The night reeked of smoke.
Sergeant Daniel Reyes pressed his shoulder into the doorframe, breath fogging as he steadied the pistol in both hands. The wood creaked beneath his weight, the dark hallway before him trembling under the distant rumble of fire outside. Somewhere deeper in the house came a ragged scream, choked, torn, and then the guttural snarl that made his blood run cold.
"Moon above…" Reyes whispered under his breath. He shifted his grip, stepped forward.
The living room was a wreck. The sofa was shredded, curtains torn loose from the rods, and blood slicked across the tiles in swathes. The acrid scent of gunpowder mixed with iron hit him in a wave. In the far corner, a hulking, gray-skinned dhampyr hunched over what remained of the father. The creature's long fingers clutched the man's torso, nails digging into the ribs like it was trying to peel them open.
Reyes didn't think. He fired.
The first shot cracked through the quiet, slamming into the dhampyr's chest. The beast hissed, head jerking up, lips curled back to reveal teeth that gleamed wet. It leapt at him in a blur. Reyes fired again, again, the recoil hammering his wrists. One shot grazed its cheek, another pierced its thigh. The fourth and fifth struck center mass.
The sixth exploded through its skull.
The dhampyr crumpled mid-lunge, momentum carrying it against Reyes and knocking him back a step. He shoved the carcass aside, chest heaving, ears ringing from the closeness of the shots.
Then silence.
He looked down. The father's eyes were wide and glassy, unblinking. Dead long before Reyes had made it through the door. A groan from the other side of the room snapped his attention around.
The mother was sprawled against the wall, half her blouse soaked in crimson. She clutched her stomach, breath shallow, eyes fluttering open just enough to focus on him.
"Officer…" Her voice rasped like paper tearing. Blood bubbled at her lips. "Save her…"
Reyes's throat tightened. "Ma'am, hold on. We'll get you—"
But she shook her head weakly, a faint smile trembling on her lips. Her hand lifted, not toward him, but toward the far corner of the room. Then it fell limp. Her chest stilled.
Reyes swallowed hard. The weight of the house pressed in on him all at once, the walls, the stench, the stillness. He holstered his weapon and turned toward where she'd gestured.
The girl couldn't have been older than seven.
She was curled into the corner, knees pressed to her chest, face streaked with tears and soot. Every breath came in short, shallow gasps that hitched in her throat. Her tiny fingers dug so tightly into her pajama sleeve they'd turned white.
Reyes crouched low, his voice gentler now, almost breaking. "Hey… hey, sweetheart. It's okay. It's over."
Her wide eyes flicked from him to the bodies, to the blood pooling at her feet.
"No, no—don't look." He moved quickly, placing himself between her and the sight, his body shielding hers from the worst of it. He held out a hand, palm steady despite the tremor in his chest. "Come with me. I'll get you out. I promise."
The girl whimpered but didn't move. He took a slow breath, forcing calm into his tone. "What's your name?"
Her lips trembled. "…Lila."
"Lila," Reyes repeated softly. "That's a beautiful name. My daughter—" He stopped, blinked. His throat tightened. "My daughter's about your age. You're gonna be safe, okay? With me."
Very slowly, she reached out. Her fingers brushed his glove, then clung. He slipped his arm around her and lifted her gently, careful to cover her eyes with his hand as he turned toward the door.
"Don't look back," he whispered, more to himself than her.
The night outside greeted them with chaos. Fires raged across rooftops. Car alarms wailed in broken rhythm. People screamed somewhere down the street, shrill, panicked, cut short by snarls that made his skin crawl. Dhampyrs scuttled along walls and across rooftops like diseased shadows.
Reyes tightened his grip on the girl, sprinting to the squad car parked at the curb. He set her in the backseat quickly, strapping her belt. "Stay down, Lila. Whatever you do, keep your head low."
Her eyes brimmed with tears. "What about Mommy?"
His heart twisted. He forced the lie through his teeth. "…We'll come back for her."
