The door exploded inward. Not with fury – with purpose.

Max stepped through the shattered frame like a slow avalanche. Chain coiled around his arm, crackling with ember-light. His boots crunched over broken timber and bone, crushing a shattered dinner plate beneath his heel without pause. The farmhouse was a furnace of memory – smoke-stained wallpaper, shattered glass, blood on every beam.

And at the centre of it all:

Victor – barely standing. Half-man, half-beast, jaw split open in a vicious snarl. His claws were sunk into Kimaris's chest. Blood – black-violet and steaming – spilled between his fingers.

Kimaris – calm, even now. His suit torn, skin lacerated, but eyes sharp. His left hand gripped Victor's throat. His right palm pressed against Victor's chest, glowing with unstable psychic runes.

Max said nothing.

The flames didn't wait for words.

Soulfire burst from his hands like a breath held too long. Golden at first – then darkening, deepening, flickering blue at the edges. His aura expanded with a hiss that made the window glass ripple. The temperature surged.

Kimaris looked up – not startled, but intrigued.

"Well, well," he murmured. "The prodigal pyromancer returns."

Victor didn't wait. With a growl, he tore himself from Kimaris's grip, slashing the demon's arm wide open. Black ichor spattered the floor.

Max raised his hand.

Kimaris ducked – just in time.

A lance of soulfire screamed past him, carving a deep trench across the floor. It hit the far wall, detonating in a burst of blue-gold light that sucked the air from the room.

Kimaris landed lightly, flipping over the wreckage, blood trailing from his coat sleeve. His breath fogged in the air.

"Beautiful," he whispered. "I was afraid you'd burn out before I had the pleasure."

Max walked forward.

No banter. No warning.

Just fire.

Another burst. A column this time – straight at Kimaris's chest. The demon rolled aside, flicked a rune into the floor, and the soulfield twisted. For a second, the walls bent – the space between them folding wrong, as if the house had hiccupped.

Max stumbled a half step, then roared – the chain around his arm snapping free. He hurled it like a whip, and it caught Kimaris's leg mid-dodge, dragging him into the floor with a brutal crash.

Victor lunged. He was bleeding heavily now, stumbling but rage kept him upright. His claws raked down across Kimaris's back.

The demon hissed. One hand lashed out, grabbing Victor's face, pushing him back with a telekinetic wave that shattered a support beam behind him.

Max stepped in again.

Close range.

His fist slammed into Kimaris's jaw – soulfire surging through his knuckles like a reactor breach.

The demon flew backward, skidding through broken furniture, slamming against the back wall with a grunt. Dust rained from the rafters. The house groaned.

Kimaris sat there for a moment, smiling faintly through the blood on his lips.

Then he spoke.

"So, this is what she died for," he said.

Max froze.

Kimaris tilted his head.

"April. All that burning. All that loss. And still, you're nothing but a man with matches."

Victor growled. "Shut up."

Max stepped forward, but Kimaris kept talking – eyes locked with Max's.

"Do you know what she saw in you, Max? Do you know what she gave up to keep your fire lit? Because I do. I saw it. I felt it. When Ethan broke her, I was there. When she burned, I heard her last scream."

Max's hands were trembling.

Kimaris smiled wider.

"You want to kill me?" he whispered. "You already have. I've died a thousand times in your memories. But here I am, still standing, still speaking her name. Because you're afraid, Max. Not of me. Of what you'll become if you stop holding back."

Max stepped forward.

The soulfire surged – not in anger.

In clarity.

Victor, coughing, forced himself to his feet.

Max raised his palm again.

And this time – he didn't speak.

The fire did.

…………………

Victor moved.

Not like a soldier. Not like a beast.

Like something older.

He rose slowly, every joint cracking, blood steaming off his back. The transformation wasn't clean – it never was. Bone twisted under skin, muscle tore and reknit in new directions, his mouth split further down the jawline until it was wrong. Too wide. Too full of teeth.

Kimaris turned at the sound – just in time for Victor's claw to catch him across the face.

The blow sent the demon spinning, ichor splattering the air like oil thrown across firelight. He slammed into the stove with enough force to crush the steel casing, then staggered out, stumbling.

