Blood sprawled across the floor. Mangled limbs scattered about, giving the Host a funny image. Jean laughed quietly as he dragged the Host's body across the field, seemingly unfazed by the destruction he had caused.
Elsewhere, June hung upside down on a tree, an exhausted look on his face, beads of sweat trickling down his forehead.
"What the hell...? We just popped up here outta nowhere."
"That's just how Jean is. Son of a bitch."
"You got a lotta hate toward him, huh?" June wiggled free, dropping from the tree branch he'd gotten snagged on.
"Not him as a person... just his quirks." Rayla dusted herself off.
"No doubt about it. He's definitely the one and only Jean Vandetta… What he did just now was pure speed."
June's eyes widened in surprise, seeing Jenna speak for the first time.
"You can talk?! I mean I knew you could but—"
"I can speak. I choose not to," Jenna replied, her eyes shifting toward Rayla.
"We were no match for a Host like that. We're lucky we were toyed with instead of getting killed instantly."
Rayla gritted her teeth, frustration etched across her face.
"I know that…"
"Yeah, I thought I had decent physical abilities, but hitting that thing with punches and a dagger did nothing."
"Lucky that Jean ca—"
"That's enough. I get it."
Rayla snapped, her voice sharp with irritation. Though unclear why she was upset, June refrained from finishing his sentence. Jenna, meanwhile, noticed something familiar in the air.
"He's back…"
She pointed toward Jean, who was smiling as he dragged the unconscious Host behind him.
"Yoo! You guys wer—"
"Why'd you leave us with that Host if you knew how dangerous it was?"
Rayla cut him off, her patience wearing thin.
"I have my reasons. I gotta take care of some other stuff," Jean replied casually.
"Well, your 'reasons' nearly got us killed!"
Jean waved her off, dropping the Host's body on the ground as his voice shifted into a lecturing tone.
"This is part of becoming a Neavu Ritualist. We don't just learn to manipulate Essence—we also learn why we learn it.
The Hosts. This was an experience. For all of you. Maybe… except Rayla." Jean trailed off as he noticed Rayla looking away, clearly pissed.
"Why except Rayla?" June asked.
"She's been in the program six months longer than the rest of you. So she's dealt with Hosts before, although weaker ones," Jean said, making a pinching gesture with his fingers.
"This one's different. It has intelligence. And a forbidden zone. That alone is a huge red flag."
"No worries though. Lingering souls like to toy with their preys first, They enjoy it. So I knew they wouldn't kill you right away," Jean clarified.
"What if today he wasn't in the mood to play?" Jenna asked, her expression blank.
"I'm a hundred percent sure," Jean gave a thumbs up. "He already killed and used people for a ritual to deepen his connection with the Host.
So when you guys were fighting him, he was still experimenting—testing out his powers without going all in until he fully understood the mechanics." Jean raised a finger, wrapping up his point.
"That so?" June said, arms folded.
"…Is that blood?"
"Huh? What do you mean?" June tilted his head.
"Your nose. It's bleeding," Jenna pointed out.
June wiped his nose with his sleeve. A streak of blood smeared across the black fabric of his uniform.
"The effects of his technique are still lingering in your body. It'll wear off eventually, no worries," Jean explained, trying to reassure him.
"That Host really did a number on me…"
---
THURSDAY
8:25 AM
Four figures crossed the zebra line on Manhattan's 5th Avenue and 3rd Street. Their silhouettes drew attention — at least, they should have.
Taxi horns blared. A bus roared past, coughing exhaust into the morning air. Steam rose from a nearby grate, mingling with the heat of city life. But no one stopped. No one stared.
One of them was massive — hulking blue skin stretched over muscle, four bulging eyes glinting under a flickering traffic light. His teeth were unnaturally straight, always bared in a rigid grin.
Beside him, a small, gelatinous figure waddled across the crosswalk. Its body sloshed as it moved, leaving translucent trails on the sidewalk. It too had four eyes, but its childlike form earned it no sympathy.
Another, taller figure walked with a calabash strapped to his back, four arms hanging lazily by his sides. His skin had patterns like tribal ink, his teeth sharp and shining.
And leading them… was different.
Not a monster. At least not visibly.
A person — maybe a man, maybe a woman — strolled ahead with practiced elegance. They wore a crisp blue suit over a white button-up shirt, hands neatly folded behind their back. Their slicked-back hair caught the sunlight. A picture of calm among chaos.
Despite it all, no one batted an eye.
A woman pushed a stroller past them without looking. A food cart vendor called out breakfast specials. A cyclist swerved around them, yelling, "Move, asshole!" before pedaling on.
Despite the monsters strolling the sidewalk, no one batted an eye. New Yorkers walked past them without flinching.
"God, don't you just love humans?" one of them said.
"No."
"Me neither."
"Problem is, we were once human, so—"
"Watch your tone, Dingly!!!"
Dakota, clearly annoyed, snapped at Furetta.
"Stop calling me Dingly, you lowlife!" the slime snapped back, its deep voice cracking with anger despite its small, childlike form.
"You two, shut up!!!"
Pedestrians turned their heads at the sudden outburst, annoyed and confused. That is, until their quiet leader stepped forward.
"There's nothing to see here. My friends are just a little light-headed today," they said smoothly.
Everyone turned away mid-sentence, continuing on without a second thought.
That's just how Yorkers were.
Furetta, Dakota, and Murdok all fell silent. Their androgynous leader looked back at them, a finger to their lips.
"Shhh…"
"Humans are quick to notice the unnatural if they sense it," they said calmly. "So let's stay on our best behavior, yeah?"
"But of course," said Murdok. "Our goal remains the same. We help you get 'The Equalizer.' In return, we devour every soul in this town."
"At ease… We'll get there. First, we have to prepare."
"Prepare what?" Dakota asked, voice thick with boredom.
Cling!
The doorbell above the café entrance jingled as the four stepped inside.
A cozy little place nestled between a dry cleaner and a smoke shop. The smell of burnt espresso and toasted bagels filled the air. A tired barista barely looked up from the counter.
The monsters didn't hesitate. Murdok ducked slightly to avoid brushing the ceiling fan. Furetta sloshed toward a booth, leaving a faint wet shimmer on the tile floor. Dakota pulled out a chair with one of his massive hands, the wood creaking under his weight.
Simeon sat last, crossing one leg over the other, casually adjusting the cuff of his suit. He leaned back, fingers steepled.
"What's there to prepare? Plenty."
"Like?"
"Obstacles."
"Don't mess with us, Simeon. We didn't come here for games," Murdok said, clearly uneasy.
"The Neavu Ritualists. They're the main obstacle," Simeon said, adjusting his blazer.
"Neavu Ritualists? Those weaklings? Hah! Pour me some water, will ya?" Dakota scoffed.
The café radio played faint jazz. A man at the corner table typed on his laptop. A couple argued in hushed tones. No one noticed the creature with four arms absently peeling the table edge with his claw.
"Ritualists are scarce worldwide. Even if gathered together, there aren't more than 2,000. Most of them are in Korea and other parts of Asia.
The ones in America? Scum. Worse than any lingering soul," he added with disdain.
Simeon chuckled, resting his chin in his palm.
"That's true. The U.S. refuses to accept Neavu Rituals, calling it Satanism. But I've heard the government made them a legal entity to deal with your kind."
Dakota tilted his head, folding his arms.
"Quite the achievement, considering how humans obsess over 'logic' and 'science' to explain everything. Still no match for us."
"Yes. That's true… but no." Simeon smirked.
The others turned toward him, clearly annoyed, confused by his cryptic tone.
"The real problem… is Jean Vandetta."