The guards at the VIP room freeze for half a second.
Then they move—jackets whip back, hands dive for holstered weapons.
I move faster.
My jacket sweeps aside. Gun clears the holster.
I double-tap each torso.
Big targets, easier to hit. Damage first, precision later.
“Shit, this guy!”
“Gah, he’s fast!”
They stumble.
I walk up and finish the job. Headshots. Clean and final.
Blood sprays the wall like a modern art piece.
Inside the VIP room, their friends stare through the glass—paralyzed, horrified, yelling things I don’t care to hear.
They start dragging won between us and falling back toward the rear exit.
The door bursts open again. Two suits charge out.
“Please be careful, Milady.”
“w-w!”
Chatter explodes in my earpiece.
“VIP room! He’s here! Right in front of us!”
“Big guy! It’s gotta be him!”
“Back entrance—found the bodies. On our way now.”
“Radio’s compromised. Repeat, compromised!”
Good. Let them co.
“Target’s a mana user! Don’t stop shooting till he’s down!”
“Head and heart! Don’t hold back!”
“No way out now, asshole!”
“That’s my line, Demon filth.”
The second I step toward the door, so genius pokes his head out to take a shot.
Too slow.
I put one through his forehead. The back wall decorates itself with his brain.
Another guy cos out firing.
I twist aside from the first shot and answer with one of my own—chest.
He drops his gun, clutching the hole.
“Aghhh... wait, wait, I’m just hired muscle! Don’t kill—”
I shut him up with a bullet to the head.
Before entering the room, I stick just my head in and pull it right back.
Return fire hamrs the wall beside .
“You scared, Exorcist?! Co on, get in here!”
Screams cut through the gunfire.
“Aaaah! Stop, please! Don’t shoot!”
“I don’t wanna die!”
Too many innocents in there. Bullets might bounce.
I pull the pin on a holy water grenade and toss it in.
Pshunk! Sizzle!
A guttural scream follows.
A Demon contractor rolls across the floor, clawing at his burning throat.
“What the hell is this?!”
“Vinegar for scum.”
I end his suffering with a clean shot to the skull. Two more in the chest, just in case.
I storm into the room. The won huddle and sob, faces down, hands up.
Not acting. Not a threat.
I turn my back to them and head for the door at the rear.
It opens onto a stairwell. I peek fast, then duck back as shots ring out.
Quick peek. A staple of room-clearing drills. Instructor Kisa made us do it till our eyes bled.
Now I get it. It works.
I crouch low and peek again. Shooter’s waiting at the bottom—ten ters.
I open fire.
Miss. Miss. Thigh. Torso. Torso. Shoulder. Head.
He drops. I reload.
Now that they’ve seen standing tall, they’re aiming high.
This ti, I show myself low. Screw with their muscle mory.
“Milady, stick close.”
“ow!”
I move down fast, barrel tracking the stairs. Step over the corpse into a narrow hallway bathed in cool blue light.
Faces turn toward —drunk, confused, afraid.
This is the sub-floor. Quiet drinks. Lounges. Less sweat, more whispers.
“Excuse . Coming through.”
“w-w! ow ow!”
Two n at the far end glance back. Both are wanted faces.
They bolt the second we lock eyes.
I raise my gun—nope. Too many bodies in the way.
I give chase.
Killing intent prickles at my back. Diagonal. Close.
I pivot.
A man shoves past a woman, gun drawn.
I slam his weapon up and shove my barrel under his chin.
“No, wait—!”
Blood geysers upward. Screams erupt.
Another presence. Close. Less than a ter.
They shoot as I turn.
I dodge with a snap of my neck. Grab the hand holding the gun.
Pull close. Fire three shots in the gut. One in the face.
Done.
“He’s here! He’s coming after us!”
“Sub-floor connection—lock it down!”
“This guy’s a pro! Be careful!”
“Seal the front! We’ll cut him off there!”
I burst out onto the main floor.
The crowd’s a storm—sound, light, movent. Everyone’s dancing, grinding, lost in the beat.
The two runners are heading for the front exit.
Guards try to stop . I drop three in the chaos. Push forward. Shoot two more lying in wait at the door.
I hit the street.
One of the bastards is diving into a black luxury car, slamming the door shut.
“Stop.”
Seventeen ters.
I empty rounds into the driver’s seat. The guy inside screams and ducks, hands over his head.
But just as I squeeze off the eighth shot—it drops on from above.
A massive weight. Fangs. Black eyes. One black wing.
It’s him. The runner. Except now he’s no longer prey.
Category 2 Demon.
“Yo, Exorcist~ Play with , won’t ya?”
“How about no.”
I jam the barrel into its open mouth and pull the trigger.
The Demon’s head snaps back.
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