Victor didn't stop.

He charged.

Every step was thunder. Each movement carved into the air like a blade. He moved like pain had become irrelevant – like agony was just another function of his body. The beast form wasn't just consuming him now – he was controlling it.

"Victor—" Max started.

But Victor didn't hear him.

He had Kimaris.

He grabbed the demon by the throat and slammed him into the ground so hard the floor cracked into a spiderweb of shattered pine. Then again. And again. Six times. Seven. Kimaris's body convulsed under the blows, his psychic shields flickering wildly.

Victor leaned in, drool and blood dripping from his snarling mouth.

"You tortured me for days," he rasped. "You laughed while that freak carved my ribs."

Kimaris lashed out with a blast of violet psychic force. Victor took it – absorbed it – and kept pushing.

"You hurt my friends. You threatened Liz."

Another punch.

"You broke my body."

Another.

"You tried to erase me."

Victor's claws found Kimaris's shoulder. With a bestial grunt, he drove his thumb into the rune etched there and ripped it out.

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Kimaris screamed.

Not with fury.

With fear.

Victor grabbed him by the coat and hauled him up like a ragdoll.

"You forgot one thing, demon."

He slammed Kimaris through the kitchen wall and out into the dirt. Dust exploded around them.

"I'm not Max's sidekick."

He emerged from the wreckage.

"I'm not your experiment."

Lightning flashed across the dark sky. Rain began to fall.

"I'm Victor Drake."

He stepped over Kimaris's crawling form, claws twitching.

"And I don't. Fucking. Die."

Kimaris rose to his knees, coughing ichor, eyes wild. "You… can't stop it… I opened the gate…"

Victor's arm twitched. His knuckles flexed once – then he drove his fist straight through Kimaris's chest.

Not just through the flesh.

Through the soul.

Kimaris's scream became static – a high-pitched, distorted whine as light burst from the wound. Violet runes burst apart across his body like shattered glass. The demon convulsed.

Victor leaned close, breath hot with fire and blood.

"Then I'll stop you."

He pulled his arm back – and Kimaris exploded.

A wave of crimson-black energy surged outward, knocking Victor flat, throwing Max off his feet, ripping part of the farmhouse roof off in a shriek of shattering timber.

And when the smoke cleared…

Kimaris was gone.

Just blood and fragments. A streak of black-and-red burned into the ground like a silhouette caught mid-scream.

Max pulled himself up slowly, wincing.

"Victor..."

Victor was on one knee. Breathing hard. Still half-beast. His claws trembled. The rain pouring through the ruined roof washed blood from his furred hands. He looked up.

And smiled.

"You took too long."

Max laughed, choked and hollow.

Victor collapsed sideways into the floor.

…………………

The rain whispered across the tall grass.

Hawthorne limped through the field behind the farmhouse, his coat pulled tight, one hand pressed to his side. The wound from Sydney still ached, a dull throb behind every step, but he didn't stop. The locator rune etched into the dagger's hilt pulsed against his thigh, guiding him forward like a heartbeat.

Ahead, in the shed behind the barn, a single lantern glowed.

He drew closer. No demons. No magic. Just a thin wooden door, slightly ajar, the faint scent of blood curling through the cracks.

He pushed it open.

Inside, Ethan sat slumped in a chair, arms bound in front of him, ankles tied to the stool legs. His head hung forward. His apron was gone. His eyes were closed.

For a moment, he looked like a man broken.

Hawthorne stepped in, keeping his hand on the hilt.

"Ethan."

No response.

He circled slowly, eyes scanning the room – no sigils, no tools, no signs of enchantment. Just sawdust, a toolbox, and the faint rustle of rain on the tin roof. The rope looked secure. Tight. Frayed from struggle.

He crouched beside him.

"I'm getting you out of here," he said quietly. "Victor's alive. Max is here. It's over."

Ethan didn't lift his head.

Then, softly:

"Is it?"

Hawthorne blinked. "What?"

Ethan raised his eyes.

They were dry. Clear. Almost calm.

"I always thought," he whispered, "that pain was something you endured. Something that made you stronger. But it's not."

