An Old Sin Returns

St. Roch Cemetery Chapel

1:13 A.M.

The flickering candlelight painted grotesque shadows across the cracked walls, dancing over symbols written in fresh blood. The iron scent was thick in the air, mingling with damp stone and the faint, sickly sweetness of decay.

Vance stood in the center of the chapel, gun raised, finger tight on the trigger. Cat was beside him, her breath ragged, her eyes darting between the shadows pressing against the stained glass.

And across from them, standing calmly behind the blood-soaked altar, was the Choir's leader.

He wasn't what Vance expected. No demonic features. No monstrous aura. Just a man—tall, lean, dressed in simple dark clothes. His face was sharp but serene, like someone carved from marble with a chisel made of secrets. His eyes, however, were wrong. Too black. Too deep. Like staring into an endless well.

"Detective Vance," the man greeted softly, his voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. "You finally arrived. Right where you belong."

Vance's jaw tightened. "I don't belong anywhere near you."

The man chuckled lightly. "Ah, but that's where you're wrong. You've always belonged to us. You just didn't know it yet."

Cat took a step forward, her gun steady. "Who the hell are you?"

The man tilted his head slightly, as if amused by the question. "Names are for the living. But if you must call me something—Abaddon will do."

Vance felt the name settle in the pit of his stomach like ice. He'd heard it before—whispers in old case files, muttered by half-mad cultists in interrogation rooms. Abaddon. The angel of the abyss. The destroyer.

But this wasn't an angel. This was something wearing skin like a costume.

"What do you want?" Vance growled.

Abaddon smiled, stepping around the altar, his hands clasped behind his back. "Want? Oh, Detective, we've already taken what we needed. This city's blood is our ink, and you've helped write every line of our hymn."

Vance's finger twitched on the trigger. "I've killed plenty of monsters. You'll be just another body."

Abaddon's smile didn't fade. "Then pull the trigger."

Vance hesitated—not out of fear, but because something felt wrong. The way Abaddon spoke wasn't just arrogance. It was confidence. Like he knew something Vance didn't.

And then Abaddon said it.

"Do you remember Maryanne Fletcher?"

The name hit Vance like a punch to the chest.

Maryanne. Sixteen years old. Found dead behind St. Michael's Church. The case that haunted him for years. The one he couldn't solve.

Vance's gun wavered slightly. "What do you know about her?"

Abaddon's grin widened. "I know who killed her."

The words echoed through the chapel, bouncing off the stone walls and slamming into Vance's heart. His vision tunneled, memories flashing behind his eyes—crime scene photos, blood on the pavement, the symbol carved into her chest.

"She was the first seal," Abaddon continued softly. "The beginning of the hymn. And you, Samuel Vance… you were the chorus."

Vance felt his breath hitch. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Abaddon took a slow step forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You were there."

The words hit harder than any bullet.

Vance's mind recoiled, but fragments of memories surfaced—flashes of that night. The alley. The blood. The symbol carved into flesh. But… not as a detective.

As a witness.

"No," Vance whispered, shaking his head. "I wasn't—I didn't—"

Abaddon's voice slithered into the cracks of his mind. "You've forgotten, haven't you? Repressed the truth. Buried it beneath whiskey and rage. But deep down, you know. You were part of it. You're not hunting the Choir, Detective. You are part of it."

Cat's voice cut through the haze. "Vance—he's messing with your head. Don't listen to him."

But the damage was done. The seed of doubt had been planted, and it rooted itself deep.

Vance's hand trembled slightly as he gripped the gun tighter. "Why me?"

Abaddon's smile faded, his eyes turning cold. "Because you're our third seal."

Before Vance could react, the doors behind them exploded open, and the Choir flooded in—dozens of robed figures, chanting in unison, their voices rising in a sickening, melodic crescendo.

Vance and Cat spun, firing into the crowd, but it was like trying to stop a flood with bullets. The Choir swarmed, their hands clawing, their chants growing louder.

Cat was dragged down, kicking and screaming. Vance fought like a man possessed, his gun empty, switching to his knife, slashing through robed figures.

But they overwhelmed him.

Hands gripped his arms, his legs, pulling him to the ground. He struggled, but it was useless. They were too many.

Abaddon knelt beside him, leaning in close. "You see, Samuel, this was never about saving anyone. It was about awakening you."

Vance gritted his teeth, blood dripping from a cut above his eye. "Go to hell."

Abaddon smiled softly. "Oh, Detective. I'm already there."

With that, he raised a ceremonial dagger, its blade etched with symbols that seemed to writhe in the candlelight.

Vance's heart raced. He wasn't afraid of dying. He was afraid Abaddon was right—that some part of him belonged to this darkness.

The dagger plunged downward.

Vance braced for pain.

But it never came.

A blinding light erupted from the chapel's entrance, and a voice—booming, divine, terrible—echoed through the space.

"ENOUGH."

The Choir screamed, their chants dissolving into shrieks of agony as the light consumed them.

Vance struggled to see through the glare, his vision swimming.

And standing in the doorway, wings spread wide, was Gabriel—his eyes burning like the sun, his sword dripping with holy fire.

The angel had returned.

But whether it was to save him or finish him, Vance didn't know.