The shotgun stayed pressed firmly against the back of his head.
John could practically feel the man's fear bleeding through the weapon.
"I can explain everything," John said calmly. "But I need you to lower the gun first."
"No."
Immediate.
Sharp.
The man's breathing quickened behind him.
"No way in hell."
"Look," John said carefully, "I know how this looks—"
"How it looks?" the man snapped. "You flew over a twenty-foot electric fence!"
"…Technically I crashed over it."
"Not helping!"
The barrel dug harder into John's skull.
"I watched you glow!" the man shouted now, panic starting to crack through fully. "I watched you jump through the damn air like some kind of monster!"
John closed his eyes briefly.
Patience.
"Sir—"
"Don't move!"
"I'm trying to avoid that."
"Shut up!"
The shotgun trembled violently now.
Finger too tight on the trigger.
Fear making people dangerous.
John's expression flattened slightly.
"…Okay," he muttered quietly. "I've had enough of this."
The man tensed. "What—?"
John moved.
Fast.
His right arm snapped backward—
Sigils ignited beneath his sleeve—
FWOOOM.
A compressed burst of air exploded outward from his palm.
The man yelped as the force hit him full-on, throwing him backward across the patio.
The shotgun ripped from his hands instantly.
He crashed into a patio chair. The furniture toppled apart beneath him as he hit the ground hard.
John turned smoothly, catching the shotgun out of the air before it could hit the ground.
Silence.
The man scrambled desperately, trying to push himself upright—
Then froze.
Because John already had the gun.
And was pointing it directly at him.
The man's eyes widened in terror.
He stopped moving completely, kneeling awkwardly among the broken chair pieces, breathing hard.
Expecting the worst.
John stared at him for a second.
Then—
With complete disinterest—
He engaged the safety.
Lowered the shotgun.
And held it out grip-first toward the man.
"You done?" John asked flatly.
The man just stared at him in stunned silence.
"…If I wanted you dead," John added calmly, "we wouldn't still be having this conversation."
John stood there quietly, the shotgun lowered loosely in his hands.
The man still knelt frozen in the grass, breathing unevenly, eyes locked on him like he still wasn't sure whether he was about to die.
Then—
"Dad!"
A voice from inside the house.
Small.
Panicked.
Two kids came running out through the partially open sliding door, both crying as they rushed across the patio.
"Daddy!"
The man's expression broke instantly.
"Hey—hey—it's okay—"
They slammed into him, wrapping their arms around him tightly as he pulled them close without hesitation.
"I'm okay," he said quickly, still shaken. "I'm alright—I'm alright…"
One of the kids glanced nervously toward John and buried their face against their father again.
John looked away slightly.
Giving them space.
Giving the moment room to breathe.
The cold night air settled around them again, quieter now except for the distant hum of the electric fence somewhere far off through the estate.
After a few seconds, John finally spoke.
Softly.
"…You were protecting your family."
The man looked up slowly.
Still embarrassed.
Still wary.
John's expression remained calm.
"I don't hold that against you."
Then he stepped closer and held out his free hand.
Offering help.
The man hesitated.
Pride.
Fear.
Humiliation.
All fighting across his face at once.
But eventually—
He accepted it.
John pulled him to his feet easily.
"Thanks," the man muttered quietly, unable to fully meet his eyes.
John gave a small shrug.
"Could've gone worse."
A faint laugh escaped the man despite himself.
Short.
Uneasy.
But human.
John glanced down at the shotgun still in his other hand.
Then offered it back grip-first.
The man blinked in surprise.
John's voice stayed steady.
"Like I said before," he said calmly, "I'm looking for a survivor."
The man looked at the shotgun for a second before slowly taking it back.
More carefully this time.
Less fear.
More uncertainty.
John stepped back slightly, giving him room as the kids stayed close to their father's sides, still clutching onto him.
The man swallowed once before finally asking—
"…Who are you looking for?"
John answered immediately.
"Kendra Wilson."
The name seemed to catch the man off guard slightly.
John continued before he could interrupt.
"She was staying in the estate at a friend's house when all this went down."
His eyes lifted toward the deeper streets of Crestwood Estates beyond the backyard.
"She's supposed to be with the Whitmores."
Silence.