Hawthorne's grip on the dagger shifted slightly.

"It's a river," Ethan continued. "And if you stand in it long enough, it carries you away."

Hawthorne reached for the knot on Ethan's wrist.

"You can fight that current," he said. "You're not too far gone."

Ethan smiled faintly.

"You really believe that?"

Hawthorne's jaw tightened.

"I have to."

The last rope slipped free.

Ethan moved.

It was fast. No hesitation.

A flash of silver.

The knife punched between Hawthorne's ribs, angled upward.

He gasped – staggered – the breath leaving him all at once.

Ethan's hand was steady. His expression didn't change as he withdrew the blade.

Hawthorne stumbled backward, crashing into the workbench, sending a box of nails scattering across the floor. He clutched his side – blood already pouring through his fingers.

Ethan rose from the chair, flexing his wrists.

"Max was the hero. Victor was the fighter. I was the one who stood in the dark and watched the fire take everything I loved."

He looked down at Hawthorne with something approaching pity.

"And you... you're just a man with a badge. Trying to fix things that were never yours to fix."

He stepped past him, calm, collected.

At the door, he paused.

"I'll find her," he said. "Liz. She'll understand. She'll see."

Hawthorne coughed – blood frothing on his lips.

Ethan glanced back, just once.

"Goodbye, Officer."

Then he vanished into the night.

The shed creaked in the silence.

Hawthorne slid to the ground, gasping, hand pressed to the wound.

Still alive.

Barely.

But Ethan was gone.

…………………

Only rain remained – soft, rhythmic, steady. It fell through the broken beams of the farmhouse roof, washing the blood from Victor's claws, turning scorched floor red.

Max stood still for a long moment.

Then he crossed the room.

Victor sat slumped against the wall, his body halfway between man and monster – one clawed hand twitching, his breathing shallow. The wildness in his eyes had faded, but the exhaustion there was heavy. His jaw was cut, his ribs a patchwork of bruises, his arm bent wrong.

Max knelt.

For a second, they didn't speak.

The silence felt earned.

Then Victor muttered, through cracked lips, "About time you showed up."

Max exhaled, half a laugh, half a breath.

"You look like shit."

Victor gave a bloody grin. "You should see the other guy."

Max looked down. Saw the ragged, smouldering silhouette where Kimaris had died. The ash was still steaming. The floor beneath it warped. Nothing left behind – just the shape of defeat.

He looked back at Victor.

Then he said, softly, "I'm sorry."

Victor blinked. "What?"

"I should've been here sooner." Max's voice cracked at the edges. "I should've stopped him before he ever touched you. Before Ethan…" He trailed off. Swallowed hard.

Victor's expression didn't change at first.

Then, slowly, he reached up and tapped Max's shoulder with the back of one clawed knuckle. Light. Familiar.

"Hey," he rasped. "You came back. You always come back. That's what matters."

Max stared at him. Rain dripping off his hair, streaking the ash on his skin.

"You're more than I deserve, Vic."

Victor chuckled. Then winced. "Shit. Don't make me laugh right now. Pretty sure something's punctured something."

Max helped him sit up straighter, carefully avoiding the worst of the wounds. The transformation was receding fast now – the fur pulling back, his limbs shrinking. But the toll remained, carved into every inch of Victor's body.

For a moment, they just sat there – in the middle of the wreckage, two men bound by fire, failure, and something stronger than either.

Then Max glanced toward the back door.

"Hawthorne should've caught up by now."

Victor stirred. "Check the shed out back. I have a bad feeling."

Max held his gaze, then nodded.

He rose to his feet, joints cracking, then moved quickly through the ruined kitchen, stepping over broken chairs and splintered walls. The back door hung open. Rain swept across the field beyond.

The shed sat near the fence line, half-collapsed, its roof sagging.

Max pushed the door open—

And froze.

Hawthorne lay slumped against the far wall, blood soaked across his ribs. One hand was pressed hard to the wound. His dagger was gone.

Max crossed the space in three strides and dropped beside him.

"Hawthorne."

The older man blinked. His face was pale, lips blue-tinged.

