As he descended the stairs, he soon came into view under the bright candlelight.
He felt Kim's shoulder muscles tense, ready to move. Ethan tightened his grip on her and whispered a warning:
—Don't do anything stupid.
Kim jerked her head sharply and sneered:
—The servants of the Lord of Darkness are immortal! —she roared, using all her strength to break free and tumble forward, rolling down the stairs.
Kim stood up, dizzy, and when she saw her comrades locked in combat, she shouted again:
—Enemy!
Bode stood abruptly, staring at the blood on Kim's face.
—Bang!
A cloud of blood burst from Kim's chest. She looked down at the hole in her skirt; the light in her eyes faded fast.
Ethan ran down the stairs, kicking the "immortal" Kim aside. He raised his Beretta and shouted:
—Get down and surrender!
In the basement, Daria was tied to a table in the center. In the far corner, Phillips and Hank, suspended by ropes and gagged, blinked rapidly.
Phillips was ecstatic, yet cursed inwardly:
—Idiot, just shoot!
Bode dropped his wine glass, shattering it with a dull thud. His expression was grim, eyes twitching.
—Kim! —he roared— Kill him!
The followers in the basement watched as Kim fell to the ground after being shot. Hearing Bode's order, they scattered with a loud Boom!, taking cover against the walls. More than a dozen people entrenched themselves quickly, their shadows flickering in the dim candlelight.
Ethan noticed the weapons hanging around—machetes, knives, and a few guns. Without hesitation, he raised his revolver but kept his aim away from any cultist, aware that every move had to be calculated.
He activated his Battle Focus skill… and in an instant, everything around him slowed down.
—Bang, bang!
Two precise shots, quick as lightning, sliced through the air and struck two thick ropes—each as wide as a thumb—holding up his comrades.
With a dry snap, the ropes gave way. Phillips and Hank fell to the floor, letting out muffled groans, finally freed from the basement's makeshift prison.
After freeing Phillips and Hank, Ethan moved along the wall, gun in hand, and fired with precision.
—Bang, bang, bang! —three shots that sliced through the air like sharp cracks.
The roar of battle narrowed to a pulse in Ethan's ears: ragged breathing, creaking wood, boots scraping against dry blood. His pistol felt light in his hand, but the magazine was empty; the last shot had sliced the air like a whip.
He pressed the release button, and the magazine fell with a solid clack as his left hand instinctively reached for his belt. The spare was there, secured in its pouch. With a swift motion, he tore it free, feeling the cold metal, and snapped it into the grip.
He pulled the slide firmly; the mechanism responded with a metallic click that breathed life back into the barrel. The reload was brief—barely perceptible—but enough to shift the balance back in his favor.
Ethan regained his stance just as the first attacker appeared with a weapon raised. He pulled the trigger, and the gunshot split the darkness.
Everything—draw, load, rack, aim, fire—took less than two seconds. A reload so clean, you only notice it when you're on the wrong side of the barrel.
The first man lunged blindly. Ethan twisted his body and struck him square in the jaw with the pistol's barrel; bone cracked, and the man fell sideways before the next shot tore through his chest.
The second tried to take advantage of the gap. Ethan blocked his arm with his forearm, shoved him against the wall, and fired once into his stomach—almost point-blank. The body collapsed with a wet sound.
The third came from behind. Ethan sensed him before seeing him; he ducked, spun on one knee, and fired backward without looking. The shot burst through the man's thigh—he screamed and fell. Ethan finished him with a boot to the face.
The fourth came with a baton raised. Ethan caught his wrist, twisted it violently, and used the motion to smash the pistol's barrel against his cheekbone. The man staggered back, and Ethan kicked him square in the chest, toppling him over the others.
The fifth hesitated. He lifted his weapon, but Ethan was already moving. Two quick steps, one clean shot to the shoulder, and before the man could fall, Ethan struck him in the neck with the edge of the gun. He went down without a sound.
The smell of gunpowder mixed with blood and melted wax. The echo of gunfire still hung in the air as Ethan lowered his weapon, breathing steadily, eyes sweeping the room. Five bodies on the floor.
