Underground, several criminals remained holed up at the bunker entrance. The small room held a wooden table, recently used for cards—money still scattered on top, cigarettes still burning in the ashtrays.

  The men stood tense, anxious, weapons pointed toward the ceiling, waiting for the police to break through.

  So, when the hatch creaked open after a long silence, they fired without hesitation. Bullet casings clattered across the floor until only silence remained.

  “That’ll get ’em,” one of the grunts muttered, wiping smoke from the barrel of his submachine gun.

  The others laughed, reassured by their supposed advantage. They knew all they had to do was hold out long enough to receive new orders.

  Of course, no one expected what happened next.

  The hatch opened again. Gunfire erupted—more panicked this time—aimed at a small object that dropped to the floor. Some recognized it instantly. Others hesitated. The stun grenade activated regardless.

  A blinding flash filled the room. Ears rang violently, disorienting them. Eyes clamped shut. Thoughts scattered.

  An agile figure dropped from above and landed smoothly on the concrete floor. Without delay, he drew twin pistols and shot down two of the nearest men.

  Those who’d partially recovered fired at the blurred silhouette, but their aim was hopeless.

  Soren took down another target, then dove to the floor just in time to dodge a wild burst of bullets.

  One final grunt steadied himself—only for Argos to drop from the hatch and crash into him, tackling him to the ground.

  The massive devil dog pinned him down, jaws tearing into flesh with frenzied brutality, blood spraying across the concrete.

  Soren watched the scene, momentarily disturbed, catching his breath. He was reminded again of the true nature of his companion: a creature of violence, born from chaos and bloodlust.

  Argos pulled back from the body, his mouth drenched in blood. With a single swipe of his paw, he wiped it clean.

  “You always say things taste awful,” Soren said, reloading his pistols, “but you sure seem to enjoy devouring them.”

  “There’s no need to hold back against vermin,” the demon replied, rising to his full height. His looming figure dwarfed the boy’s.

  Soren didn’t answer. Instead, he moved to the corpses and inspected their gear. “Let’s keep moving.”

  Their next objective: a heavy armored door leading into a hallway.

  Soren crept forward and pressed against the wall beside the entrance. Peeking out, he spotted two armed guards at the far end—who opened fire the instant they saw him.

  “So much for a quiet entrance,” Argos muttered, arms crossed. “What’s your plan?”

  “I’ll be riddled with bullets before I make it halfway through,” Soren replied. “I could throw another grenade—but we don’t have many left. I’m guessing there’ll be more situations like this.”

  “Then maybe it’s time you used the other thing,” Argos suggested.

  Soren shook his head. “There might be a cheaper way out.”

  The demon narrowed his eyes, suspicious of the boy’s grin.

  The guards waited, tense, guns aimed at the corner—ready to fire the moment someone peeked again.

  Then a voice echoed down the dark corridor.

  “Surrender quickly, and you’ll live.”

  “They sent a kid?” one of the men scoffed. “You’re dead, boy!”

  Moments later, they saw a human silhouette approaching.

  They opened fire instantly, unloading clip after clip. But the figure didn’t fall. It kept moving forward.

  Then they saw it clearly: it was one of their own. A corpse.

  It collapsed before them, revealing what stood behind it—a tall, dark silhouette holding another body as a shield.

  Horrified, they emptied the last of their magazines, shredding the corpse and hitting the figure behind.

  Argos dropped to the floor, his body perforated like Swiss cheese. Though the bullets weren’t silver, the sheer impact had torn him apart before he could reach the two men.

  And just as he fell, Soren appeared behind him.

  Two precise shots and the two bodies hit the floor.

  Argos, barely alive, crawled toward the corpses and began tearing into them with ravenous hunger.

  Soren stood by, glancing at his watch as the demon devoured the flesh. After a full minute, Argos rose again, wounds mostly sealed.

  “Soren O’Connors,” the demon growled, “you are a crazy bastard.”

  The boy grinned, breath shaky. “You said ‘no holding back.’ You better keep that energy cause we’re gonna do this a lot.”

