Rain bled through the Quarter that night — slow, heavy, relentless — as if the city itself were trying to wash away its sins.

Cassian hadn’t slept. He hadn’t even closed his eyes.

The message had come at dawn, scrawled across his door in black chalk:

THE SAINTS HAVE HIM.

He stared at it for a long time, the words burning into his skull. Then he tore the door off its hinges.

He found Rosa’s people first — the ones who’d sworn loyalty and conveniently forgotten what that meant. Two enforcers drinking at a dive on Toulouse.

They didn’t see him coming.

The first hit the wall before he could draw his gun; the second tried to run and ended up with Cassian’s knife under his jaw.

“Where is he?” Cassian’s voice was low, steady. The kind of calm that came right before a storm.

“I—I don’t know—”

Cassian pressed the blade harder. “Try again.”

“Saints took him! Vernetti’s people, down by St. Roch! That’s all I know, I swear—”

Cassian let him live. Barely.

By the time he stepped outside, dawn was breaking red over the river, and his hands were shaking — not from fear, but from something deeper. The kind of tremor that comes when love and violence blur.

He hunted the streets like a man possessed.

The French Market, the rail yards, the cemeteries — every shadow whispered Luca’s name. He saw flashes of him everywhere: a coat disappearing around a corner, a reflection in wet glass, a voice that wasn’t there.

The Sight had begun to slip again, showing him things he didn’t want to see.

A hallway. Chains. Blood. Luca’s head bowed.

Then darkness.

Cassian pressed his fingers to his temple until the vision shattered. “Not this time,” he whispered. “You don’t take him from me.

He reached the St. Roch chapel just before nightfall. The building looked abandoned — boarded windows, the smell of incense long gone sour.

Inside, the pews were covered in dust, candles burned to the wick. But there was music — faint, warped, like a hymn sung backwards.

He followed it down into the catacombs.

The air turned colder, thicker. He passed walls covered in old Saints’ names, half-erased by mold.

Then he saw it.

Luca’s pendant. Broken on the floor.

Cassian knelt, fingers trembling as he picked it up. The chain was snapped. Blood on the clasp.

He closed his hand around it, and for a moment, the Sight roared back to life — uncontrolled, vicious.

Luca screaming. A knife at his throat. A circle of masked figures chanting.

And a voice whispering from the dark: The Prophet’s love will be his undoing.

Cassian gasped, the vision shattering like glass.

He staggered to his feet. The world tilted, the walls seemed to pulse with the heartbeat of the city.

Then he started walking again.

The cultists came for him halfway down the corridor.

Five of them, wearing Saints’ masks — hollow eyes, painted smiles.

Cassian didn’t stop moving. He drew his gun and fired once. Twice. The echoes crashed like thunder through the catacombs.

He moved like something primal — no hesitation, no thought, just purpose. A knife flashed, a body fell, another lunged; he broke its neck with his bare hands.

When it was over, the silence was deafening.

Blood on the stones. Smoke curling through the air.

Cassian stood among them, chest heaving, eyes burning gold with the Sight.

“You wanted a prophet,” he muttered. “You got one.”

He found the chamber two levels down.

Candles in a circle. Salt. Symbols carved into the floor.

And in the center - Luca. Bound. Barely conscious.

Cassian’s breath hitched. “Luca…”

Luca’s head lifted weakly, eyes glassy. “You took your time.”

Cassian almost laughed — it came out broken. “You look terrible.”

“You should see the other guys.”

He was bleeding from the ribs, wrists raw from rope burns. Cassian cut him loose, hands shaking.

When Luca fell against him, Cassian caught him like something sacred.

“Can you walk?”

“Yeah,” Luca rasped. “If you carry me.”

Cassian huffed a laugh, pulling him close. “You’re impossible.”

“That’s why you like me.”

Cassian’s smile faltered. “You have no idea.”

He looked at Luca then, really looked and the guilt hit like a wave. He’d seen this. Every dream, every vision had been a warning. He just hadn’t listened.

“Don’t,” Luca whispered, reading it in his face. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Blame yourself.”

Cassian swallowed hard. “I should have—”

“Stop.” Luca’s hand came up, cupping his cheek. “You came for me. That’s all that matters.”

For a second, everything else — the blood, the darkness, the ghosts — fell away.

Cassian pressed his forehead against Luca’s. “I thought I’d lost you.”

“You don’t get rid of me that easy.”

The faintest smile. Then Luca’s eyes rolled back, his body going limp.

Cassian caught him before he hit the ground. “No. No, no, stay with me.”

He pressed two fingers to Luca’s throat — pulse, faint but there. Relief tore through him, fierce and painful.

He lifted Luca into his arms and started back up the corridor.

Behind him, the candlelight flickered — shadows twisting into unfamiliar shapes. One of them whispered his name.

Cassian didn’t look back.

By the time he reached the surface, the sky had turned copper. The rain had stopped. The city was holding its breath.

He laid Luca in the backseat of the car, covering him with his jacket. For a long moment, he just stood there wet, bleeding, shaking and staring down at the man who’d somehow become his reason to keep breathing.

He thought of all the things he hadn’t said. The quiet moments he’d let slip. The way Luca’s laugh always cut through the noise.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For everything.”

He leaned down, pressing his lips to Luca’s forehead a vow, a prayer, a promise.

Then he looked out at the city - New Orleans sprawling before him like a beast at rest and something inside him shifted.

If the Saints wanted war, he would give them one.

If fate wanted to take Luca, it would have to go through him first.

Cassian got behind the wheel, blood on his hands and love in his chest.

He started the engine.

And somewhere in the depths of the Quarter, the bells began to ring — slow, solemn, like a warning to every sinner still awake.

The Prophet was coming.

And he wasn’t coming alone.