Lower Manhattan – Two Hours After the Incident
The alley was sealed off in minutes.
Police lines buzzed with tension. Officers vomited behind dumpsters. The coroner refused to enter without backup. The scene was too clean and too brutal. Limbs torn, skull cracked, everything arranged like it wasn't a crime of passion—but a message.
Boots echoed down the narrow path as several figures approached—black coats, silver trim, eyes sharp and unmoved by the gore.
Hunters.
At the front of them, Dera crouched near the torn torso of the male victim. His ribs were peeled apart like fruit skin, heart missing, face crushed. The girl… what was left of her, anyway, sat half-sunken into a trash pile, limbs removed, jaw gone, chest cavity hollow.
The other hunters didn't speak. They waited.
Dera reached into her coat, pulled out a small glass vial, and waved it through the air.
The liquid inside turned black almost immediately.
"Ghoul," She said, standing up.
