The city had no stars that night — only red.

Sirens painted the skyline in restless flashes, the kind of light that made sinners confess or run. The streets around Saint Lazarus Tower were cordoned off by police tape and fear, but fear never stopped wolves.

Jonah Vale parked the car two blocks away, in the shadow of a half-collapsed parking structure. Vane checked her sidearm, then the extra clips on her belt. Ruth sat in the backseat, quiet as prayer, eyes wide and glowing faintly from within.

“You still think we can walk in there and just talk him down?” Vane asked.

Jonah stared at the building’s jagged silhouette — fifty stories of mirrored glass, pulsing faintly with crimson light from somewhere deep inside. “No,” he said. “Talking’s what I tried the first time.”

“And the second?”

“I stopped talking.”

Vane muttered something under her breath that sounded like a curse. “Guess we’re skipping straight to hell, then.”

Jonah smiled faintly. “Wouldn’t be my first visit.”

They moved through the alleyway, past dumpsters and shattered neon signs that still buzzed faintly with ghosts of color. The tower loomed larger with every step, its base lined with burned-out cars and graffiti scrawled like warnings.

At the front gate, two men stood guard — too still, too pale, their eyes glinting silver in the half-dark. Wolves.

Jonah didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. He stepped from the shadows, moving faster than breath. One clawed hand flashed, and the first guard’s throat opened like a page torn in two. The second turned, drew a gun, and never finished raising it. Vane’s bullet hit him square between the eyes.

The echo rolled down the street like thunder.

Jonah glanced at her. “Still a cop?”

She holstered the weapon. “Depends who’s asking.”

They slipped inside.

The lobby had been gutted — marble floors stained dark, walls stripped to metal bones. The air smelled of ozone and iron, and something deeper — incense laced with blood.

Ruth flinched. “He’s here,” she whispered. “Everywhere.”

Jonah took her hand. “Stay close. Don’t listen to the voices if they start talking.”

“What voices?”

“You’ll know.”

Vane swept the room with her flashlight, catching fragments of graffiti — symbols drawn in blood, sigils of old orders. One caught Jonah’s eye: a cross inside a circle, broken at the center.

“The mark of Saint Lazarus,” he murmured. “We used to wear it over our hearts.”

Vane looked at him. “You’re sure you want to go through with this?”

Jonah’s eyes hardened. “It’s the only way to end what we started.”

The elevator didn’t work, but the stairwell did. They climbed — slow, steady, each floor colder than the last. Sometimes they heard footsteps above, or whispers behind them, but nothing showed.

By the twentieth floor, Ruth’s breathing was ragged.

“He’s pulling at me,” she gasped. “Like strings in my blood.”

Jonah stopped. “Look at me.”

She did, trembling.

“You’re not his,” he said. “Not unless you give yourself over. You hear me?”

She nodded. “I hear you.”

Vane looked between them. “Whatever happens up there, we finish it fast.”

Jonah almost smiled. “That’s the plan.”

They reached the thirtieth floor. The corridor stretched long and dim, lined with glass offices turned into shrines — candles, bones, feathers, things that moved even when the air didn’t.

And then they saw them.

Half a dozen of Lucien’s pack — men and women in torn suits, eyes glowing faint amber, smiles too sharp for human mouths.

“Welcome home, Father Vale,” one of them crooned. “Our shepherd returns.”

Jonah stepped forward, claws flexing. “Your shepherd died a long time ago.”

“Then let us resurrect him.”

They lunged.

The corridor became a blur of motion and sound — claws meeting steel, bullets ripping through bone, growls mixing with gunfire. Vane moved like precision and fury, each shot measured, each breath a prayer to survive. Jonah tore through two of them, the beast inside breaking through, muscles swelling, eyes glowing gold.

He hated how good it felt.

Ruth screamed. One of the wolves had grabbed her, dragging her toward the far door. Jonah turned — too slow — and a blade caught him across the ribs.

He fell against the wall, snarling, blood pouring black in the red light. He roared, slammed his attacker through a pane of glass, and didn’t stop until the floor ran slick beneath him.

When it was over, silence fell heavy and cruel.

Vane reloaded, hands shaking. “You all right?”

Jonah nodded, though his breath said otherwise. “Keep moving.”

They reached the penthouse.

The doors were carved with Latin scripture — once holy, now warped into something else. The words glowed faintly as Jonah approached.

Benedictus qui venit in nomine mortis.

“Blessed is he who comes in the name of death,” Jonah translated quietly.

Vane muttered, “That’s sick.”

Jonah placed his hand on the door. It burned cold.

“Lucien always did have a flair for irony.”

He pushed it open.

The room beyond was cathedral-wide — walls lined with stained glass salvaged from real churches, all depicting wolves crowned in halos. The floor was marble shot through with veins of red light.

At its center stood Lucien Rourke.

He looked untouched by time — tall, pale, beautiful in the way fire is beautiful before it burns you. His eyes caught the light like a mirror.

“Jonah,” he said softly, smiling. “You brought my prodigal flock.”

Jonah stepped forward. “It ends tonight, Lucien.”

Lucien spread his arms, mock-preacher style. “You always talk about endings. You forget — we are the resurrection.”

Ruth cried out, stumbling forward, clutching her chest. The sigil on her arm flared again, bright crimson.

Lucien’s smile deepened. “See? The blood remembers.”

Jonah lunged — claws out, heart pounding. Lucien moved faster, parrying him with a casual strength that shouldn’t exist. Their clash sent cracks through the marble, sparks of light scattering like embers.

Vane fired three shots. They stopped midair, hung suspended, and fell harmlessly to the ground.

Lucien turned to her, eyes cold. “You shouldn’t have come, human.”

Jonah roared, slamming him backward into the altar. “You don’t touch her!”

Lucien laughed. “Still protecting the lambs. Still pretending you’re not the wolf who devours them.”

The floor trembled. The stained glass began to bleed light. From beneath the altar, something stirred — something ancient, breathing.

Lucien whispered, “The door is opening.”

Jonah felt it — the air turning heavy, the sound of a thousand heartbeats echoing through the stone. Ruth screamed again.

“Jonah!” she cried. “He’s pulling me in!”

Jonah turned, reaching for her — but Lucien struck, claws slicing deep into Jonah’s side. Pain flared white. He fell to one knee, blood soaking the marble.

Lucien leaned close, whispering, “You can’t save her. You couldn’t even save yourself.”

Jonah spat blood, smiling faintly. “Maybe not. But I can damn well stop you.”

He drove his claws into Lucien’s chest. Light exploded.

Both were thrown backward — Jonah into the wall, Lucien into the altar, shattering it. The light dimmed. For a moment, silence.

Then a voice — low, whispering — rose from the cracks. “The gate… is open.”

The tower began to shake.

Jonah staggered to his feet, vision blurring. Ruth was on the floor, the sigil on her arm pulsing like a heartbeat. Vane grabbed her, shouting, “Jonah! The whole building’s coming down!”

Jonah looked at Lucien — still alive, smiling through the blood.

“This is only the beginning,” Lucien whispered.

Jonah’s claws flexed. “Then I’ll end it again.”

He grabbed Ruth and ran as the glass walls began to shatter, the night outside turning crimson.