  “Just because I can heal doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt when I get shot,” Argos snapped.

  “I wonder if a demon’s pain is worth anything,” Soren said coldly, eyes scanning the mangled corpses. “Even if you die, you’ll come back in hell. These people... this was it. Same goes for me.”

  He met Argos’ otherworldly gaze, emotionless.

  The demon grunted and looked away.

  “We’re still far from the summoning site,” Soren continued. “And the closer we get, the more resistance I expect”

  And so, the hunter and his contract pressed onward, moving fast through the underground labyrinth—killing and tearing through every obstacle in their path.

  *

  At the surface, Agent Matsuda could still hear distant gunfire echoing from below the flower shop entrance. The other SWAT team members posted at the barricades listened as well, the shots never seeming to end.

  Earlier, they had been shocked to learn a young man and a devilish creature had been sent down there. Now, they weren’t sure 'what' had been sent.

  Despite belonging to a different government organization, the Commission remained an enigma—shrouded in mystery and left untouched by typical oversight. Their works were mostly criticized by some parts of society, but their connections to the goverment were too deep for anyone to stop them.

  “Any more information on what we’re dealing with?” Matsuda asked the local police chief assisting in the operation.

  “This underground system of bunkers dates back to the Spanish Civil War,” the officer explained, clenching his fist. “We knew the mafia was active here in Barcelona—but we never traced their operations to a centralized base. Turns out, they were operating right beneath us all along.”

  Matsuda didn’t care for the criminal context, but it wasn't like he had better things to think about.

  “What about their gear? These guys are armed like a small army.”

  “This mafia’s been controlling most of the city’s trafficking for years. We’ve tried to go after them, but their reach runs deep—even into some of our own. And with all the bureaucracy in place, we’ve never been able to deal with them properly.”

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “They made a fatal mistake when they involved the Commission,” the chief added. “I always thought you people operated outside the law. That might still be true—but at least it lets you bypass the very things holding us back.”

  Matsuda stared blankly at the entrance, juggling the bag of pastries in one hand. “Demons don’t care about bureaucracy or judge orders. Neither should we. Still... like you said, maybe we’re no better than the ones we fight.” He glanced sideways. “Can the police say the same about themselves?”

  The officer—sharp, both in mind and demeanor—caught his meaning and stood silently beside him, reflecting on the chaos unfolding below.

  One question still lingered: Why would a well-established criminal organization turn to demon dealings?

  *

  In the deepest part of the bunker, a man sat inside a lavish office, smoking a Cuban cigar. His face showed sings of worry.

  Suddenly, two armed men burst in and bowed.

  “The police have surrounded the area. Boss, we should—”

  “It’s fine,” the man interrupted. “Let the police play their game. No one’s leaving until our business is done.”

  He returned to his cigar. But in his mind, he wasn’t thinking about the police. He was reminiscing a womanly figure.

  “I’m tired of all this, Florentino!” she had screamed, her voice cracked with fury as she stuffed her suitcase with clothes.

  “What’s wrong now?” he snapped, standing amidst the luxury of a Mediterranean villa.

  “I can’t take this life anymore!”

  “Can’t take what?! I’ve given you more than any woman could dream of! Cars, clothes, trips, parties—served on a silver platter! And now you say you 'can’t take it'?!”

  His voice echoed down the halls, heard by guards standing awkwardly nearby.

  “I used to think you were clean, Florentino!” she shouted. “Now I know everything you’ve given me is stained with blood! You can’t buy peace of mind!”

  She pulled her bags off the oversized bed. He tried to reach her—she shoved him back.

  “Don’t come looking for me. I don’t want to know anything about you anymore!”

  And then she was gone.

  He trashed the villa in rage. Bottles, furniture—everything shattered.

  Before long, the other subleaders of the organization were gathered.

  “I don’t get it!” Florentino raged. “Every rich man gets his hands dirty! But she still wanted to do everything rich people do! Is it because I broke the law? The law broke me first!”

