: Cut the Head
POV: First Person (Silas)
Setting: Belmont, Detroit — Night
It was half past two in the morning, and Detroit was asleep in the way a lion sleeps—low and dangerous, with blood on its breath. I'd been out for almost two hours, rooftops underfoot and the city crawling under me. No signs. No sounds. Just wind.
Then the signal came.
A faint ping on the scanner in my earpiece, a shortwave frequency that kept skipping in and out like it wasn't meant to be caught. The tone was weak—barely a whisper—but definitely police-encoded.
Someone was trying to call for help.
I tracked the signal down to an old warehouse off Stanton and 14th—one of those half-forgotten concrete tombs' leftover from better days. The place looked abandoned from the outside, but there was movement. Dim light leaked through the cracks. A truck sat idling near the loading dock, its cargo doors yawning open. Four cultists—robes flapping around military boots—were stacking crates inside.
But it wasn't the movers that had my attention.
It was the shouting from inside.
I crept across the rooftop, dropped into a ventilation duct, and followed the echo of voices. Below me, in the cavernous guts of the warehouse, a circle of red-robed cultists had gathered around a man strapped to a metal chair. His face was a mess—swollen shut on one side, nose clearly broken, lip split wide open. One of his eyes was swollen completely shut. Blood ran down his shirt and pooled at his boots, right next to a shattered communicator.
He was one of theirs… or at least he had been.
"You're wasting our time," growled a deep voice from the shadows. One of them stepped forward—taller, broader, and built like a fighter. His robe was sleeveless, arms covered in ritual scars and old combat tattoos. The others called him Thorne.
Thorne was the elite.
He grabbed a fistful of the man's hair and yanked his head back. "You've been feeding info to the cops. We know. You slipped once."
The man—barely conscious—spat blood into Thorne's face.
Thorne wiped it off, calm as ever, and gave a nod to one of the others. The robed man pulled out a pair of rusted pliers and crouched.
"You should've stayed loyal, brother," Thorne said flatly. "You knew what we were. You chose this."
The pliers clamped down on the cop's finger.
A crack echoed through the warehouse as bone snapped.
He didn't scream.
He just trembled—shoulders shaking, sweat mixing with blood.
They took another finger.
Still nothing.
"Strong," said one of the cultists. "He's well-trained."
Thorne chuckled darkly. "They always are. But bones break. Minds bend."
They beat him next. One by one, taking turns. Gut shots. Elbow strikes. Backhands with rings. Still, the man didn't give them anything.
Until Thorne grabbed a blade.
A hooked ritual knife—crimson-stained, the kind meant for bleeding sacrifices slowly.
He pressed it to the man's cheek. "Last chance. Who were you talking to? Was it the vigilante?"
The man wheezed. "Go… to hell."
Thorne pulled the knife back… then drove it slowly into the man's thigh.
That made him scream.
Long. Broken. And real.
I clenched my fists in the shadows above. I could smell the blood from here. It mixed with the incense they were burning—clove, sage, and something coppery.
The cultist with the pliers moved to the other leg.
Thorne gave the nod.
They were about to take his kneecaps.
"I've had enough," Thorne finally said. "Kill him. Dump his body somewhere it won't get found."
That's when I dropped.
I landed hard behind them. No warning. Just impact.
One spun around—too slow.
A shadow chain lashed out and wrapped around his throat, yanking him backward before he could scream. He hit the ceiling beam with a sickening crunch and crumpled.
They turned in panic.
I surged forward.
The next one caught a kick to the chest that sent him sprawling. Another drew a knife—I smashed his wrist with a baton formed from condensed smoke and bone. He howled as the weapon fell, and I cracked him again across the temple.
The warehouse erupted into chaos.
Two of them ran. I let them. The rest weren't so lucky.
A red-robed man lunged from behind with a crowbar. I ducked, pivoted, and drove a shadow-forged dagger through his calf. He dropped instantly. Another reached for his pistol. I formed a shield, deflected the shot, and blasted him with a shadow spear through the shoulder. It pinned him to a crate like a trophy.
By the time Thorne stepped forward, it was just us.
He growled and swung wide with that axe.
I blocked it with my forearms—hard, painful—and retaliated with a short blade to the ribs. It barely pierced his armor.
"Come on!" he barked, voice rising.
He charged again.
We clashed—brute strength versus cold calculation.
I ducked under one swing, drove my shoulder into his chest, then slammed him with a knee to the gut. He coughed, staggered, but still didn't go down.
So I dropped low, swept his legs, then grabbed his own axe off the ground.
I brought it down on his skull before he could get back up.
Hard.
Metal met bone. And stayed there.
I stood, chest rising and falling, surrounded by blood and ruin.
Nine in total. All down.
I moved to the man in the chair—he was breathing, barely.
"You with the cops?" I asked.
He blinked. "Yeah… Vice. Two years. Deep cover."
"Then start talking. What were they moving?"
"Grimm's preparing something big," he rasped. "He's pissed. He thinks the council's abandoned him. Wants to take out Sentinel—you—and then the council. All of them."
"Why?"
"Because they doubted him. Because he wants to prove the Blind God still favors him."
He coughed again—badly. Blood splattered down his chest. "He's calling everyone. All his zealots. They're gathering. One final offering."
"You got proof?"
He fished a small device from his boot. Bloodied but intact.
"Voice logs. Conversations. Orders. From Thorne. And… one of the Templars. The woman. Silica."
Then he passed out.
I dialed Whitlock.
"Warehouse off Stanton and 14th," I told her. "I've got one of yours. Bad shape. Bring medics. Bring backup."
I didn't wait for her questions.
Next, I looked around. Bags of money stacked near the wall. Marked for transport.
I took two.
I had tuition. Rent. A life to balance with this war.
And this city? It owed me.
The shadows swallowed me as I slipped away—leaving only bodies and sirens behind.