DEMOLISHER

The job came in at midnight. They always did.

Vik didn’t ask questions. He never did. The details flickered in front of him on the holo-display—some corrupted sector near the city’s edge, infested with etheric anomalies. A culling mission, standard payout. Natalya’s orders. That meant no room for hesitation.

He exhaled slow, knuckles tightening around the handle of his sledge. The metal felt cold through his cybernetic fingers, a familiar comfort. His breath came steady. His heartbeat did not.

The Bats of Hell moved like ghosts through the empty streets, their presence barely a whisper against the neon glow. The others exchanged words—half-baked jokes, bitter grievances—but Vik stayed silent, as always. He wasn't here to talk.

The first demon fell in a single swing. The second, in two. It wasn’t the rage that drove him. It was something colder. Something deeper. His movements were measured, his force absolute. Demolisher—that’s what the Section called him. A weapon, nothing more.

But weapons don’t have ghosts.

The last creature snarled as it crumbled beneath him, its etheric essence fading into the smog. For a moment, its fractured face twisted—too human, too familiar. His grip faltered, just a second. Long enough for memory to crawl in.

His brother’s voice. Distant. Twisted.

Vik let go of the thought before it could take hold. He wiped the blood from his jaw, looked at the others. Natalya gave him a nod, satisfied. Job’s done.

He was already thinking about the next.