  He paced, drinking straight from a whiskey bottle. “She doesn’t know anything about peace of mind! You don’t get peace from the world—you take it!”

  “Boss, we can find another woman—” one of them began, only for Florentino to throw the bottle at him.

  “She was my wife! The woman of my life!” He pointed to the golden ring on his finger. “Now she fucking hates me! You can bring me any whore or model you like—but they’re not her! They are not my wife!”

  Another man tried to speak but was silenced by the others. Everyone understood: the situation was beyond repair.

  But one of them finally dared to step forwards. “There might be a way, boss,” he said, calm and composed.

  Florentino turned, eyes bloodshot. “If you lie to me, I’ll have you and your entire family executed.”

  Still, the man stood firm. “What you want is love returned. That can’t certianly be bought with money—but I know a way to bring it back.”

  “I’d give anything,” Florentino muttered. “No matter what.”

  But the proposal exceeded even his darkest expectations.

  “A deal with a devil?” he asked aloud, sweat trickling down his face.

  “For the right price, there is a demon who can make your mistress return—and love you more than ever.”

  Everyone else froze. No one interrupted.

  “And the price...?”

  “A share of your wealth... and ten good virgin women. In exchange, she will be summoned—and favor you above all others.”

  Even as the subleader revealed his demonic ties, Florentino was desperate enough not to care.

  Now, in the present, that very same man stood beside him inside the panic room, awaiting the final update.

  Soon, the two guards returned.

  “The last of the assets has arrived,” one said, uncomfortable.

  The helper smiled.

  “Then we shall begin the ritual—immediately.”

  So, the so-called asset turned out to be nothing more than a person—a young woman, abducted just hours earlier by mafia members. She had no ties to the underworld. In fact, she was a bright university student working a part-time job to support herself. She simply happened to live in the wrong city, like thousands of others.

  Days earlier, the authorities had begun receiving reports of missing young women. Surveillance footage from around the city pointed to mafia involvement, yet their actions didn’t align with their usual modus operandi.

  Though long connected to human trafficking, the mafia traditionally acted only as intermediaries—facilitators of darker dealings that stretched across the Mediterranean. They didn’t abduct people personally, and certainly not in broad daylight.

  Despite the ongoing investigation, the number of disappearances kept rising. Panic spread throughout the city. Pressure mounted on the police, who found themselves increasingly powerless to stop it.

  Then, the tide shifted.

  One of the captured mafia members broke under questioning and offered a confession.

  “They’re planning something… something related to demons,” he whispered, clutching a golden cross with trembling hands.

  “And that’s where you draw the line?” the chief officer asked, unimpressed by the sudden burst of conscience.

  Still, the confession was enough to draw the attention of the city's higher authorities.

  “I’ve read the missing persons reports,” said Subdirectress Nasaki from behind her imposing desk, nestled in the grandeur of her private office. “At first, they suspected a serial killer. But if these are ritualistic sacrifices, it makes much more sense.”

  She addressed Matsuda, who stood before her in silence.

  “If that’s true, we don’t have much time,” he recognized after cleaning his throat.

  Nasaki folded her hands and sighed. “It’s too late to borrow Soren's tracer. You’re authorized to use any means necessary to find the ritual site and stop it. I’ll instruct the local authorities to cooperate.”

  And so, even after locating the bunker, the operation met heavy resistance.

  “We need more reinforcements—close-combat experts, preferably,” Matsuda radioed in. He expected backup from the third division, maybe even from the second.

  Instead, he received the 'rookie' hunter that nobody knew anything about.

  Matsuda tried to object, but Subdirectress Nasaki had already made her call.

  Back in the present, the signal came for Matsuda and the police to move in. As they advanced through the subterranean halls, they were met only with the aftermath—gore and silence.

  The remains of what had taken place moments earlier left them breathless. Some officers vomited. The Chief of Police looked visibly shaken.

  Who would’ve thought the kid was a one-man army, Matsuda thought. But that doesn’t matter if he doesn’t make it in time... It’s already taken too long.

