Chapter 14: The Dogs of the Court

The storm rolled in fast.

Thick, choking rain battered the rooftops, washing the city's filth into black rivers down the gutters.

Ren didn't care.

He moved through it like a ghost, soaked to the bone, the blood on his hands rinsed clean by nature's fury.

The warehouse burned behind him, orange against the grey.

No turning back now.

Dock 17 was only the beginning.

The Court would respond.

They would come for him.

Good.

He needed more.

More blood.

More names.

More proof that the world deserved what he was about to do.

Ren shoved open the door to a crumbling diner, half its neon letters flickering weakly.

Inside, it stank of burnt coffee and despair.

A few hollow-eyed souls hunched over their meals, pretending not to notice the man who looked like he crawled out of hell itself.

The waitress glanced up, took one look at him, and wisely decided not to say anything.

Ren slid into a booth, his back against the wall.

Habit.

Survival.

He pulled a battered, blood-streaked notebook from his coat and flipped it open.

Names.

Dates.

Symbols he didn't recognize but remembered seeing burned into the skin of the masked bastards he'd just killed.

The Court wasn't just some secret society.

It was a fucking infection.

Roots tangled into the police, into the government, into the endless machinery that kept the city dying slow.

He scribbled another note:

"Drown the roots. Break the cycle. No survivors."

The waitress shuffled over, a trembling cup of black coffee clutched in her hands.

She set it down and tried to smile.

Failed.

Ren stared at her for a long, uncomfortable moment.

Once, he would have thanked her.

Once, he would have smiled back.

But that Ren was buried in another world, rotting alongside the people he'd tried to protect.

Now there was only the thing he had become.

He didn't say a word.

He didn't have to.

The waitress scurried away, wiping invisible stains from the counter.

Ren sipped the coffee.

Bitter.

Burnt.

Perfect.

He was about to dive back into his notes when the hairs on his neck stood up.

Trouble.

Three figures slipped into the diner.

Dark suits.

Gloves.

No faces he recognized.

But the way they moved—the casual menace, the quiet cruelty—they might as well have been wearing neon signs.

Court dogs.

Ren smiled without humor.

He stood slowly, draining the last of the coffee, and walked past the booth toward the door.

The figures followed.

He led them into the rain-soaked alley behind the diner, stepping over broken crates and shattered glass.

The moment the door swung shut behind them, he turned.

"You picked the wrong fucking night."

His voice was low.

Lethal.

One of them stepped forward, raising a hand crackling with raw magic.

Ren didn't give him the chance.

In a blink, he closed the gap, driving his fist into the man's throat with enough force to crush his windpipe.

The man dropped, gurgling.

The other two reacted fast—too fast for normal humans.

Enhanced.

Augmented.

The Court didn't waste time sending pawns anymore.

Good.

Ren ducked under a punch that cracked the brick wall behind him, lashed out with a vicious elbow that shattered ribs.

The third man drew a short sword from under his coat, black and humming with enchantments.

Ren grinned.

Finally, a real fucking fight.

He caught the first swipe on his forearm, grunting as the blade bit shallowly into his skin.

Pain sharpened him, honed the edge of his rage.

He answered with a brutal kick to the attacker's knee, then ripped the sword from his hands.

The man staggered.

Ren didn't hesitate.

He rammed the blade up under the bastard's chin, driving it through the soft palate into his skull.

The body twitched, then dropped.

Only one left—the one with broken ribs, struggling to breathe.

Ren grabbed him by the hair, dragging him into the flickering light.

"Names," he snarled.

"Locations."

The man spat blood. "Go... fuck yourself."

Ren smiled.

A dead thing.

"Wrong answer."

He jammed two fingers into the man's ruined ribs, twisting.

The man howled, thrashing.

"Tell me, or I'll peel your soul out through your fucking teeth."

And they both knew he could.

Ren wasn't just muscle and magic.

He was worse.

He was something the Court should never have made.

The man sobbed, broken.

"Seraphim Tower... Level 31... they meet there... please..."

Ren dropped him.

"Good dog."

He left the alley without a backward glance, the rain quickly washing away the blood.

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Seraphim Tower loomed over the skyline like a black dagger.

Corporate offices.

Penthouse clubs.

Secret meeting rooms where men and monsters traded souls like currency.

Ren stared up at it, hands buried deep in his coat pockets.

Inside those walls, they would be waiting.

Traps.

Assassins.

Things worse than men.

He didn't care.

He had crossed a line long ago, and there was no going back.

He wasn't here to survive.

He was here to make them choke on their sins.

One floor at a time.

Ren smiled to himself—a savage, feral grin—and stepped into the storm.

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