Saints and Sinners

The neon haze of New Orleans faded behind Vance as he drove down the dark, rain-slicked streets, the rhythmic wipers doing little to clear the fog pressing against the windshield. Cat sat silently beside him, her eyes fixed on the road ahead, while Elena huddled in the back seat, her trembling fingers clutching the rosary like it was the only thing anchoring her to reality.

Vance's grip on the steering wheel was tight, his knuckles white. The events at St. Mary's Parish still echoed in his mind—the Hollow Man, that faceless abomination, slipping through shadows like smoke. The whispers had crawled under his skin, infecting his thoughts.

"The past never stays buried, Samuel."

He slammed the brakes as they reached an old, crumbling warehouse near the outskirts of the city—a forgotten relic from another time, now their temporary refuge.

"This is it?" Cat asked, her skepticism cutting through the silence.

Vance nodded. "No one comes here anymore. It's off the grid."

They stepped into the warehouse, the metallic groan of the rusted door echoing in the cavernous space. Dust motes floated in the air, disturbed only by the flickering beam of Vance's flashlight. The place smelled of mildew and old oil, but it was isolated—and for now, that was enough.

Elena collapsed onto an old crate, her face pale and hollow. Cat stayed close, her sharp eyes darting to every shadow.

Vance didn't rest. He pulled out the crime scene photos, spreading them across a dusty workbench—images of mutilated bodies, each marked with the same symbol: the circle, the vertical line, the three crosses.

It wasn't just a signature. It was a message.

He stared at the photos, his mind racing. The victims weren't random. There had to be a connection.

Then he saw it.

A detail he'd overlooked before. In one of the older photos—the girl from the St. Michael's case, Maryanne Fletcher—there was something carved beneath the familiar symbol: a faint string of numbers.

4:16

At first glance, it seemed like nothing. But it wasn't a date or an address. It was too deliberate. Vance flipped through the photos of the other victims.

Another number. 3:12 carved into the skin of the second victim.

His pulse quickened. They were timestamps—references.

"Elena," he called, motioning her over. "What do these numbers mean?"

She hesitated, her eyes darting nervously before she whispered, "They're verses. Scripture."

Vance frowned. "Verses?"

Elena nodded, her voice trembling. "Biblical references. They're marking each victim like... chapters in a story."

Vance's stomach twisted. He scribbled the numbers down and pulled out his phone, searching through an online Bible app.

4:16 – Revelation: "They will hunger no more, neither thirst anymore; the sun shall not strike them, nor any scorching heat."

3:12 – Revelation: "The one who conquers, I will make him a pillar in the temple of my God. Never shall he go out of it."

Each verse was tied to judgment, purification, and sacrifice.

"They're not just killing," Vance muttered. "They're following a script."

Cat leaned over his shoulder, her brow furrowed. "So what's the end of the story?"

Before Vance could answer, Elena let out a sharp gasp, clutching her chest as if something had stabbed her.

"Elena!" Cat rushed to her side.

Vance knelt beside her, his hands gripping her shoulders. "Elena, stay with me!"

Her eyes rolled back for a moment before she whispered, "The Choir… they're here."

A distant sound echoed through the warehouse—soft at first, like the faint hum of a choir warming up. But as it grew louder, Vance realized it wasn't music.

It was chanting.

Latin verses, repeated in an eerie, rhythmic cadence.

Vance shot to his feet, drawing his gun. "Cat, get her to cover!"

The warehouse doors exploded inward, sending shards of rusted metal flying. Figures in dark robes poured in like shadows given form, their faces hidden beneath hoods.

The Choir of Sins had found them.

Vance fired, the gunshots deafening in the confined space. Two robed figures dropped, but more kept coming, moving with unnatural grace.

Cat dragged Elena behind an overturned table, pulling her own weapon and firing into the onslaught.

Vance fought his way toward them, his breath ragged, his vision narrowing. One of the Choir members lunged at him with a curved blade, but Vance twisted, slamming the butt of his gun into the attacker's face. The hood slipped, revealing not a man—but a face without features. A Hollow Man.

Vance hesitated for a split second—long enough for another to grab him from behind. He struggled, his gun skittering across the floor. The grip around his neck tightened, and black spots crept into his vision.

Then, out of nowhere—a blinding light.

The entire warehouse flashed white, searing Vance's eyes. The grip around his throat loosened, and he collapsed to the ground, gasping for air.

When he looked up, the Choir was gone. Only the faint echo of their chants remained, like the last note of a hymn fading into silence.

Cat crawled over to him, blood trickling from a cut on her forehead. "What the hell was that?"

Vance's eyes darted around, searching for the source of the light.

And then he saw him—standing in the shadows, near the far wall.

A man.

Tall. Dressed in dark clothes. His face was partially obscured, but his eyes… his eyes burned with an unnatural light, as if a storm raged behind them.

Vance stumbled to his feet, aiming his gun. "Who the hell are you?"

The man didn't flinch. He stepped forward slowly, his voice deep and resonant.

"I am Gabriel."

Vance's breath caught. The name. The visions. The whispers.

The angel had come.

But not to save him.