"Took you long enough," he rasped.

Max was already reaching for the chain around his wrist, fingers igniting with fire.

"What happened?"

Hawthorne coughed – a wet sound.

"Ethan... smiled. Said goodbye. Then stuck me like a goddamn pig."

Max's jaw clenched.

"… what?"

Victor staggered in.

"He's gone?"

"Long gone."

Max pressed the flame into the wound. Hawthorne groaned but didn't stop him.

"You'll live," Max muttered. "You'd better."

"If I die, make it hurt when you burn him"

Max's eyes stayed fixed on the injury, watching it slowly cauterize under the flame. He didn't yet comprehend the situation.

But his mind was already moving – through memories, through the long road from Singapore, through Liz's pale face in the hospital bed.

Then Victor's voice came from behind.

"I've got something to tell you."

Max turned.

Victor leaned against the doorframe, still swaying but upright. The rain soaked through his ruined shirt, and he looked a thousand years old.

"It's about Ethan," he said.

Max's eyes widened.

Victor took a breath.

"It's worse than you think."

…………………

They sat in what was left of the living room.

The fire had long since guttered out. Only the rain spoke now, tapping softly through the gaps in the shattered roof. A hollow wind moved through the house – not cold, but grief-worn. The kind of silence that settled after things break too far to be fixed.

Max crouched near the splintered hearth, one knee in the dirt and ash. His hands were clenched. Still. Waiting.

Victor sat across from him on a fallen beam, blanket slung over one shoulder, ribs taped, knuckles crusted in blood. He watched Max for a long time before he spoke.

"Ethan said some things," he began.

Max didn't look up.

Victor continued anyway. Quiet. Measured. Like he was talking a man down from a ledge.

"He... burned me. Then started talking. When he thought no one would stop him. He talked about April."

Max's jaw tightened. But he didn't move.

"He said… he was in love with her. Obsessed. Thought she belonged with him. That you never deserved her."

Max's breath caught.

Victor's voice lowered.

"And then he said it. Calm as you like. Said he started the fire."

Max blinked once.

"I asked him why," Victor said. "He said he wanted her to need him. To see him. Said she died beautifully. Flame to flame."

Max stood.

Slowly.

Not like a man preparing to attack.

Like someone whose bones had just forgotten how to hold regret.

He turned away. One hand pressed against the ruined wall, knuckles white. His shoulders shook once – not with rage. Not yet.

Victor kept going.

"He didn't stop there."

Max didn't turn.

"He's fixated on Liz now. Says she's just like her. The same fire. The same stubborn heart. He said…" Victor hesitated. "He said he'd be the first face she sees when she wakes up. That he'd make her love him."

Max exhaled.

Once.

A single breath.

Then he turned back.

His eyes weren't wide. They weren't shocked. They were empty. Like the part of him that trusted had just been erased.

"No," Max said quietly. "He wouldn't…"

Victor didn't reply.

Max took a step forward.

"Ethan wouldn't—he was my—he—" His voice cracked. "He was there the day I married April. He held Liz when she was born. He helped rebuild our house after the miscarriage. He—"

His hands trembled.

Then clenched into fists.

"He was my friend."

Victor stood slowly. "I know."

Max's voice dropped to a whisper.

"He burned her alive."

The air around him began to change. Not suddenly. Not violently.

It shimmered.

Soulfire rose across his back – not in a blaze, but a slow bleed. Golden at first, then darker, coiling around his arms like smoke made of sorrow. His breath came in steady, shallow pulls.

Victor moved toward him, slowly.

"I thought you should know," he said.

Max nodded, but didn't look at him.

Then, very softly:

"If he touches Liz..."

Victor's voice cut in, hard. "He won't."

Max closed his eyes. Fire danced beneath the lids.

Then he opened them.

And something was different.

The grief was still there – raw, carved deep. But now it had purpose.

Resolve.

He turned back to the broken window.

Outside, the rain was falling harder.

"I'm going to find him," Max said. "And I'm going to make him wish the fire had taken him too."

Behind them, the old farmhouse groaned as thunder rolled across the horizon.

And somewhere far away – just beyond the veil – something heard him.

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