime beat, standing just inside the doorway, her notebook clutched tightly in her gloved hands.
"Reyes," Vance growled, his patience already thin. "This is an active crime scene."
She smirked, stepping forward. "Come on, Vance. We both know I'm gonna write about it. Might as well let me help you connect the dots."
Vance sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You don't help. You sensationalize."
She ignored him, moving closer to the body. "Latin inscriptions, hearts removed, churches targeted." Her eyes darted to the symbols. "It's not just religious—it's ritualistic."
Vance folded his arms. "You sound pretty sure."
Reyes flipped through her notes. "There's a rumor going around about an underground sect—'The Choir of Sins.' Whispers about them cleaning the city of its filth, one sin at a time." She pointed to the body. "And this? This looks like their work."
Vance exchanged a glance with Daniels. The name was familiar, buried somewhere in the recesses of old case files.
"You got anything solid?" Vance asked.
Reyes tilted her head. "Not yet. But I've got leads."
Vance looked down at the victim again, his stomach churning. If there really was a group behind this, they weren't just killing—they were making a statement.
"Detective," Daniels called, pulling Vance's attention to the altar. "You're gonna want to see this."
There, propped up against the base of the cross, was a blackened piece of parchment. The edges were burnt, the ink smeared, but one phrase stood out clearly:
"The First Trumpet Has Sounded."
Vance swallowed hard. He didn't know what it meant, but the weight of it pressed against his chest like a vice.
Back at the precinct, Vance sat at his desk, staring at the case files spread before him. He traced his fingers over the crime scene photos, each one more disturbing than the last.
The Choir of Sins.
He leaned back, running a hand over his face. The name had come up before, buried in witness statements, old reports. Always dismissed as conspiracy. Religious fanatics were nothing new in New Orleans. But this... this was different.
His phone buzzed, breaking his thoughts. He glanced at the screen—Unknown Number.
Against better judgment, he answered. "Vance."
A low, distorted voice crackled through the speaker. "You cannot stop what has already begun, Detective."
Vance's grip tightened. "Who the hell is this?"
A pause. Then, whispered words, cold and final: "The Hollow Man walks among you."
The line went dead.
Vance sat frozen, the weight of the words settling deep in his bones. He stared at the phone, then at the crucifix hanging crookedly on the wall across from him.
Something old, something evil, was moving in the city. And it wasn't done yet.