The man's expression changed instantly.
Recognition.
"...The Whitmores?" he repeated.
John nodded once.
"You know them?"
The man exchanged a quick glance with his kids before looking back at John.
"Yeah," he said slowly. "Everybody in the estates knows the Whitmores. They own Crestwood."
Not surprising.
Places like Crestwood Estates always had families everyone knew.
The wealthy ones.
The influential ones.
The people behind the gates behind the gates.
The man shifted uneasily.
"They're still here," he admitted after a moment.
John's attention sharpened immediately.
Alive.
Good.
"Where?" he asked.
The man pointed vaguely deeper into the neighborhood.
"Near the center of the estate. Big white house near the private park area."
His expression darkened slightly.
"But nobody's gone near that place since the attacks started."
John frowned. "Why?"
The man hesitated.
Long enough to matter.
Then he lowered his voice.
"Because something keeps showing up there at night."
The cold wind moved softly through the yard.
The kids clung tighter to their father.
John's eyes narrowed slightly.
"…What kind of something?"
The man swallowed hard.
"I don't know," he admitted. "But every time it shows up…"
His grip tightened around the shotgun.
"…those things outside stop acting like animals."
Silence settled heavily after that.
Because John knew exactly how bad that sounded.
The wind shifted softly through the backyard, rustling dead leaves across the patio stones.
Then—
A screech echoed through the estate.
Distant.
Sharp.
Wrong.
The sound ripped through the night like metal tearing apart underwater.
One of the kids immediately flinched, grabbing tighter onto their father.
The man's face drained of color.
"…That," he whispered.
John turned slowly toward the deeper streets of Crestwood Estates.
Listening.
The screech came again.
Closer this time.
Not revenant.
Not human.
Something else.
The grimoire beneath John's jacket pulsed once.
Hard.
Warning him.
Every instinct in his body sharpened instantly.
Then—
The neighborhood changed.
Not visibly.
Subtly.
The distant sounds of revenants outside the estate walls—
Stopped.
Completely.
No more impacts against the fence.
No more screeching.
Nothing.
Like the entire swarm had suddenly gone still.
Watching.
Waiting.
The man noticed it too.
"…Oh no," he breathed.
John's eyes narrowed.
Because now he could feel it too.
A presence.
Moving somewhere deeper in the estate.
Heavy.
Deliberate.
Aware.
Another screech ripped through the night—
Closer.
The kids recoiled instantly, terrified.
The father looked like he was about to panic.
John turned sharply toward him.
"Get back inside."
The tone in his voice changed completely.
Firm.
Direct.
Commanding.
The man froze.
"Lock every door," John continued. "Close every blind. And no matter what you hear—"
His glowing eyes fixed hard on the man.
"Do not come back outside for anything."
No hesitation.
No argument.
The man nodded immediately.
"O-okay," he stammered.
He grabbed his kids quickly, pushing them toward the sliding door.
"Inside—inside now."
The children rushed in ahead of him, crying softly as they disappeared into the dark house.
The man paused only once at the doorway, looking back at John.
"…What are you gonna do?"
John glanced toward the deeper streets of Crestwood Estates.
Toward the sound.
Toward whatever was moving through the dark.
"…Find out what that thing is," he said quietly.
Another heavy THUD echoed across the rooftops in the distance.
Closer now.
The man didn't say another word.
He disappeared inside—
And slammed the sliding door shut behind him.
The lock clicked immediately.
John stood still for half a second longer.
Listening.
Feeling the estate around him.
The silence.
The tension.
The way even the revenants outside had gone quiet.
Then—
John moved.
He broke into a run down the side yard, boots tearing through wet grass as he vaulted the low gate and hit the street beyond.
Fast.
Focused.
The grimoire beneath his jacket pulsed harder with every step.
John moved fast through the empty streets, boots pounding against pavement as the cold wind tore past him.
The deeper he ran into Crestwood Estates, the heavier the pressure became.
Like the entire neighborhood was holding its breath.
Another distant THUD echoed somewhere ahead across the rooftops.
Fast.
Moving.
Hunting.
John's jaw tightened as he ran.
Then his eyes flicked briefly toward his jacket.
Toward the grimoire pulsing beneath it.
The thing had been restless ever since he crossed the wall.
