A Whisper in Latin

The warehouse was thick with the scent of gunpowder, burnt metal, and something older—ancient, like dust left undisturbed for centuries. The faint echoes of the Choir's chants still lingered in the shadows, like the ghosts of words not meant for human ears.

Vance stood frozen, his gun trembling in his grip as he stared at the figure before him.

Gabriel.

Not the comforting angel depicted in stained glass windows or soft Sunday sermons. This Gabriel was something else entirely—tall, sharp, his presence radiating authority and violence in equal measure. His dark coat hung like armor, and his eyes burned with a cold, distant light, as if they'd seen too much of both Heaven and Hell.

Vance's finger tightened on the trigger. "I don't know who—or what—you are, but I'm not interested in sermons."

Gabriel's lips curved slightly, not quite a smile, but something close. "You misunderstand, Samuel. I don't give sermons. I deliver judgment."

Cat moved beside Vance, gun raised, her breathing ragged. "Judgment? You show up with eyes like fire, after a bunch of cult freaks tried to kill us, and you think that explains anything?"

Gabriel's gaze shifted to her, unblinking. "I am not here to explain. I am here because he"—he nodded toward Vance—"is standing at the threshold."

Vance scoffed, masking the unease coiling in his chest. "Threshold of what?"

Gabriel took a slow step forward, the flickering light catching faint sigils etched into his skin, like scars made from words themselves. "The Choir of Sins isn't just a cult. They are the architects of an ancient song, one written long before your city, your people, or your fragile concepts of good and evil."

Vance's jaw clenched. "And what's my part in all this?"

Gabriel's eyes darkened. "You are the verse that was never supposed to be written."

The words hit harder than Vance expected, stirring something inside him—a memory buried deep, like the faint echo of a voice he couldn't quite remember.

Before he could respond, Elena whimpered from behind a stack of crates, clutching her rosary so tightly her knuckles had turned white. Her eyes were wide with terror—not at Gabriel's words, but at Gabriel himself.

"She's afraid of you," Cat muttered under her breath.

Gabriel's gaze didn't waver. "She should be."

Vance's patience snapped. He stepped forward, gun still trained on Gabriel. "You wanna talk riddles? Fine. But people are dying—good people—and all I've got are cults, corpses, and cryptic bullshit. So how about you start making sense before I put a bullet in your head."

For the first time, Gabriel's expression shifted. Amusement? Pity? It was hard to tell. "A bullet cannot kill what was never truly alive, Samuel."

Vance didn't flinch. "Wanna bet?"

Gabriel took another step, his voice lowering into something darker, more primal. "The Choir believes they are summoning salvation. But what they're truly calling is something older—a voice that speaks in the cracks between creation. A whisper in the dark."

He tilted his head slightly, his burning eyes locking onto Vance's. "And that whisper knows your name."

Vance's heart raced. "Why me?"

Gabriel's answer was simple. "Because you've heard it before."

Silence.

The words dug into Vance's mind like a blade, stirring fragmented memories—shadows of forgotten dreams, voices he'd convinced himself were just echoes of trauma from past cases.

Cat broke the silence. "If you're here to help, you're doing a terrible job."

Gabriel's gaze flicked to her. "Help? I am not here to help. I am here to see if he survives."

Vance stepped forward, anger boiling beneath his skin. "Survives what?"

Gabriel's voice was barely a whisper, yet it filled the room.

"The Choir's next hymn."

Suddenly, the ground trembled—a faint, unnatural vibration. The warehouse's old steel beams groaned, dust raining down like ash.

"Elena!" Vance turned, but she was already standing, her eyes glazed over, staring at nothing. Her lips moved silently, whispering in Latin, her rosary now tangled with fresh blood seeping from her palms.

Cat rushed to her, shaking her by the shoulders. "Elena! Snap out of it!"

Gabriel didn't move. His eyes darkened, watching like a judge in a courtroom.

Vance sprinted over, grabbing Elena's face. "Elena, look at me!"

Her eyes suddenly snapped into focus—but they weren't her eyes anymore.

They were black, bottomless, reflecting nothing.

A voice—not Elena's—echoed from her lips, layered and distorted:

"The second trumpet has sounded. The vessel is prepared."

Vance stumbled back, his mind racing. "What the hell—"

Gabriel's voice cut through the chaos like a blade. "She's not possessed. She's been marked."

Cat looked at him, wild-eyed. "Marked for what?"

Gabriel's expression was grim. "For sacrifice."

Without warning, Elena let out a shriek, collapsing to the ground. Blood poured from her nose, her eyes, her ears. Her body convulsed violently.

Vance dropped beside her, trying to hold her down. "No, no, no—stay with me!"

But it was too late.

With a final, ragged gasp, Elena's body went still.

Silence filled the warehouse, thick and suffocating.

Vance sat there, staring down at her lifeless face, his hands stained with her blood.

Cat covered her mouth, fighting back tears.

Gabriel stepped forward, his voice devoid of sympathy. "The second seal is broken."

Vance stood slowly, his fists clenched. "You knew this would happen."

Gabriel didn't deny it. "I knew what could happen."

Vance's rage boiled over. He lunged at Gabriel, slamming him against a steel support beam, his forearm pressed against the angel's throat. "You're supposed to be an angel. You're supposed to stop this."

Gabriel's burning eyes met his. "I am not here to stop it, Samuel. I am here to witness it."

Vance wanted to hit him. He wanted to feel bones break under his fists. But instead, he stepped back, his chest heaving.

Gabriel adjusted his coat, unbothered. "The Choir will not stop until the last trumpet sounds."

Vance wiped the blood from his hands, his jaw tight. "Then we stop them."

Gabriel nodded slightly. "If you can."

Vance grabbed his gun, checked the clip, and looked at Cat. "We're going hunting."

As they left the warehouse, Gabriel's whisper followed them, soft and cold.

"The Choir sings, Detective. But it's your song they're finishing."