The city didn’t sleep that night — it twitched. Sirens wailed, power lines hummed, and the moon hung swollen over the skyline like an unblinking witness. Jonah Vale drove through it all, the Impala’s headlights slicing through mist, the faint glow of Ruth’s mark pulsing in the backseat.

Vane sat beside him, reloading in silence. The radio hissed static; even the city’s frequencies seemed cursed.

Jonah gripped the wheel tighter. The smell of blood still clung to his hands, ghosting up through his memory like incense from an old altar. He’d washed them three times at a gas station sink, but nothing removed sin — not water, not prayer.

He’d tried both.

Ruth stirred behind them, murmuring half-dreams. Jonah caught pieces — “moonlight,” “Lucien,” “hunger.” Words that didn’t sound like her voice.

“She’s changing faster,” he said quietly.

Vane nodded. “She’s burning up.”

Jonah’s jaw tightened. “He’s pulling her. Every mile closer to downtown, the tether gets stronger.”

“Then why the hell are we driving toward it?”

He didn’t answer right away. The freeway curved east, the city opening ahead like a wound — glass towers bleeding light into the smog. Somewhere in that glittering sprawl waited Saint Lazarus Tower.

“Because faith,” Jonah said, “only means something when you walk straight into the fire.”

They reached the river before dawn. The air was thick with fog and iron, the underpasses crawling with shadows that weren’t entirely human. Wolves moved there — silhouettes between the columns, eyes gleaming in the dark.

Jonah killed the headlights.

Vane leaned forward. “How many?”

“Too many,” Jonah said. “They’re not hunting. They’re waiting.”

“For what?”

“For me.”

He stepped out of the car before she could stop him. The night swallowed him whole.

Jonah walked toward the riverbank, coat brushing against concrete slick with dew. The howls stopped as he approached. Even the water seemed to hold its breath.

From the fog, one shape emerged — tall, scarred, eyes a dull amber. He wore the remnants of a priest’s collar, though the rest of his clothes were torn and feral.

“Brother,” the wolf rasped. “Lucien sends his blessings.”

Jonah stopped a few paces away. “Blessings from him usually end in blood.”

The creature smiled — lips pulling too wide, teeth glinting under the moon. “He remembers you. Says you were his favorite.”

Jonah’s hand twitched toward the rosary at his belt. The cross was metal, dull and dented, but it still hummed faintly against his palm.

“Tell him his favorite’s coming home,” Jonah said. “But I’m bringing fire with me.”

The wolf’s grin faded. “You’ve forgotten what you are, priest.”

Jonah’s voice dropped. “No. I just stopped worshiping it.”

The air shifted. More shadows stepped from the fog — half a dozen, maybe more. Wolves in human skin. Jonah could smell the hunger on them — the kind that wasn’t for food.

He exhaled slowly. “So this is confession?”

The lead wolf lunged.

Jonah moved like a storm breaking. The first blow cracked ribs, the second broke a jaw. Silver flashed — the rosary had been reforged long ago, the cross sharpened to a blade. It tore through flesh and bone like scripture written in steel.

Another came from behind — he spun, caught its throat, drove it to the ground. The fight wasn’t clean. It never was. Blood sprayed against the riverwall, dark under the moon.

Jonah didn’t remember switching forms — one heartbeat he was man, the next he was something else. The wolf inside him rose like a second skin. Muscles thickened, senses sharpened. His roar wasn’t human; it rattled the bridge above them.

Vane’s voice echoed faintly from somewhere behind: “Jonah!”

But he was too far gone to answer.

He fought like memory — brutal, beautiful, unstoppable. The wolves fell one by one until only silence remained, broken by the river’s slow breath.

When he straightened again, blood dripped from his jaw, steaming in the cold air. His chest heaved. His eyes, for a moment, glowed gold.

Then it faded.

The man returned, trembling.

Jonah fell to his knees beside the river, staring at the reflection of the moon in the water — fractured, dirty, but still shining.

He whispered, “Forgive me.”

But no voice answered. Not from heaven. Not from hell. Only the wind, moving like a sigh through the broken city.

By the time Vane reached him, he was human again. She holstered her weapon and crouched beside him. “You’re bleeding.”

He looked at his hands. The wounds were already closing. “It’s never enough,” he murmured. “You kill them, and they just keep coming. Like sin.”

Vane’s tone softened. “You did what you had to.”

He met her eyes. “That’s what I told myself the first time too.”

They stood in silence for a moment. Across the river, Saint Lazarus Tower glimmered faintly red — a heartbeat pulsing against the skyline.

“He’s calling you,” Vane said.

Jonah nodded. “He’s always been calling me.”

They drove until dawn painted the horizon pale gray. Ruth slept in the back seat again, fevered and glowing faintly under her skin. Jonah watched her in the mirror — the child, the weapon, the salvation he didn’t deserve but couldn’t abandon.

He whispered, mostly to himself, “You’ll save us all, or burn us trying.”

Vane gave him a sideways glance. “You ever think about stopping?”

He almost smiled. “Every day.”

“Then why don’t you?”

Jonah’s eyes stayed on the road. “Because if I stop, I’ll start to believe I can’t be forgiven.”

The detective leaned back, watching the city fade in the rearview mirror. “You talk like a priest.”

He shook his head. “I talk like a sinner who remembers the words.”

They reached an overpass overlooking downtown. The city was waking — lights flickering off, the hum of traffic returning. But beneath it all, Jonah could still hear the low chorus of wolves.

He turned off the engine.

“We’ll rest here,” he said.

Vane frowned. “And then?”

He looked toward the tower — the cross at its peak now burning bright against the morning haze. “Then we go back to church.”

In Saint Lazarus Tower, Lucien Rourke stood before the shattered statue, blood drying on his hands.

He smiled faintly, sensing the pulse of the battle across the river.

“Still praying, Jonah?” he whispered to the empty air. “Good. I want you clean when I tear the faith from your bones.”

He lifted the chalice again, the liquid inside black as ink.

“To the cross,” he said softly. “And the fang.”

He drank.