Hank, now recovered, rushed to his side, slamming a still-moving man to the ground and finishing him with a brutal headbutt. Phillips, from the far end, ran to the altar and kicked the guard protecting Daria, disarming him in a single strike.
Ethan turned the barrel toward the back of the hall.
—Doctor Quick —Ethan growled, stepping closer, eyes cold— now this is a surprise. I thought you didn't know anything about this.
Quick hesitated, his legs trembling, machete raised in pure desperation. Ethan tightened his grip on the weapon, gauging the distance, waiting for the first move. He took a short breath.
—Go to hell! —Quick roared, charging at Ethan with the machete raised high.
The blade whistled through the air, grazing Ethan's shoulder as he stepped back and lifted his arm. The machete struck the pistol's slide, sparks flying. The vibration numbed his hand, but he didn't let go.
Quick attacked again—a sideways cut aimed at his neck. Ethan ducked and rolled to the side; the machete struck a wooden pillar, splintering it. As he rose, Ethan fired.
The blast echoed through the basement. The bullet grazed Quick's side, tearing his coat and drawing a groan. The doctor staggered but pressed forward, enraged, swinging the blade like a madman.
Ethan waited. Calculated. Quick swung downward; Ethan sidestepped half a step to the left and, in one fluid motion, smashed the pistol's butt into the man's wrist. The machete flew from his hand, spinning through the air before embedding itself in the wall with a dry thunk.
Quick backed away, panting, his hand trembling and bleeding. Ethan raised his gun, eyes locked on his.
—It's over, Quick.
The man let out a guttural growl and tried to lunge again, but Ethan didn't hesitate. He fired once. The impact stopped him cold.
Quick's body arched backward, and a dark stream painted the wall behind him.
The machete he'd used still quivered in the wall, faintly reflecting the flickering candlelight.
Ethan looked up just in time to see Declan Bode moving through the shadows. The man lunged, reaching for the sawed-off shotgun hanging on the wall.
—Don't do it —Ethan warned, voice low and firm.
Bode didn't listen. His trembling hand reached for the weapon.
Ethan didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, ripped the machete from the wall with a dry pull, and in one smooth motion, twisted his wrist and threw it.
The blade cut through the air with a metallic whistle.
—Swish!—
The machete tore through the air with a deadly hiss.
—Swish!—
The blade struck Bode's hand first, severing it instantly. The shotgun hit the ground before he could even scream. The blade continued its path with unstoppable force, burying itself deep in his chest and pinning him against the wall.
The air left him in a strangled gasp—a short, animal sound. His eyes went wide as he tried to breathe; his severed fingers twitched beside the fallen shotgun.
For a moment, silence filled the basement. Only the dripping of blood and the faint hum of vibrating steel could be heard.
Ethan stood still, breathing steadily, watching as Bode's body slid down the wall until it went limp on the floor.
—Anyone else want to pick up a weapon? —Ethan roared, his presence radiating violence— Hands on your heads! Face down on the floor, now!
The remaining men dropped their weapons, terrified. Their legs gave out, and they collapsed to the ground. The few left standing were mostly women.
They had never seen such a bloody scene, and the slight high from the drugs had long worn off.
Ethan looked at Daria, lying tied to a wooden bed, then turned his head. He picked up a machete from the floor and cut the ropes around Hank's and Robert's wrists.
He freed Daria and wrapped one of the robes scattered around the room over her. She was wearing only her underwear, still affected by the local anesthetic.
After removing her gag, Ethan gently brushed his hand over her face.
—Are you okay? —Ethan asked, his voice still rough from the adrenaline.
Daria looked at him, her eyes glassy, her face streaked with tears. As soon as she recognized him, she threw herself into his arms, trembling.
—I knew you'd come for me —she sobbed, clutching his neck with desperate strength.
Ethan held her close, feeling her rapid breathing against his chest. Around them, the basement reeked of gunpowder, melted wax, and blood. But in that moment, the world seemed to stop.
They had been through too much together. Death, violence, fear… all of it faded as long as she was alive in his arms.
—Is she your friend? —Hank interjected, walking over with a tired half-smile. He picked up a skirt from a nearby couch, shook it out, and handed it to Ethan—. Put this on her.
—Thanks —murmured Daria.
Ethan took the dress and helped her into it carefully.