  Elsewhere, the abducted girl was thrown into a pitch-black chamber where others like her waited—scared, filthy, hollow-eyed from days spent in the shadows.

  She didn’t have time to ask questions. The mafia boss entered, flanked by guards. Then came the helper.

  Calm and methodical, the helper approached one of the women and slit her wrist. He collected the blood and began drawing the summoning circle.

  “Please… let us go,” one woman begged. Her voice barely held any hope.

  “How much longer?” the boss asked, already impatient.

  “Once the circle is complete, I’ll begin the ritual immediately,” the helper replied.

  All eyes in the room followed his movements, horrified. Demonology remained an abstract fear—one darker than any earthly crime.

  Kneeling before the circle, the demonic helper muttered words in an unknown language, his voice reverent and unnatural. “Bring them inside,” he then ordered.

  The guards obeyed. The girls began to scream, but most had already surrendered to despair. Their cries were thin and broken.

  “You, who easily command the hearts of men… Servant of Lust… heed the call of your loyal follower...” the helper intoned.

  The temperature dropped. Pale lights flickered. The fresh blood pooled unnaturally, flowing toward the center of the circle.

  Then, the girls felt it—an invisible undertow pulling them down, like drowning in a bottomless current.

  “Are you sure this will bring my wife back?” Florentino asked. For the first time, his voice cracked with uncertainty.

  From the swirling blood, a tall, pink figure emerged—an ethereal form that immediately captivated every man in the room.

  “Ah… You’ve finally brought me a worthy offering,” purred the demon, her voice honeyed and warm as she turned to her kneeling servant. “You will be rewarded in due time.”

  Then, the succubus turned her attention to Florentino, waiting for his desire to be voiced.

  “I want you to… make my wife fall in love with me again,” he said, doing his best not to meet the demon’s alluring gaze. “But—didn’t you say you needed ten girls?”

  “Your wealth and five souls were enough to bring me here,” she interrupted smoothly. “The other five… are for my personal entertainment.”

  By now, the remaining girls had slipped beyond fear—eyes empty, minds broken.

  Florentino nodded, defeated. “Very well. We should—”

  He was cut off by a loud crash from outside.

  “What is that noise?” the demon growled, voice dropping to a threat.

  “I’m afraid your demands couldn’t go unnoticed,” the mafia boss admitted. “But don’t worry—they won’t get past that vault door. Now, shall we complete the transaction?”

  But the succubus did not look convinced.

  Gunfire echoed. Then came the screaming. The guards outside were being slaughtered.

  The helper, now sweating, urged everyone to retreat through a hidden passage. But the succubus stood firm.

  “I am a servant of Lust, fully manifested on Earth. I will not be interrupted by a lesser creature.”

  And in that moment, the demon felt it: a surge of power—unmistakably infernal.

  Another demon… on the other side.

  Then—the noise stopped. Silence fell across the room.

  The demon extended grotesque, tentacle-like appendages from her head, bracing for confrontation.

  Suddenly, a thunderous blast rocked the chamber.

  The unbreakable vault door flew across the room, slamming into the succubus and crushing her against the wall.

  Florentino scrambled to his feet, eyes wide. A trickle of blood oozed from beneath the steel, growing into a small, silent pool.

  Moments later, a tall, dark figure stepped into the room—his form vaguely reptilian, eyes sharp and unblinking.

  He was flanked by a twisted, oversized German Shepherd that radiated something far more sinister than canine instinct.

  Some of the guards tried to raise their weapons—but fear paralyzed them.

  “Hands up, everyone,” the lizard ordered, his voice echoing through the chamber.

  He scanned the room, then glanced toward Argos. “You said the demon was here. I don’t see shit.”

  Argos sniffed the air and gestured toward the blood-smeared wall.

  “The demon should be right there,” he said, scratching his chin thoughtfully.

  “Is it hiding behind the door or something?” the lizard muttered, moving to tug at the warped slab of metal.

  Everyone else stared, silent and stunned.

  And then—Argos turned. He met the eyes of one of the abducted girls, and she met his.