She nodded shakily, and he shut the door before she could see the blood drying on his sleeves.
Reyes slid into the driver's seat, hands trembling as he started the engine. The siren wailed to life, echoing across the burning street. He jerked the wheel, tires squealing as the cruiser shot forward. Debris littered the asphalt, bricks, glass, a half-crushed bicycle, and he swerved through it with white-knuckled focus.
"God… goddammit." His eyes darted between the road and the mirrors. Every block was a nightmare: overturned cars, dhampyr carcasses steaming in the firelight, shadows darting just beyond the headlights. "I can't be everywhere. I can't save them all."
The wheel rattled in his grip as he pushed the engine harder. Sweat dripped into his eyes. His pulse hammered. His whole chest ached with the futility of it, the city burning, families screaming, and him, just one man in one car.
"Hold on, kid," he muttered, glancing back at the small figure clutching the seatbelt. "Just hold on."
The impact came out of nowhere.
Something massive slammed into the side of the cruiser. Metal screamed as the vehicle flipped, glass shattering into a rain of knives. Reyes's head snapped against the steering wheel, the world cartwheeling into darkness.
When he came to, the car was upside down. Smoke hissed from the hood. His ears rang with the high-pitched wail of twisted metal cooling.
And then he heard it, the girl's shrill cry from the back seat.
"Lila!"
He clawed at the belt, half-crawled out the broken window, glass tearing at his arms. His vision swam. He staggered to the back, fingers scrabbling for the door handle when it was ripped away.
A dhampyr loomed over him, skeletal frame stretching tall, black eyes glinting in the firelight. It grinned, jagged teeth slick with spit, and hurled him to the pavement.
Reyes gasped, the air punched from his lungs. The creature pinned him, hot breath reeking of rot. Its claws raised for the killing strike.
Then its head erupted.
The explosion splattered Reyes in black ichor. Warm, stinking fluid dripped down his face and soaked into his collar. The corpse collapsed beside him, twitching once before going still.
Blinking through the mess, Reyes turned toward the source.
Two armored vehicles rumbled into view from the smoke. Sleek, matte black plating glinted under the firelight, silver letters stenciled bold across the side: FSS.
Doors slammed open. A squad of soldiers in dark combat armor poured out, their weapons trained and disciplined. They moved with precision, clearing the street with controlled bursts of gunfire.
One of them approached quickly, kneeling by Reyes. "Officer, are you hurt?"
Reyes coughed, chest burning. "I… I'm fine. The girl—"
"We have her." Another soldier was already extracting Lila from the backseat, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders, murmuring reassurance. The child clung to him, trembling but alive.
Reyes stared, dazed, as more of the unit fanned out, their boots pounding against asphalt, their rifles tearing down the shadows that lurked too close. They worked like a machine, cold and efficient.
For a moment, he forgot the pain, the blood, the ringing in his ears. All he could think of was the campaign he'd once dismissed as political theater, the promise Alexander Farren had made, bold and impossible at the time:
A force that can stop any supernatural threat.
Reyes exhaled, almost a laugh, almost a sob. "Guess… he wasn't lying."
The night roared on, but for the first time, Sergeant Daniel Reyes believed they might actually stand a chance.
***
Joe Hawkings stood in the middle of his driveway, chest heaving, the shotgun sagging in his right hand. His shirt clung to his body, ripped open at the sleeve, smeared with streaks of black ichor that still dripped from the weapon's barrel. At his feet lay the twisted corpse of a dhampyr, its limbs bent wrong, the thing that had nearly torn his front door off its hinges. Its face was still half snarl, half-human, but lifeless.
Joe's shoulders slumped, not in victory, but in something closer to defeat. His eyes weren't on the body in front of him, they were locked across the street.
The house opposite his own roared with fire. Bright orange tongues licked out of the shattered windows, vomiting sparks into the night sky. The smell of charred wood and burning fabric carried across the yard, bitter and suffocating. Beneath the crackle of the flames, he could still hear it, the ghost of screams that had torn through the street only minutes earlier.
