The Burning Eyes

New Orleans, 4:17 A.M.

The city felt like it was holding its breath.

The usual pulse of New Orleans—jazz spilling from cracked doors, laughter mingling with the scent of whiskey—was gone. The streets were empty, swallowed by a heavy fog that curled around streetlamps like ghostly fingers.

Detective Samuel Vance drove in silence, the glow of the dashboard casting harsh shadows across his face. His hands gripped the steering wheel tight, knuckles white, as the echoes of Gabriel's words gnawed at the edges of his sanity:

"The Choir sings for your soul. But it is your voice that will finish the song."

Beside him, Cat Reyes stared out the window, her reflection fractured by raindrops streaking down the glass. She hadn't said much since the chapel—since they'd watched Gabriel incinerate the Choir with nothing but light and judgment.

But Vance couldn't shake the image of Gabriel's burning eyes—not filled with compassion or divine love, but with something colder.

Indifference.

5:03 A.M. – The Safehouse

They arrived at a rundown motel on the outskirts of the city, the neon sign flickering weakly: "Vacancy."

The room smelled like mildew and stale cigarettes. Peeling wallpaper clung to the walls like dying skin, and the only light came from a flickering lamp on the nightstand.

Vance collapsed into the chair by the window, staring out into the foggy street beyond. Cat locked the door, her footsteps soft against the stained carpet.

After a long silence, she finally spoke. "You okay?"

Vance let out a bitter laugh. "Define 'okay.'"

She sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on her knees. "You haven't said a word since Gabriel left."

Vance rubbed his face, the stubble rough against his palms. "What's there to say? The Choir wants me dead—or worse. Gabriel thinks I'm some broken tool. And Abaddon's out there, pulling strings like this is some goddamn puppet show."

Cat leaned forward, her voice softer now. "But you're still breathing. That counts for something."

Vance's eyes met hers, dark and hollow. "For now."

He stood, pacing the room like a caged animal. His thoughts felt like glass shards, sharp and disjointed.

"Gabriel said I'm the key to their song," he muttered. "What the hell does that even mean?"

Cat hesitated, then pulled something from her pocket—a worn, bloodstained piece of parchment.

Vance's heart stopped.

"Where did you get that?"

Cat's voice was quiet. "Found it in the chapel… near Abaddon's altar. I didn't show you before because…" She trailed off. "Because I was scared of what it might mean."

Vance snatched it from her hands. The parchment was old, brittle, the edges burned. Written in faded ink—or was it blood?—was a single Latin phrase:

"Vox Angeli. Vox Inferni."

Vance frowned, his pulse quickening. "Voice of the Angel. Voice of Hell."

Cat nodded. "Gabriel said the Choir's hymn isn't complete without you. Maybe this is why."

Vance gritted his teeth. "I'm not part of their song."

But even as he said it, he felt the lie burning in his chest.

Later That Night

Sleep never came.

Vance stared at the cracked ceiling, Gabriel's burning eyes etched into his mind. He could still hear the Choir's chants, faint and distant, like whispers crawling beneath his skin.

Then—

A knock at the door.

Cat shot up, gun drawn. Vance was already on his feet, his weapon aimed at the peeling door.

Another knock. Slower this time.

Vance moved silently to the peephole—no one was there.

But he felt it—that cold, hollow presence.

Without thinking, he yanked the door open, gun raised—

Nothing.

Just the empty parking lot, the flickering neon sign buzzing weakly.

But then he saw it.

A mark.

Carved into the door in deep, jagged lines—the same symbol burned into the victims' flesh: a circle, a vertical line, and three crosses beneath it.

Vance's stomach twisted.

"They know we're here," Cat whispered behind him.

Vance didn't respond. He was staring at something else now—something worse.

In the middle of the parking lot, a figure stood in the fog. Tall. Motionless. A shadow carved from darkness itself.

No face. No features. Just a smooth, blank void where a face should be.

A Hollow Man.

Vance's breath hitched.

He raised his gun, stepping forward. "Stay inside," he told Cat.

But the Hollow Man didn't move. Didn't flinch.

Vance aimed at its head and fired.

The bullet ripped through the fog—and the Hollow Man didn't even blink.

Vance fired again. And again.

Nothing.

Then, slowly, the Hollow Man tilted its head, as if curious.

And it spoke.

But not with words.

With a voice that wasn't a voice at all—a whisper directly into Vance's mind:

"You cannot outrun what you are."

Vance's blood ran cold.

The Hollow Man took a step forward.

Vance gritted his teeth, gripping his gun tighter. "I'm not afraid of you."

Another step.

"You should be."

Suddenly, the figure burst into black smoke, dissipating into the night like ash on the wind.

Vance stood there, heart pounding, the echoes of that whisper rattling in his skull.

Cat rushed outside. "Vance! What happened?"

Vance didn't answer. He just stared at the spot where the Hollow Man had stood.

Because deep down, he knew the truth.

The Hollow Man wasn't just following him.

It was part of him.

And the third trumpet was about to sound.