—Yeah… she'd gone missing —he said, adjusting the fabric—. I did some digging and tracked her down to this house. But I didn't expect to find you two here.
Daria looked at him, still shaking.
Hank gave a short laugh, trying to ease the tension.
—Please, you saved my life —he said, clapping Ethan on the shoulder as he looked around the basement—. Well, looks like Phillips and I got luckier than we deserve.
Hank stood still, trying to take it all in. He'd been a cop for years—he'd seen raids, crime scenes, shootouts—but nothing like this.
The basement looked like a war zone. The walls were splattered with blood, the floor littered with shells and motionless bodies—all by the hand of one man.
Ethan.
There was no need to intimidate the survivors. The few men still alive cowered as Ethan approached, heads bowed, too terrified to move.
Ethan signaled for Hank to keep an eye on them and walked toward Declan Bode's body. The man's face was covered in blood, his eyes vacant… and nearby, Kim's lifeless body lay at the foot of the stairs.
Ethan turned to Phillips.
—Keep him secure.
Phillips nodded, maintaining his composure despite the horror surrounding them.
—Don't worry, he won't see daylight again —he said with a brief smile—
Three days later.
Ethan walked out of the District Attorney's Office with a sense of relief. The sun shone faintly over Banshee, and for the first time in days, he could breathe without feeling lead in his lungs.
The FBI had issued temporary induction documents covering him legally as a consultant. Thanks to that, the DA decided not to press charges over what had happened, since he'd been operating under Special Agent Phillips' supervision.
Alison Medding, the DA in charge, reviewed the documents with a raised eyebrow. She knew the dates didn't quite line up, but said nothing. Ethan had saved her life when the Red Bones attacked the station.
And that, in her book, mattered more than any procedural irregularity. After helping close a high-profile serial murder case, the details were trivial.
Ethan smiled as he left the building, breathing easier. He'd never imagined he'd end up standing before the DA's office as a defendant.
A sharp honk snapped him from his thoughts. A Chevrolet pickup stopped by the roadside; the window rolled down slowly, and Hank took off his sunglasses with his usual confident grin.
Phillips and Hank exchanged a look, then said in unison:
—Got a minute? How about we grab a coffee?
Their mysterious tone caught Ethan off guard—he hadn't expected to see them again.
Ethan patted the roof of the car, then headed to his Dodge Challenger. A few minutes later, the three of them were sitting on a café terrace, steam from their coffees rising into the cold morning air.
Thinking back to what had happened three days earlier, Phillips still felt a lingering unease.
He shook his head.
—Those people were completely insane.
Ethan and Hank nodded; Phillips was absolutely right.
After securing the area, Brock had arrived with the Banshee Town police to investigate. In a hidden altar in the basement, they discovered ten human hearts used for sacrifices. That meant not just three women had been murdered—many others had lost their lives before them.
—Can you confirm life imprisonment? —Ethan asked Phillips.
—Absolutely —Phillips replied.
Then, firmly:
—I can guarantee that in the prison I've arranged for him, Bode will suffer a fate worse than death.
Leaving the topic behind, Phillips looked at Ethan.
—Do you need me to refer you to a psychologist? I know an excellent one.
Ethan took a sip of his coffee and set the cup down.
—No need. People like that don't take up space in my head. I sleep well at night knowing they're off the streets.
—You mean you've never sought therapy for anything you've been through? —Phillips asked, surprised—
Ethan glanced at him sideways, tapping his fingers on the table.
—You think I'm crazy?
Phillips coughed and smiled.
—Of course not.
—Good. We've had our coffee, so let's get to the point —Ethan said, raising an eyebrow, sensing they had something serious to discuss.
After a moment of silence, Phillips spoke.
—We want to recruit you.
Ethan opened his mouth to respond, but Phillips raised a hand.
—Don't refuse just yet. Hear me out —Phillips said, lifting a finger firmly—. I've met a lot of people like you. After everything you've been through, you can't just settle for being ordinary. Even with money, I know it's not enough for you. It'd be… too boring.
