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.
Chapter 24 – No More Shadows
POV: First Person (Silas)
The city didn't sleep. Not really.
It just... held its breath. Waiting.
I was up on a rooftop again—same as always. Wind cutting across my suit, clouds rolling slow over the skyline. The glow of Detroit's lights looked softer from up here, like the city was pretending it wasn't as ugly as it really was.
My body still ached. Bruised ribs. A tight burn in my shoulder from where one of Grimm's cultists had slashed me three nights ago. I wasn't healing as fast as I wanted, and the nightmares were catching up.
But the worst part? That undercover cop. The one they tortured.
He told me everything.
They were setting a trap. Something massive. Grimm's people were on edge, moving fast, too fast. They were loading up trucks, ditching small hideouts, centralizing their power. Word was: they were planning something big, bloody, and public. A ritual with dozens—maybe hundreds—of civilians involved. One last show for their blind god.
And it wasn't just Grimm. The Council had backed off. Some abandoned Grimm's faction entirely. That made him unstable. Cornered.
Desperate.
I didn't have the full picture. But I knew someone who did.
POV: First Person (Sentinel)
Location: The Crow's Eye – Late Night
The bell over the door creaked when I stepped into the Crow's Eye.
Felt like walking into a crypt. Low lights, heavy scent of incense, shelves cluttered with relics that probably hadn't moved in ten years. If this place had a heartbeat, it was weak and out of rhythm.
Behind the counter stood a tall, wiry man with close-cropped hair and a faded hoodie. He looked up from a cracked laptop—eyes sharp, calculating.
He didn't reach for anything. Just stared.
"…Well, shit," he muttered. "You're him, aren't you?"
I didn't answer.
"Damn," he said, shaking his head. "Alright. You want something, or just making house calls?"
I stepped forward and dropped a thick envelope on the counter. Cash. Enough to get his attention.
"I need information," I said flatly. "On the Council. On Grimm. Structure, lieutenants, rituals. Everything."
He raised an eyebrow.
"And here I thought I'd be getting a visit from the DEA before you." He picked up the envelope, thumbing through the bills. "Encrypted drive, then? No backdoors. You want it clean?"
"Clean. Fast."
He studied me for another beat, then nodded.
"Fair enough. Sit tight."
He disappeared behind a bead curtain, leaving me with ticking clocks, the smell of old wood, and my own thoughts. Five minutes passed. I didn't move. Didn't relax.
When Knox came back, he had a small plastic pouch with a sleek black flash drive inside.
"All offline. No pings. You'll find council details, Grimm's lieutenants, known safehouses, suspected rituals. I even tossed in speculation on a couple of the council's inner hierarchy. No names, but enough to chase."
I took it. Slid it into a side pouch.
"I'm not going to ask how you got all this," I said.
"And I'm not going to ask what you're planning," he replied.
A moment passed.
"You know," Knox added, "you're the first one to walk in here wearing a mask and not trying to sell it for drugs."
I turned to leave.
"If you ever show up again," he called after me, "just make sure I'm still around to see it."
POV: First Person (Silas)
Location: Dorm – Next Morning
By morning, I was back in the dorm. Devon wasn't around—probably off chasing clouds or girls, or both. I didn't ask anymore.
I locked the door, shut the curtains, and slid the flash drive into my laptop.
Encrypted. Naturally. But Knox gave me the key. As soon as the files opened, I realized what I was looking at: floor plans, locations, asset charts. Movement logs. Orders. Symbols. Names—some redacted, others just vague titles like "The Veil" or "Eyes of Dusk."
And then there was Grimm. Pages of him. He had an entire digital folder dedicated to sightings, cult documents, leaked photos.
One stood out—Oak Cathedral.
A forgotten landmark on the east end. Last officially used over a decade ago. Closed for "structural instability." But Knox's footage told a different story. Deliveries, night activity, armed guards in robes.
I pulled out my burner phone and sent a text to Whitlock.
Sentinel:
Received intel from CI. Grimm's people are converging on Oak Cathedral. Mass activity. Ritual suspected. Civilians could be involved. Be ready. I'll be on-site. I'll call it in when it starts.
No reply. None expected.
POV: Third Person (Whitlock)
Location: Police HQ – Afternoon
Sergeant Whitlock stood in her captain's office, trying not to snap.
"I'm telling you, sir. I got word through a CI. Something big is happening. If we sit on this, people are going to die."
Her captain looked tired, skeptical. "You said the same thing last week, Whitlock. We have nothing solid."
She clenched her jaw.
Just then, a call came in. Officer at dispatch stuck his head through the door.
"Sir. Multiple 911 reports. Gunfire. East district. Near Oak Cathedral."
Whitlock looked her captain dead in the eye.
"There's your solid. Let me take a tactical team."
He didn't stop her.
POV: First Person (Silas)
Location: Oak Cathedral – Early Evening
Oak Cathedral looked like something out of a horror movie. Stained glass cracked, vines crawling up the stone, iron gate barely hanging on.
I was already inside. Already moving.
Gunfire echoed in short bursts. Shadow after shadow moved through the halls. Armed. Focused. Not just cultists—soldiers.
Knox's intel was right. This wasn't just a ritual. This was an operation.
I moved fast. Cloaked. Silent. I took two on the outer ring—non-lethal. Knocked them out cold. Took their weapons. Left the robes.
I was just starting.
If Grimm was inside, I'd find him. If Silica was watching, she'd know I was here now.
Two down. Dozens to go.
And this time, I wasn't stopping halfway.