The night pressed heavy over the motel's cracked pavement. Inside, the ticking pulse of conflict still lingered—faint, like a bruise beneath the air. Outside the room, Samar paused only long enough to nod once at Koushik before disappearing into the darkness.
Vaibhav lingered, tugging dust and sweat from his jacket.
"I gotta head out too," he quipped, fluffing his hair. "Left something… spiritually vital back at the truck."
Kovida's raised eyebrow didn't miss a beat.
"Weapon?" she prompted.
Vaibhav revealed a small scroll—digital, emblazoned with lurid artwork: Succubus Nurses in Need – Vol. 99, twin sisters, forbidden in nine Orders.
"Mass distraction," he grinned. "Collector's edition, y'know?"
Kovida's hand found a throwing knife. It whistled past Vaibhav's ear by the slightest margin.
"Get out," she growled.
Vaibhav winked. "Love to—," then ducked around the corner. "If someone creased a page… I swear, unholy vengeance!"
Inside, only Koushik, Kovida—and something subtle under the floor—remained.
The hush inside the room shifted, like a held breath. Koushik sat on the edge of the bed, holstered weapons resting against denim. A fresh cigarette glowed in his fingers. Kovida stood underneath the window, arms crossed.
A hesitant rap came at the door.
"Seriously?" Koushik muttered.
The door opened to reveal two figures: Shaan, coat stained from earlier bloodshed yet composed; and Emmalhead, whose arrogance was loud enough to fill the room.
"Executioner Koushik," Emmalhead declared, stepping in with a clipboard. "We're from Tactical—to formally interrogate you about Sector 4M."
Koushik's cigarette burned into ash. "Formal? Looks like my bedroom."
He stood, boots clicking on the cracked tile. "You walk in after I killed three demons, hung over, and your first word is 'formal'?"
Shaan watched with vigilance, sensing the tension. Emmalhead jabbed his finger. "We'll ask—we expect answers."
Koushik's smirk went cold. He moved a hand toward his Khanda's hilt. "Movie night, huh? I'll write your answers in your bones."
Kovida stepped between them. "Enough. He's rank 4, you're 5—just leave."
But the walls shook. The ceiling light buzzed. Dust rattled. A long, low pulse throbbed through the boards.
"They're here," Shaan whispered.
At first, it smelled like grief—old, bitter, and unshakable. The corners buckled. Metal warped. And with a twitch and shriek, Vetala demons poured in: six or more, crawling, flickering with fragmented memories.
They were horrifying—faces of regret, bodies twisting backward, mouths agape on silent screams.
Kovida sprang back, blades drawn, meeting the first head-on. One Vetala shrieked inwardly with shared trauma; her blade froze it.
Shaan used his Yatra vision to dodge a second that carried a reflection of his dead sister; he countered with cleaving precision.
Emmalhead stumbled, pale. He triggered his pistol but froze—his target bore a mother's face replaced by his father's face screaming at him. He staggered back, vision blurred.
Koushik moved like wind incarnate. His Khanda sang through flesh, cleaving one Vetala in half. Blood and psychic echoes sprayed walls. He paused, motionless, catching his breath while eyes never left the rest.
A deep hum filled the hallway. The Vetalas ceased their creeping.
That's when she stepped in.
The motel door framed her silhouette: high heels, bare legs iced with glowing sigils, skin like silk woven from blood. Her eyes—mirrored halves cracked by purpose. Lips red, confident, predatory.
"Hello, boys," she purred.
Time halted.
Blades paused. Hearts stilled. The air bent around her presence.
She advanced, voice low velvet. "I'm not here to kill you, darling—I'm here to collect."
Kovida stiffened. Shaan's hand tightened. Even Emmalhead staggered on weak knees.
She explained: devil‑girl demons don't conquer—they collect. Born from human hatred, fueled by written names. When the hater dies, they join her ranks.
A flash memory flickered—a lonely girl scrawling Koushik again and again, tears soaking the pages.
"Someone hated you enough to damn their own soul," Kovida murmured.
The girl's lips curved. "So, Executioner… ready to honor the deal?"
Her sigils flared.
She stopped smiling. The sigils erupted like infernal warnings.
Boom.
The ceiling collapsed inward. Floors fractured. A column of black flame burst through.
It wasn't rage—it was emotion incarnate. Vetalas launched, psychic weapons screaming in minds.
Kovida forced herself upright, willed power outward—pressed truth into the Vietala who crumpled, but came back revived by its own memory. She screamed.
Shaan blinked tears of futures, then retreated into shadow.
Emmalhead collapsed under a Vetala's nostalgic attack—visions of his childhood surgeon-mother, then his drunken father.
Koushik advanced, boots hammering, Khanda ablaze and precise. He leapt at the Devil Girl—blade inches from her throat.
She barely moved—not even a flinch.
"You're not ready for what they made you…" she whispered near the cold steel.
Kovida's breath caught.
From somewhere offscreen—quiet, mournful, familiar—a voice: "You're interfering, sister."
Her eyes flickered in alarm.
"No… not you…"
And the room erupted into darkness and echoing screech.