The Choir Awakens

The rain had stopped, but the city felt heavier. New Orleans' usual hum of life—the jazz drifting from street corners, the chatter of late-night wanderers—had been swallowed by an unnatural silence. It was like the city itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to come crashing down.

Detective Samuel Vance stood outside the warehouse, staring at the dark sky, the blood on his hands already drying into dark stains. Elena Sharpe was dead. And with her death, the second trumpet had sounded, even if the world hadn't heard it yet.

Behind him, Cat zipped up her jacket, her face pale, jaw tight. She hadn't said much since they left Elena's body behind. The weight of it was crushing both of them, but Vance knew grief had no place right now. Not when the Choir was still out there.

Vance broke the silence. "They're moving faster. The first two seals in less than a month."

Cat's voice was low, bitter. "At this rate, we'll be out of time before we figure out what the hell they're doing."

Vance nodded, wiping his hands on his coat. "Then we stop waiting. We make the next move."

Hours Later – Inside a Dark, Hidden Chapel Beneath the City

Father Dominic's underground chapel wasn't marked on any map. Buried beneath layers of crumbling stone and forgotten tunnels, it was a relic from an older New Orleans—a place built for secrets.

Candles flickered weakly, casting distorted shadows on the walls covered with religious symbols, both familiar and… wrong. Symbols Vance had seen etched into flesh at crime scenes.

Dominic greeted them with a tired, wary look. "I heard about Elena."

Vance didn't bother with pleasantries. "You knew this was coming."

Dominic sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I knew the Choir wouldn't stop until the seals were broken. But even I didn't expect them to move this quickly."

Cat crossed her arms. "What are the seals, really? Don't give me scripture. Give me answers."

Dominic hesitated, then pulled out an ancient book bound in cracked leather. "The seals aren't just symbolic. They're rituals—steps in a process to tear the barrier between this world and…" He trailed off, as if saying it aloud would make it more real. "Something older than heaven and hell."

Vance leaned over the table, his fingers pressing into the wood. "You mean Lucifer."

Dominic shook his head slowly. "No. Worse."

A heavy silence settled over them.

Vance straightened up. "So what's next?"

Dominic flipped through the brittle pages, stopping at an illustration that made Vance's blood run cold. It showed seven figures, each with hollow faces, standing around a burning city. Above them, something vast and winged loomed—a figure with neither angelic grace nor demonic rage, but something in between.

"The Choir's next ritual requires a place of power," Dominic explained. "Not just any location. They need somewhere tied to both faith and sin—a place where the veil is already thin."

Cat frowned. "New Orleans is full of places like that."

Dominic nodded grimly. "Exactly. Which is why they've been here all along."

Vance's mind raced. "St. Augustine. St. Michael's. The victims were found near old churches, all of them tied to the city's oldest blood."

Then it hit him.

"The next target isn't a person," Vance whispered. "It's a place."

Later That Night – St. Roch Cemetery

The cemetery was silent, save for the faint rustle of wind slipping between the towering tombs. Vance and Cat moved cautiously, flashlights cutting through the darkness. Their breath hung in the cold air like ghosts.

"This is where it started," Vance muttered.

St. Roch wasn't just a cemetery. It was a convergence point—where old rituals had been whispered beneath the soil long before the city's founders carved streets into the swampland.

As they neared the chapel at the cemetery's heart, Vance felt it—a pulse, faint but undeniable, like the heartbeat of something buried beneath the earth.

Cat's flashlight flickered, casting erratic shadows across the crumbling headstones. "Something's wrong."

Vance nodded. His instincts screamed at him, but it was too late.

From the darkness, they emerged—figures cloaked in robes, faces hidden beneath hoods. The Choir of Sins. Their chanting rose like a tide, ancient words slipping through the cracks of reality.

Vance raised his gun. "Cat—"

She was already firing. The first robed figure dropped, but more surged forward with unnatural speed, their hands clawed, their faces twisted—not human anymore.

Vance fought like a man possessed, bullets tearing through the night, but the Choir didn't fear death. They welcomed it.

One of them lunged, knocking him to the ground. Cold hands gripped his throat, squeezing with inhuman strength. Vance's vision blurred, but he fought back, slamming the butt of his gun into the attacker's face.

The hood slipped back.

It had no face.

Just smooth skin stretched where eyes, nose, and mouth should've been. A Hollow Man.

Vance roared, pulling his knife and driving it into the creature's neck. It crumpled, hissing like steam escaping from a pipe.

Cat dragged him to his feet. "We need to move!"

They sprinted toward the chapel, slamming the doors shut behind them.

Breathing hard, Vance turned, expecting to find safety.

But instead, they found an altar—covered in fresh blood.

A figure stood behind it.

Not robed. Not masked.

The Choir's leader.

His face was calm, almost serene, as he smiled at Vance. "Welcome, Detective. We've been waiting."

Vance aimed his gun, rage boiling beneath his skin. "You're done."

The man chuckled softly. "Oh no, Samuel. You're just in time."

The candles around the chapel ignited at once, casting the room in flickering light. On the walls, written in blood, was the same phrase repeated over and over:

"The third trumpet will sound."

And beneath it, scrawled in shaking hands:

"Vance."

Vance's heart stopped.

They weren't just after victims.

They were after him.