—You're not very persuasive, Robert —Ethan replied dryly—
—But you did enjoy punishing the bad guys the other day, didn't you? —Phillips said, gripping his cup with both hands—. And I bet standing in the DA's office as a suspect didn't feel nearly as good. So why not get your badge back and do things legally this time?
Ethan looked at the two men in front of him. Their words were tempting. He took a sip of coffee and slipped a hand into his pocket.
—Take one of mine —Hank said, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his leather jacket.
—Thanks —Ethan replied, lighting one and smoking in silence.
Phillips and Hank lit theirs too, giving Ethan time to think. After half a cigarette, his fingers stopped tapping the table.
—You want to recruit me? —Ethan asked, leaning forward, elbows on the table, fingers interlocked—. And if I'm not mistaken, you two don't work under the same system, do you? Hank, as far as I know, you're not FBI.
Ethan's serious tone didn't go unnoticed. Seeing he wasn't outright refusing, Hank's eyes lit up—a mix of pride and camaraderie. He leaned back slightly, resting his arms on the table, posture relaxed despite the tension in the air.
Phillips adjusted his tie slowly and lowered his voice to a deep, resonant tone that filled the corner of the café.
—That's right. Hank doesn't work for the FBI. And the reason he's here… —he paused, letting each word sink in— is simple: I wanted him to meet you. That's why I brought him to Banshee.
Ethan's eyes narrowed slightly, assessing the situation.
Hank gave a small nod, silently confirming Phillips' words, while a cold breeze rustled the napkins on the table.
Ethan took another sip of coffee, letting the bitter warmth steady his nerves as he weighed his options.
—Now, allow me to introduce myself properly. I'm Henry Voight, Sergeant in command of the Intelligence Unit of the Chicago Police Department, District 21 —said Hank.
Ethan lowered his gaze and nodded. Phillips clapped Hank on the shoulder.
—Hank's been a friend of mine for over twenty years, and now that he's getting his own team, I figured he could use some help. In my opinion, you two would make a damn good pair.
Hank smiled, his voice gravelly:
—My team handles some of the city's most important work—violent crimes, organized crime, drug trafficking, and other high-profile cases —Hank said firmly, each word carrying weight.
Phillips spoke again, grinning:
—In short… they get all the fun.
Ethan smiled. Fun was, without a doubt, something he'd been missing.
He looked back at Hank. Anyone Phillips trusted had to be someone exceptional. To lead such a critical unit, he clearly possessed rare qualities.
—And why are you so sure? —Ethan cleared his throat—. Why choose me?
—I've been watching you these past few days —Hank said, his voice low, deliberate—. You and I are the same. We don't see the world in black and white; we see the shades in between.
Ethan eyed him cautiously. Hank leaned forward, the light from the window carving the lines on his face.
—Besides —he added with a brief smirk—, Bob recommended you.
Ethan gripped the cup between his hands, feeling the warmth seep into his skin.
—I'll tell you the truth —he said, narrowing his eyes—. I'm not a good cop. Sometimes I break the rules.
Hank smiled, a slight curve that didn't quite soften his serious expression.
—I'm not exactly the cop they write about in the manuals either. I care about my people, and I do what I think is right. I've read your file; I know you're not afraid to bend the rules if it means doing the right thing. I'm the same way. That's why I'm telling you—we're alike. You don't have to worry. I take care of my own, and we watch each other's backs. —he said honestly.
Hank raised an eyebrow.
—We're gonna kick some bad guys' asses together. What do you say? You wanna join the Chicago PD?
Suddenly, right before Ethan's eyes, a translucent screen appeared, floating in the air with a faint blue glow that illuminated his face. It was unmistakable—a new mission.
For a moment, he simply stared as the lines of text formed before him, the sound of the wind and the distant city fading away.
Mission: Join Hank's Intelligence UnitSuccess Reward: System Level Up: 2
Ethan exhaled softly, a mix of surprise and acceptance.—Chicago… —he murmured, with the hint of a smile.
He had no reason to refuse. Maybe, somehow, the system was guiding him where he needed to go.
The word ACCEPT blinked faintly at the bottom of the screen. Without moving a muscle, Ethan focused his mind and accepted the mission silently.
In response, the screen flared briefly before dissolving into tiny particles of light that vanished into the air. A digital voice echoed in his head, metallic but calm:
Mission Accepted. System Level Up: 2.