Now it practically vibrated against his ribs.
John let out a breath between strides.
"…I know this is a dumb idea," he muttered under his breath. "But you got a better one?"
The grimoire flickered beneath the fabric.
A faint pulse of warmth.
Then another.
Stronger this time.
John's expression flattened instantly.
"…Oh," he said dryly. "That's so much better."
Another pulse.
Almost smug.
John shook his head once and kept running.
"Fantastic. Glad we're on the same page."
A screech split the night again—
Much closer now.
John rounded a corner hard, coat snapping behind him as he pushed faster toward the center of the estate.
Toward the sound.
Toward whatever nightmare was waiting near the Whitmore house.
John rounded another corner at full speed—
Then stopped so abruptly his boots skidded across the pavement.
His entire body reacted before his mind caught up.
Instinct.
Danger.
John immediately threw himself backward behind the corner of the house, shoulder hitting the wall as he pulled himself out of sight.
Silence.
No screeching.
No movement.
Just pressure.
Heavy enough to make the air feel thick in his lungs.
Slowly—
Carefully—
John leaned just enough to peek around the corner.
And froze.
At the end of the block stood the Whitmore estate.
Even inside Crestwood Estates—
The Whitmores had their own perimeter fence.
Tall.
Electrified.
Blue arcs snapping softly along the metal barriers surrounding the massive white mansion beyond.
Most of the lights inside the home were dark.
Except for a few.
People were still inside.
But that wasn't what held John's attention.
It was the thing standing in front of the gate.
Tall.
Thin.
Wrapped in blackened armor that looked half grown and half forged into its body. Shadows poured from it like smoke, curling unnaturally into the night air as if darkness itself bled from its skin.
Its eyes glowed an unnatural green.
Bright.
Hungry.
Its elongated fingers ended in jagged claws, hanging loosely at its sides while it stood perfectly still before the fence.
Watching the house.
John's stomach tightened.
And suddenly—
A flash.
A memory.
Not his.
Visions slammed through his mind in broken fragments—
Black fog swallowing streets.
Bodies hanging from trees.
Green eyes burning through darkness.
A voice whispering through static—
Blightcasters are corrupted occultists consumed by the abyss.
John jerked slightly as the vision vanished.
His breathing steadied slowly.
"…A Blightcaster," he murmured quietly.
The grimoire beneath his jacket flickered sharply in response.
Warm.
Agitated.
John glanced downward slightly.
"Yeah, I know," he whispered back.
Another pulse.
Stronger this time.
Almost annoyed.
John frowned.
"I know I can't beat it head-on."
The grimoire flickered again.
Then went still.
John stared at his jacket for a second.
"…Do you have a plan?"
Silence.
Then one faint pulse.
John rolled his eyes slightly.
"No?" he muttered quietly. "Then stop with the attitude."
Ahead—
The Blightcaster slowly lifted its head.
As if listening.
Then—
CRASH.
A trash can clattered loudly somewhere across the street.
John's head snapped toward the sound instantly.
Two figures.
A man and a woman.
Mid-run.
Frozen in panic beside an overturned trash can spilling garbage across the pavement.
"…Oh no," John breathed.
The couple looked toward the Blightcaster—
Too late.
The thing moved.
Not running.
Not leaping.
One second it stood at the Whitmore gate—
The next—
It was there.
The shadows around it exploded outward in a violent blur as it crossed the street faster than John's eyes could fully track.
The couple screamed.
The Blightcaster seized both by the throat effortlessly, lifting them off the ground like they weighed nothing.
Their feet kicked desperately in the air.
The revenants around the street went still.
Watching.
The creature tilted its head slowly, green eyes burning brighter as black smoke curled from beneath its armor.
Then it spoke.
Its voice was wrong.
Scratchy.
Layered.
Like several whispers speaking over one another through broken glass.
But somehow still loud enough to echo down the entire block.
"Your soul…"
The man clawed helplessly at the creature's arm.
The woman choked out broken sobs.
"…will feed Astagoth's awakening."
Its eyes ignited brighter.
Green light spread across its body in thin, pulsing veins as dark energy began pouring from the couple into the creature.
Their screams weakened instantly.
Skin paling.
Bodies trembling violently.