Chapter 1: The Bite
The city had no mercy.
It chewed people up and spat them out, and nobody cared where the pieces landed.
Styles sat on the steps of the shelter, hood pulled up against the cold drizzle, cigarette glowing between his lips. The rain soaked his jeans, slid down his neck, but he didn't move. His stomach growled for the third time that night, a reminder he hadn't eaten since yesterday.
He ignored it. Hunger was just another background noise now, like car alarms or sirens echoing through the streets.
What wasn't background noise was the silence. The kind that came after his mother's death. No voice calling his name, no warmth waiting for him at home, no reason to stay in that apartment once the landlord kicked him out.
Now it was just the shelter.
And the academy.
He dragged the last hit of smoke, flicked the butt into the street, and stood. His body ached from sleeping on cots too thin to bother calling beds, but his grin—lazy, cocky, irritating—was still there. He always wore it, because it pissed people off, and that was the only entertainment left.
Tonight was the first step into something new. Something insane.
⸻
The Academy
New York wasn't just a city anymore. It was an academy. The biggest in the world. Entire boroughs had been converted into training grounds for supernatural law enforcement. If something slipped through from another dimension—monsters, demons, rogue gods—it landed here.
The recruits gathered in the courtyard. Nervous voices tangled together, excitement mixing with fear. Above them, holograms glowed with mission stats, unit rankings, and the shimmering Level markers of already-certified officers.
Styles strolled in late. He smelled faintly of smoke, his hood half-zipped, his eyes bloodshot. When he tapped his badge against the scanner, the glow flared to life.
LEVEL 1 — CERTIFIED.
Gasps shot through the crowd.
"That guy? He's certified?"
"He looks like he just rolled out of a shelter."
"I heard he actually lives in one."
Styles smirked, slipping his hands into his pockets. Cute. They already know me, and I didn't even introduce myself.
A heavy voice cut the chatter.
"Rookies!"
An instructor stomped forward, boots echoing off the concrete. His Level floated above his head, glowing bright and intimidating: LEVEL 450, Prestige 3. The man's chest puffed out like he carried the weight of the whole city.
"You are here because this city is drowning in filth," he barked. "Murderers. Rapists. Monsters. Demons. Gods that crawl out of places you can't even imagine. Our job—the job you're begging for—is to hunt them down."
The recruits stiffened.
"You'll earn EXP from missions. One thousand EXP equals one Level. Every thousand levels, you Prestige. Reset to Level 1, stronger, faster, better. There are two hundred thousand Prestiges. Only one hundred and fifty officers in history ever reached that height. Legends. Gods in uniform. Do not fool yourselves into thinking you will join them."
Most cadets swallowed hard. Styles yawned.
The instructor's eyes snapped to him. "You think this is funny, rookie?"
Styles let his grin widen. "Yeah. Life's a joke. Might as well laugh."
A few cadets chuckled nervously. Others glared. The legend of Styles had just begun.
⸻
Weapons
The recruits filed into the armory. Rows of weapons gleamed under fluorescent lights—silver pistols with holy engravings, rune-carved batons, talisman chains glowing faintly, even rifles that hummed with stored plasma.
Everyone grabbed something. Everyone except Styles.
He leaned against the wall, watching the others scramble like kids on Halloween.
Marisol, his assigned partner, a short, sharp-eyed Latina, rounded on him. "Where's your weapon?"
Styles shrugged. "You're lookin' at it." He raised a fist lazily.
She blinked. "That's… that's your plan? Fists?"
"And feet."
"You're insane. These things will tear you apart."
He smirked. "Then I'll tear back. Fair's fair."
She groaned. "They stuck me with a comedian. I'm gonna die."
⸻
The First Mission
The first assignment came sooner than expected.
Mission Code: 0021.
Threat: Low-tier parasite demon.
Location: Abandoned apartment complex.
Reward: 500 EXP.
Marisol clenched her teeth. "A parasite? On day one? This is suicide."
Styles grinned. "Relax. Worst case, we die. Shelter's worse."
The squad moved in. The building reeked of mold and iron. Broken furniture littered the halls, black stains smeared the walls. Somewhere above, a woman screamed.
Then the host appeared.
A man staggered into view, but his body was wrong. His chest bulged unnaturally, black veins writhing under his skin. His jaw unhinged, dripping ooze as the parasite piloted him forward like a broken puppet.
"Form up!" the instructor snapped. "Aim for the core!"
Weapons raised. Fingers trembled.
Styles cracked his knuckles. Finally.
⸻
The Bite
The parasite lunged. Gunfire erupted. Blessed bullets tore chunks from its body, but it didn't stop. It slammed into the rookies, sending them flying.
Styles didn't move. Too slow. Too cocky.
The creature's teeth sank into his shoulder, pumping black venom into his veins.
His vision went white. His body convulsed. Pain tore through him like fire, muscles locking, blood boiling. Something slithered inside him, crawling deeper, digging into bone.
He should've died.
But he didn't.
A sound escaped his throat. Not a scream. A laugh.
Low, ragged, broken—then louder. He laughed as the pain ripped him apart.
⸻
Awakening
The parasite reeled back, confused. Styles rose slowly, hoodie torn, blood dripping down his chest. His eyes burned, sharper than before. For a second, black veins pulsed under his skin before fading back.
He flexed his hand. His knuckles cracked like gunshots.
"Cute trick," he muttered. "My turn."
The parasite lunged again. Styles moved. Faster than he had any right to.
He ducked, pivoted, and drove his fist straight into the thing's chest.
CRASH.
The impact rattled the building. Plaster rained from the ceiling as the parasite flew backward, slammed into the floor, and writhed in silence.
The cadets froze.
Marisol's voice shook. "What… the fuck was that?"
Styles grinned, blood still dripping down his arm. "Guess it tripped."
⸻
The Cover-Up
The parasite dissolved into black smoke. Above the rookies' heads, glowing markers flickered:
+500 EXP. Level 1 → 1.
Groans filled the hall. Barely worth the bullets.
But in Styles' vision, invisible to all:
+1000 EXP. Level Up → 2.
He clenched his fist tighter. The infection had doubled it.
The instructor eyed him coldly. "No gun. No strategy. And yet… the target's down. Don't get cocky, rookie. That was luck."
Styles smirked, slipping another cigarette between his lips. "Luck's all I need."
⸻
Aftermath
Back at the academy, rumors spread like wildfire.
"Rookie fought barehanded."
"They say it bit him and he laughed."
"No way. Shelter junkie's just a fluke."
Styles sat in the cafeteria like nothing had happened, sipping coffee with one hand and sliding the other under the table to make a blonde EMT trainee blush.
Marisol slammed her tray down. "You almost died! And you're just… smiling?"
He winked. "Death's overrated. Coffee's good."
⸻
Hook
That night, in the dark of the shelter, Styles peeled his hoodie off. He stared at his shoulder. Black veins pulsed faintly beneath the skin before sinking away.
He clenched his fist. The steel bunk frame bent under his grip with a metallic groan.
Brute power. Brute force. Brute strength. Nobody will know unless I want them to. And that's the joke.
Above his hand, the faint glow of Level 2 shimmered. Just the start.
He leaned back, laughing softly to himself.
"Two hundred thousand Prestiges? Fine. I'll take every last one."
The city roared outside, restless and hungry. Styles grinned wider.
He was ready to feed it.
[TO BE CONTINUED…]