I pushed myself up onto my elbows the moment someone stumbled out of the building.
Matthew.
He rounded the corner fast.
I dropped down to meet him.
"Instructor—here," he said, shoving the radar into his teacher's hands.
The man went pale.
"What the hell is going on—and where's Storik—" Iveson stepped closer—
—and stopped mid-sentence.
"What is it?" I asked, trying to see the screen.
"We're fucked, kid. Properly fucked," Grek muttered, already pulling out his phone. "Emergency. Minimum three more teams," he snapped into it.
I leaned out from the corner.
People were pouring out of the building, shoving past each other in panic.
Smoke.
I could smell it already.
"What the hell is—"
I didn't finish.
Someone grabbed my arm and yanked me toward the street.
"No questions. Move," Iveson said, sharp and final.
It felt like I'd stepped into something else entirely.
Screaming.
Too many people.
Crowds spilling out of nearby bars, drawn by the noise.
Thick smoke rolling out of the gambling house doors.
"Where's Andrew?!" I shouted, panic hitting all at once as I turned to Matthew.
"Holivan, Storik's an experienced defender. Stop worrying about him—move!" Iveson snapped, dragging me along.
A shot cracked right past my ear.
I dropped instinctively.
On one side—crowds. Panicking, pushing, blind.
On the other—a motorcycle tearing straight toward us.
Gun raised.
Aimed at me.
"Oh, come on—" I muttered, ducking back behind the corner. "Don't tell me this is Marcus Holivan again—"
"Alan!" Matthew forced his way through the crowd, breath tight. "Those are possessed!"
"Great," I snapped, crouching beside him and peering around the wall. "And where the hell are the instructors now?"
Didn't need an answer.
The first rider skidded to a stop and kicked the bike aside like it meant nothing.
The other two never made it.
Our instructors intercepted them before they got close.
"We take that one," Matthew said—and moved before I could answer.
Straight toward the possessed.
No hesitation.
Idiot—
No.
No time.
The crowd swallowed him almost immediately.
The rider lifted the gun.
Aimed.
Matthew didn't see it.
"Shit—!"
I ran.
Hit him hard—shoulder into his side—just as the shot rang out.
Someone behind us screamed.
I caught a glimpse—
A man clutching his shoulder. Blood spreading fast.
"Damn it—" I sucked in a breath. "We need to pull him away from here!"
No time to think.
I ran.
"Hey! You're after me, right?!" I shouted, locking the possessed's attention onto me—and bolted the other way, shoving through the crowd.
Sirens.
Getting closer.
Good.
Maybe.
He took the bait.
Shots cracked behind me.
People screaming.
Someone fell.
I didn't turn.
Couldn't.
If I stopped—
more people would die.
There was nowhere here.
Nowhere in the city center where I could use my power without tearing through civilians.
Except—
the alley leading to the academy.
Too far.
Didn't matter.
If I could just drag him there—
"Don't even try it, Holivan."
The voice cut clean through everything.
I froze for half a second.
The rider tore off his helmet.
Paul.
Or what used to be him.
"I know exactly what you're trying to do," he said. "Not happening."
"You actually let yourself get possessed?" I shot back, twisting away from another shot—heat skimming past my cheek.
"He made a deal," the thing inside him said, calm. Wrong. "A good one. I kill you—he gets his freedom. I get the body."
Up close—
it looked like Paul.
Sounded like him.
Moved like him.
But it wasn't him.
Not anymore.
That was the worst part.
Seeing a familiar face—and knowing there was nothing left behind it.
"So he traded his life for mine?" I said, breath tight.
"Enough talking," the possessed snapped. "I'm tired of chasing you."
He tilted the gun slightly.
"Or I start shooting everyone until you stop running."
Cold.
Sharp.
Immediate.
He would do it.
No hesitation.
And he'd already figured out my plan.
So what now?
Think.
Think—
"Would the host really be satisfied if you just shoot me?" I forced out. "Why not take me somewhere quiet and actually fight me?"
"I don't care how you die," he said. "The contract doesn't specify."
The shot hit.
Pain exploded through my leg.
I dropped.
Hard.
The ground slammed into me as I twisted onto my back.
Too slow.
He was already there.
Gun aimed straight at my head.
"I spent fifty years looking for a body," he said, smiling. "And your little host led me straight to one."
Click.
Nothing.
I flinched anyway.
"Piece of junk," he growled, tossing the empty gun aside—
—and lunged.
No time.
Pain didn't matter.
Adrenaline drowned it out.
I shoved back, struggling under his weight—too strong, too heavy, strength pushed past human limits by whatever was inside him.
Not again.
Not like this.
Last time I had a knife.
Now—
nothing.
His hands locked around my throat.
Tight.
I clawed at them, forcing energy through my body in blind desperation.
"Pointless," he said. "That doesn't scare me anymore."
My vision blurred.
Air—
gone.
Again.
Right on the edge.
What the hell did I do to deserve this?
This life.
The last one.
Always running.
Always fighting just to stay alive—
Something snapped.
Anger.
Pain.
Rage.
All of it hit at once.
I dragged my injured leg up—
—and drove it straight into his groin with everything I had.
For a split second—
his grip broke.
His face twisted.
That was enough.
Air tore back into my lungs.
I coughed, choking—
kicked again—
He flinched back this time.
Space.
Finally—
I rolled, trying to get up—
Too slow.
A fist crashed into my back.
Everything went white.
I hit the pavement hard, breath ripped out of me.
Before I could move—
his arm locked around my throat again.
Dragged me up.
Pinned.
Weight crushing down.
Muscles tightening.
Pressure.
No air.
Nothing.
I couldn't move.
Couldn't fight.
Nothing left.
My vision smeared.
Tears blurred everything.
"Paul!"
A voice—furious, sharp—
—and then suddenly—
the weight was gone.
"I warned you last time."
"Andrew…" I rasped, barely able to breathe.