He felt a warm current rush through his body, as if something inside him had awakened again. Ethan lifted his gaze toward the two men sitting across from him.
He wet his lips and drummed his fingers lightly on the table.
—Alright, but I've got a few conditions.
Hank and Phillips exchanged a look, both pleased.
—Go ahead, I'm listening.
Ethan crushed his cigarette in the ashtray.
—Obviously, you'll be the boss, and I respect that —he said firmly, without hostility—, but I won't be anyone's errand boy. I'll follow the chain of command, sure, but I don't want to be left out of the loop.
—You'll work with me, not for me —Hank emphasized, looking him straight in the eye—. That's my promise.
Ethan nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips.—Thanks. I can accept being the new guy, but I'm no rookie.
Hank let out a short laugh. After everything he'd seen from him, he knew the man sitting across the table wasn't some simple recruit. Deep down, he respected him more than he'd admit.
—No one's gonna mess with you, Detective Ethan Morgan —Phillips cut in, smiling as he stirred his coffee—. Trust me, after a few days, none of them will dare disrespect you.
—Detective? —Ethan raised an eyebrow, taking a sip of his coffee with curiosity.
—That's right, Detective —Phillips repeated, folding his arms with a satisfied look—. Now that we've found you, we're not sending you in as a rookie. Hank and I have some contacts… so getting you a spot in the Intelligence Unit wasn't hard.
Hank smirked, watching the newcomer's reaction.
—What do you say, Detective Morgan? Like how that sounds?
Ethan looked at both men, lifted his cup slightly, and replied with a half-smile.
—Yeah… sounds like something I could get used to.
—Sounds good —Ethan raised his cup with a grin—. I like it. So, when do you need me there?
Seeing that the deal was sealed, Hank's face brightened.
—No rush. I just got out of jail and haven't started yet. Wait until I'm back at work and have cleaned up the Intelligence Unit, then you can join.
—Out of jail? —Ethan asked, curious.
—Yeah, things got a little out of hand, but it's all cleared up now —Hank shrugged—. Like I said, I'm not exactly a by-the-book cop.
Ethan smiled and shook his head, extending his hand.
—Save me a good seat.
—Ha! —Hank and Phillips exchanged a grin, and Hank shook his hand—. Deal.
After discussing everything, the two men left shortly after.
Ethan got into his Dodge Challenger and drove to the flower shop. He and Hank had agreed he'd head to Chicago in a month. He had just quit his job and wanted to enjoy himself for a while—Hank understood.
When he arrived, the flower shop had turned into a sea of blooms. Ethan had been busy the last few days decorating the place with Jessica.
After a few days of rest, Daria had recovered quickly and was also working at the shop.
—Got everything ready? —Daria asked, putting down a flowerpot and stepping forward to give him a warm hug.
—Of course, easy work for me. After what happened, a lot of people came by to help.
A month passed in the blink of an eye, and the weather had grown colder.
Outside the lakeside villa, Ethan tossed a backpack into the back seat of his Dodge Challenger and looked toward the house. He didn't know when he'd be back again.
He tossed his keys through the air—Siobhan caught them and looked at him reluctantly.
—When will you be back?
—I don't know —Ethan shook his head—. I'll come back when I can. Chicago's not that far.
Siobhan lived a more stable life, so leaving the house to her was the sensible choice.
Everyone else had already said their goodbyes, and now that everything was settled, Ethan could leave for Chicago in peace.
He smiled, brushed a hand against Siobhan's cheek, and climbed into the car to drive off.
When the door closed behind him, Siobhan frowned and leaned against the wooden railing, trying to catch her breath. A shiver ran through her body, and a knot twisted in her stomach.
Suddenly, a wave of nausea hit her. Before she could move, she leaned to the side and vomited, trembling as a chill ran down her spine.
—It can't be…— she whispered, her voice trembling.
She placed a hand over her belly and felt fear mix with something she didn't dare to name.
Unaware of what was happening outside his cabin, Ethan kept driving. He didn't take the highway right away, instead following the road he remembered. As the familiar scenery passed by, a faint smile appeared on his face. His future, for now, was waiting in Chicago.