Guns raised. Fingers tense on triggers.
The Hollowed Saint stood still, spear in hand. Silent. Watching.
Then it spoke—a guttural distortion that vibrated through bone and metal.
"Let's play a small game."
Rhea reacted instantly. "Don't listen to its voice!" she barked. "The angels can manipulate minds just by speaking!"
But the Saint chuckled—dry, rasping.
"I'm not like the angels you know."
Rhea's eyes narrowed. "Surround it. Fire on my mark."
They moved fast—Rhea, Arlo, and Dima forming a tight triangle, weapons locked on target.
The Hollowed Saint turned its head slowly.
"One of you is already mine."
"Kill that one, and I'll let the others live."
The air snapped with tension.
Arlo's heart thundered. Dima glanced side to side. Rhea's grip tightened.
Dima broke the silence. "It's trying to get in our heads. Make us turn on each other."
Rhea gave a curt nod. "Dima's right. Don't falter."
Arlo forced a grin. "Didn't plan to."
"Let's end this," Rhea said. "Then we find Hale and Ryan."
Guns roared to life.
The Hollowed Saint rose, wings unfurling in a rush of black smoke. Bullets chased shadows, but the Saint moved like liquid sky—slipping through every shot.
"Reloading!" Dima called, ducking behind cover.
Rhea and Arlo laid down suppressing fire, tracking the Saint's dance. It dipped low—then surged behind Dima.
"Is he the one?" the Saint hissed.
Dima spun, firing point-blank—but the creature vanished upward again, leaving only wind.
It hurled its spear at Arlo. He dove, barely avoiding the blast as concrete exploded around him.
The Hollowed Saint descended, hand reaching for its weapon.
Arlo raised his rifle.
The Saint feinted—grabbed the barrel, shoved it skyward.
Rhea and Dima hesitated. No clear shot.
The Saint leaned close, locking eyes with Arlo.
"Or is it you?"
Arlo snarled, pulled his sidearm, fired—but the creature vanished again, laughter trailing behind like smoke.
"Son of a bitch is toying with us!" Arlo growled.
"It's mocking us," Rhea said, steadying her breath.
"Why isn't it finishing us?" Dima asked.
"Because it wants something," Rhea answered. "We need a plan."
They regrouped, backs to each other, weapons raised.
"When it throws that spear again," Rhea said, "we plant a claymore on it. When it dives to recover—boom."
The Saint's voice echoed above.
"Talking behind my back? That hurts my feelings."
The spear flew again.
They scattered. Dima sprinted for Jackal, ripped open a crate, grabbed a claymore. The others covered him, bullets ringing through the street.
Dima returned, planted the charge beside the embedded spear, then rolled clear.
They feigned an opening.
The Saint dove—silent, graceful, certain.
Its hand touched the spear—
Click.
BOOM.
The explosion lit the sky. Smoke swallowed the street.
The Saint hit the ground hard—armor cracked, core exposed.
No hesitation.
They fired as one.
Rounds tearing into the pulsing black light.
The core shattered.
Silence.
They stood motionless, breathing hard.
Rhea dropped to her knees. "Damn. That was rough."
"Nearly ran out of bullets," Dima muttered, slumping beside her.
Arlo approached the remains. The Saint's twisted body smoked and sparked.
"So…" he said. "There wasn't a traitor?"
Dima raised an eyebrow. "Told you."
Rhea gave a short laugh. Arlo joined in, weary and relieved.
Then—
A fourth laugh joined them.
Only Arlo heard it.
It slithered between his ears, soft, wet, and cold.
He turned.
The Hollowed Saint's body.
Still broken. Still burning.
Still laughing.
Then it stood.
Whole. Unburned. Smiling.
Arlo jerked his gun up—
—but it crumbled into dust in his hands.
He spun around.
Rhea and Dima were gone.
The world dissolved into blackness.
The Saint stepped forward, slow and certain.
"The game is over," it said.
"I win."
Light returned.
Arlo stood alone, drenched in blood.
Two bodies lay nearby.
Rhea.
Dima.
Riddled with bullets.
His bullets.
"No…" Arlo whispered, trembling. "No, no, no…"
He dropped to his knees. Blood dripped from his gloves. From his chest. From the trigger.
"I didn't… I didn't mean to… I thought we won…"
The Saint stepped beside him, now calm. Cold.
"You killed them. You trusted the wrong voice."
"I'm sorry…" Arlo whispered. "I didn't mean to… I didn't…"
He repeated it, over and over, as blood bubbled from his lips.
"I'm sorry."
The Saint raised its spear.
"Betrayers don't get second chances."
The blade plunged into Arlo's chest.
His body fell beside the others.
The Hollowed Saint gazed west.
Then, without a word, it unfurled its wings and took flight—toward Angelo.