A single mother. Two kids.
He had heard them cry for help. He had seen her by the window, her hand stretched toward him, eyes wide with terror and hope, begging. And he had frozen. His feet had locked into the earth, his chest had burned with fear, and he had turned away.
Because if he had gone… who would've protected his wife? His daughter?
Joe's jaw trembled. He dragged a hand across his face and pulled his police badge out of his pocket. The silver emblem caught the firelight, reflecting it like an accusation. Detective Joe Hawkings, sworn to serve and protect.
The words mocked him now. His hand shook as he stared at the badge. Did he deserve to carry it anymore? Was he still the man he pretended to be in daylight, or was he just another coward hiding behind the excuse of family?
His throat constricted. The badge felt heavy, heavier than the shotgun, heavier than the two dhampyrs he had fought off to protect his home. He wanted to throw it into the fire. He wanted to believe there had been nothing else he could do. But in his heart, he knew he would live with the sound of those screams for the rest of his life.
Joe stood there for what felt like hours, his legs stiffening, his body aching, while the flames devoured the house across the street. The sirens came eventually, thin, distant wails cutting through the night, but too late, far too late.
When at last his breath steadied, he dragged a rough hand through his hair, pushing sweat and soot away from his forehead. He blinked hard and only then noticed the tears running down his face.
He turned, slow and heavy, like an old man. Each step back to his own house felt weighted. The front door hung crooked, smashed open. Inside was chaos; furniture overturned, blood smeared across the wall, shattered glass glittering on the floor. In the middle of the living room lay another dhampyr, its black fluids pooling across the carpet.
Joe stepped over the corpse without flinching. His boots were heavy, his knees weak. He walked straight past the wreckage of his home, straight down the hallway, and stopped in front of a door. His study.
His hand lingered on the handle for a moment before he unlocked it and slipped inside. He closed it behind him, sealing the world out.
The room smelled faintly of books and wood polish, the only untouched corner of his house. His shoulders sagged as the weight of silence wrapped around him. He set the shotgun down with a dull clatter, his chest heaving, and forced himself to find his voice.
"It's safe now," he said, his tone broken but steady enough. "You can come out."
For a moment, nothing. Then the faint rustle of movement. His wife emerged first, crawling out from under his desk, her face pale and drawn. Behind her, their little girl clutched at her mother's skirt, wide-eyed and trembling.
They looked at him, alive, unharmed. Relief spread across their faces, fragile and hesitant.
Joe's throat closed. He crossed the room in three uneven steps and gathered them both into his arms. His wife's hair pressed against his cheek, his daughter's small hands gripped at his shirt. He buried his face against them, his entire body shaking.
"Are you… are you both okay?" His voice cracked.
His wife nodded against his chest, whispering, "We're fine. We're fine."
His daughter's small voice followed, muffled in his shirt: "Daddy… are you okay?"
Joe froze. He lifted his head and looked at his wife. Her eyes, glossy with tears, searched his face. He wanted to lie, wanted to nod and smile. He even tried, the corners of his mouth twitched upward, but it broke apart instantly. His expression collapsed into something raw and pained, and the tears came fast, unrelenting.
His wife's arms tightened around him, pulling him closer. His daughter clung to his side, her tiny body trembling but firm in her embrace.
"I… I don't know what I'd do without you," Joe whispered, the words stumbling out in fragments. His chest heaved as though each syllable hurt to say. "I don't… I don't—"
But the words choked off. He couldn't finish. All he could do was hold them, crushing them against him as though by sheer force he could keep them safe forever.
The firelight from the street flickered faintly against the window, casting shadows across the study walls. Outside, the world burned. But inside, Joe Hawkings clung to the only thing that still made sense. The fragile, desperate warmth of his family.
And though the badge still weighed heavy in his pocket, for that moment, he let it go.