Eyes in the Dark
Scene 1 & 2: The Evidence
POV: Silas (First Person)
Time: Several Weeks Later, Belmont, Detroit
It had been three weeks.
Three weeks of smoke trailing the streets, three weeks of chasing phantoms in wine-colored robes through alleyways and train tunnels. Three weeks of watching people bleed out just to know what the hell I was up against.
Not every vigilante tale is about justice. Sometimes, it's just about evidence.
I sat in my dorm room, shirtless, hunched over my laptop like I was composing a final thesis. The room was quiet, lit only by the cold glow of the monitor. My fingers clicked across the keys, organizing folders labeled with dates, locations, and video files. All tagged. All geotagged. All timestamped.
Homeless shelters. Abandoned warehouses. Drains beneath the 3rd Street underpass. The Grimm Followers moved like a cancer, spreading through the veins of Detroit's forgotten places. I had footage of their sacrifices. The chanting. The bloodletting. The way they arranged their victims with that red chalk star and lit candles around the corpses.
Some of the victims were children. Others were people nobody would ever report missing. I saved who I could. Watched when I couldn't. Regretted all of it.
I reached over to the desk, grabbed the black USB stick, and dragged one last folder into it. The file transfer bar crawled slowly, my reflection flickering on the laptop screen. I looked tired. Gaunt. I hadn't slept much since that night at the abandoned church.
One of three, I thought. Gideon was just the first. Now comes the second.
I had a name.
Templar: Baruch.
No last name. No birth record. No address. Just a trail of broken limbs and scorched chalk circles. Baruch had a bigger squad. Not thirty, not fifty—closer to a hundred. Spread out, working in rotating cells. They'd even hit a juvenile rehab center last week. Killed the guards. Took three kids.
And Baruch was there.
He didn't lead from afar. He got blood on his hands.
The transfer completed. I yanked the USB out just as the door to our dorm creaked open. Amy.
"Yo," she said, stepping in, hair tied up, hoodie half-zipped. "Devon around?"
I snapped the laptop shut. "Nah. Off chasing clouds again. You know how he is."
Her eyes fell to the screen. "What were you looking at? That better not be what I think it is."
"Depends. What do you think it is?"
"You chasing after cultists again?"
"Nah," I said, slipping the USB into my pocket. "Just the usual Detroit madness."
She rolled her eyes and slumped onto the couch. "I swear you and Devon are one bad decision away from ending up in one of those blog articles. You're not sleeping enough, Silas."
"I'm fine," I replied.
"And finals?"
"Done. Crushed."
"Lucky you," she groaned. "I'm still halfway through econ."
"Maybe stop binging food videos till 3AM," I offered.
She threw a pillow at me.
I caught it, finally allowing a smile to crack through.
But inside, the weight of what I had to do still pressed down like a cement block.
Scene 3: The Gathering of Fire
POV: Third Person
Time: Late Evening
The warehouse sat like a concrete tumor near the edge of the Greystone industrial zone—massive, rust-covered, and forgotten. Except tonight, it pulsed with life.
From his perch high above on a defunct water tower, Silas—cloaked in shadows—watched the red-robed procession slither into the warehouse like a hive of ants returning home. His visor picked up the heat signatures. Seventy-five. Maybe more.
He muttered under his breath, "How many damn freaks does one cult need?"
Two guards lingered outside, their maroon robes draped loosely over Kevlar-lined vests. Both clutched compact rifles, eyes scanning the night with empty purpose.
Inside, through a crack in the window, Silas could see more followers—hooded, faces hidden, murmuring strange prayers. Then came the man himself.
Baruch.
A mountain of a man with skin as pale as sanded bone, draped in ceremonial robes that couldn't hide the thick cords of muscle beneath. His shaved head glistened under the flickering warehouse lights, and every step he took rang with authority.
He raised a gloved fist, and silence followed.
"Father Grimm has spoken," Baruch announced, voice booming. "No longer will we serve piecemeal sacrifices. No more small acts of devotion. Our offerings will now be gathered in masses. We will not hide in shadows. We will own them."
