New Orleans, 11:47 PM
The streets of the French Quarter blurred past in streaks of neon and rain as Vance gripped the wheel, weaving through the late-night traffic. Cat sat in the passenger seat, her eyes fixed on her phone, scrolling through Elena Sharpe's blog posts with a growing sense of urgency.
"She hasn't posted in the last 24 hours," Cat muttered, chewing on her lip. "Last entry said she was getting too close. She was afraid someone was watching her."
Vance exhaled through his nose, tapping his fingers against the wheel. "She's not wrong." He could feel it too, that ever-present watching, the feeling that had been crawling up his spine since stepping into St. Augustine Church earlier.
"The second trumpet is near."
Those words from the letter echoed in his mind, gnawing at him like a splinter beneath the skin.
"Her place is just up ahead."
They pulled up in front of a narrow, dilapidated townhouse tucked between two crumbling buildings, its windows dark except for a faint glow behind the curtains on the second floor.
Vance killed the engine and turned to Cat. "Stay close. If something feels off, you run."
She smirked, though there was little humor behind it. "Detective, I'm not exactly the running type."
Vance didn't argue. He stepped out into the rain, hand instinctively brushing against his holstered gun as they approached the front door. A brass nameplate tarnished with age read: E. Sharpe. The door was slightly ajar.
Cat shot him a wary glance. "That's not good."
Vance pushed it open carefully, the creak of old hinges filling the silence. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of damp paper, dust, and something sharper—coppery, metallic. Blood.
"Jesus," Cat whispered behind him.
The living room was a mess. Papers were scattered across the floor, some torn, others stained. The walls were covered with newspaper clippings, most yellowed with age, pinned alongside handwritten notes and photographs. Candles, long since burned down to wax puddles, were clustered in corners. But it was the symbols scrawled in red ink across the walls that stopped Vance cold.
Latin phrases, the same that had been burned into the victims. Some of them he recognized immediately. Others felt… personal.
Cat moved cautiously to the wall, running a hand over one of the larger inscriptions. "It's the same script from the church crime scene."
Vance studied the markings, his gut churning. Near the center of the collage was a symbol, larger than the others—a circle bisected by a vertical line, with three smaller crosses etched beneath it. It felt... familiar. Uncomfortably so.
"I know this," he muttered, reaching out to trace the pattern with his fingers.
"Know it?" Cat asked. "What do you mean?"
Vance's throat tightened. He'd seen this mark before—years ago, buried in the cold case files of a murder spree that had haunted him for over a decade. He could still see the file in his mind: a young girl found in an alley behind St. Michael's Church, this exact symbol carved into her chest.
He tore his gaze away, swallowing hard. "It's from an old case."
Cat's eyes widened. "Wait, you think this is connected to one of your old cases?"
Vance nodded slowly, his fingers brushing against the faded ink. "It's more than just scripture. This… it's a warning."
A creak from upstairs froze them both in place.
Cat tensed. "She's still here."
Vance motioned for her to stay behind him and drew his gun, moving carefully toward the staircase. Each step groaned under his weight, the air thick with dread. The dim light seeping from under the door at the top of the stairs pulsed like a heartbeat.
He reached the door and pressed his ear to it. Silence. Then, a whisper.
"Agnus Dei... qui tollis peccata mundi..."
The phrase sent a chill down his spine. He gritted his teeth and pushed the door open.
Elena Sharpe was inside.
She sat in the middle of the floor, surrounded by open books and scattered photographs, her wide, terrified eyes locked onto him. Her face was gaunt, dark circles under her eyes, and her hands trembled as she clutched a rosary so tightly her knuckles were white.
Vance lowered his gun but didn't holster it. "Elena?"
She looked at him as if through a fog, her lips quivering. "They're coming," she whispered. "They're already here."
Cat stepped in behind Vance. "Elena, it's okay. We're here to help."
Elena shook her head violently. "No. No, you don't understand. I was too loud. I dug too deep. They... they can see me now."
Vance kneeled beside her. "Who? The Choir?"
Elena's breath hitched. "No. The Choir is just their voice." Her hands trembled as she pointed toward the wall, where dozens of photographs were pinned—each showing bodies from various crime scenes. Some were recent. Others… others went back decades.
And in every single one of them, the same symbol was present. Hidden in plain sight. Carved into skin. Painted in blood. Scrawled onto the walls of alleyways.
"It's everywhere," she whispered. "They've been here for so long."
Vance felt the weight of it settle deep in his gut. This wasn't just a new threat—it was something that had been festering beneath the surface of the city for years.
Suddenly, Elena grabbed his wrist, her grip surprisingly strong. "They're watching me. They told me... they said the second trumpet would sound soon."
Vance's blood ran cold.
He turned to Cat. "We need to get her out of here."
Cat nodded, already reaching for her phone to call for backup.
But before she could dial, a loud crash echoed from downstairs.
Vance's instincts kicked in instantly. He grabbed Elena, pulling her to her feet, shoving Cat behind him as he moved toward the doorway.
A shadow moved at the bottom of the stairs—tall, hooded, and wrong. It didn't move like a person. It flowed.
Vance raised his gun. "Get back!"
The figure didn't stop. It whispered. Low and insidious, the sound slithered up the stairwell and into his bones.
"The second trumpet has sounded."
Vance fired. The gunshot roared through the house, but the shadow barely flinched. It lunged forward, faster than it should have been, and Vance barely had time to react. He grabbed Elena and Cat, pushing them into the adjacent room, slamming the door shut behind them.
"Back door?" Cat asked, her voice trembling but sharp.
Elena pointed. "Kitchen."
Vance led them through the cluttered apartment, his pulse hammering as the sound of heavy footsteps followed them. As they reached the back door, he yanked it open, the rain pouring in from the alley outside.
"Go!"
Cat pulled Elena through, and Vance followed, slamming the door behind him.
But as they stumbled into the alley, Vance turned back and saw it—just for a second—through the rain-smeared window. The hooded figure stood inside the darkened apartment, staring out at him with eyes that burned like dying coals.
It raised one hand, and Vance saw it.
The familiar mark—burned into its palm.
It knew him.
And it was just getting started.