A ripple of excitement passed through the room.
"Our God is blind—but He sees more than any of us. And through blood, we will be seen!"
The crowd raised their fists. "By blood, we will be seen!"
Silas narrowed his eyes behind the mask.
"Okay... that's enough cult energy for one night."
He vaulted from the tower, landing soundlessly behind one of the guards. A whisper of shadow formed in his palm—two crescent-shaped blades. He struck hard, slicing through the rifle's barrel, then delivered a swift elbow to the man's throat, rendering him unconscious.
The second guard turned, startled.
Too slow.
A shadow-chain lashed out, coiling around the man's leg and yanking him off his feet. Before he could scream, Silas was already gone—melted into the warehouse's darkness.
Scene 4: The Cull Begins
POV: Third Person
Time: Same Night
Baruch's sermon was still ringing when the chaos erupted.
A body smashed into the center aisle—one of the outside guards, bloodied and broken. Shouts followed. Panic. Movement.
And then the ceiling exploded.
Silas descended from the rafters, a demon of black smoke and glinting steel, landing on a support beam before launching into the crowd.
He struck with precision—knuckle-busters formed from living shadow crashed into the jaw of one cultist, sending teeth flying. Another lunged with a dagger. Silas twisted, caught the man's arm mid-swing, and shattered it with a downward elbow. A spinning shadow axe followed, cleaving the handle of the weapon and planting deep into a leg.
He ducked behind crates as bullets cracked the air. Someone had a gun. Rookie mistake.
Silas formed a shadow shield to block the incoming rounds, then hurled it like a discus, catching the shooter in the chest. The man hit the concrete hard, coughing blood.
Around him, chaos reigned.
Dozens screamed. Some fled. Others charged like zealots, driven by madness. But Silas was already a storm among them—his dual shadow blades slicing and parrying, cutting arms, legs, and slicing through their crude weapons.
Baruch bellowed, "Stand your ground! The fool is alone!"
"You sure about that?" Silas snapped, hurling a chain-wrapped shadow spear at him.
Baruch caught it mid-air—and snapped it.
The Templar charged.
Fists swung like wrecking balls. Silas ducked under one punch, delivered a rising knee into Baruch's side, and followed it with a shadow-formed dagger into his ribs. But Baruch didn't flinch. He grabbed Silas by the neck and slammed him into a crate.
Pain bloomed through Silas's body.
He blinked. Baruch raised a spiked mace—one forged from twisted ritual metal.
"Die for the blind one."
"No thanks."
With one final push, Silas vanished—slipping into the ground itself as mist.
He reappeared behind Baruch, conjured two short shadow-swords, and drove both into the Templar's back. Baruch roared, spun around, grabbing one blade and yanking it free.
They clashed again—brutal fists versus precision blades.
Eventually, Baruch staggered. Then fell. Not dead. But unconscious.
Silas stood over him, breathing hard.
"Guess you're seen now."
Scene 5: Cleanup
POV: First Person (Silas)
Time: Night
I crouched on the edge of a rusted shelf, watching the smoke settle.
Cultists lay scattered across the floor—groaning, broken, bleeding. Not dead. But out of the game.
Baruch was unconscious beneath me. I'd hit him harder than I thought. My ribs ached. Blood dripped from a cut on my brow. One of them had managed to stab me—shallow, but deep enough to piss me off.
I took a breath. Then another.
Pulled out the burner phone.
I dialed.
"Whitlock."
"I just dropped you another Templar," I said. "Baruch. Big one. Warehouse on 10th and Hemlock. Seventy-plus followers. Most of them still breathing. Evidence everywhere."
A pause.
"You're kidding."
"I'm not."
"You're calling me on a burner phone."
"Would you rather I sent a raven?"
Silence.
Then: "We're on our way."
I nodded to myself and ended the call.
Then I dialed 911.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"Ritualistic killings. 10th and Hemlock. Send officers. Lots of them."
I let the phone fall, crushed it under my boot, and vanished into the shadows—already gone before the first siren could wail.