The night air bit cold against Darius's face. Sarajevo stretched out below, a sprawl of dim lights and long shadows. The city slept, unaware of what was about to unfold.He checked his watch: 0200 hours. Right on schedule."Alpha Team, sound off," Darius whispered into his comm."Stevens, ready." His voice was steady, reliable as always."Martinez, in position." A hint of excitement there. Kid was on his first major op."Wong, good to go." Cool as ice, their sniper."Johnson, set." A slight tremor. He felt it too, the weight of what they were about to do.Darius took a deep breath, tasting dust and distant gunpowder. "Remember, this is a precision strike. We go in, eliminate the target, and extract. Clean and quick."Affirmatives crackled through the comm. They trusted him. God knew why.They moved like shadows down the empty street. Their intel said the target—a war criminal with more blood on his hands than a slaughterhouse floor—was holed up in a nondescript apartment building. Thi

The elevator to Hell's executive level moved with the grinding reluctance of a constipated demon after a soul-food buffet. As Darius ascended, leaving behind the familiar chaos of the DoSA, the air grew thicker, heavier with power and secrets. The doors slid open with a mournful ding, revealing a corridor that seemed to stretch into infinity. The walls were a deep, pulsing red, like the inside of a heart—if hearts were made of polished obsidian and bad intentions. Doors lined the hallway, each bearing a nameplate in script that writhed and changed if you looked at it too long. Darius stepped out, his footsteps muffled by a carpet that felt disturbingly... alive. A pair of imps scurried past, their arms laden with scrolls. They gave him a wide berth, eyes darting nervously. Even here, it seemed, his reputation preceded him. As he approached Lilith's office, a towering demon in an impeccably tailored suit emerged from a nearby door. Darius recognized him as Azrael, Deputy Director of

The transition between Hell and the mortal realm always felt like diving into a pool of ice water after basking in a sauna. One moment, Darius was surrounded by the familiar heat and sulfurous air of home; the next, a chill October wind was biting at his face. He materialized in a dark alley, the scent of rotting garbage and stale urine replacing Hell's brimstone. Ah, New York City. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference. Darius adjusted his tie and smoothed down his jacket. His Reaper's suit was a unique masterpiece of infernal tailoring, a blend of style and function that would make even the most fastidious demon weep with envy (Not that they cared). The fabric, darker than a black hole's event horizon, seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. To mortal eyes, it would appear as an impeccably cut suit, the kind worn by high-powered executives or government agents. But it was so much more. The suit was alive in its own way, an extension of Darius's will and purpose. It c

The entity's fist left a crater where Darius had been standing a split second ago. He materialized at the other end of the park, his non-existent heart racing. This thing was fast. Too fast. [QUICK STEP SUCCESSFUL] [DAMAGE AVOIDED: 100%] [ANALYZING OPPONENT'S ATTACK PATTERN...] Darius scanned the area, looking for Constantine. He was still on that bench, tossing breadcrumbs to pigeons that were frozen mid-flight. Oblivious to the cosmic smackdown happening around him. Lucky bastard. The Altered turned to face Darius, its form rippling like heat haze. It had itself positioned right before Constantine. With everything so far, this thing was just doing too much. Psychopomps could be weird like this, mostly due to the soul's will to continue living. Those were the kind Reapers were always prepared for (Priority Targets), those were the kind that resulted in a battle. Not this kind of battle. Darius was barely surviving. "Look," Darius said, twirling his scythe. "I don't know what you

The air was dry and heavy with the taste of dust. Darius could feel it on his tongue, gritty and unpleasant, as he stood in the open field, a duffel bag on one shoulder. The wind whistled past, carrying with it a single tumbleweed that danced across his path, a lonely traveler in the barren landscape.He sighed, the sound muffled by the black fabric of his combat gear. From head to toe, he was a shadow against the pale earth - black jacket, black pants, black boots. Even his face was half-hidden beneath a dark cap, shielding his features from the scorching sun.For a moment, his mind drifted to the mask he'd left behind. The skull design had been Tasha's idea, a gift he couldn't refuse. You don't reject a gift, his mother had always told him. It was rude. A faint smile tugged at his lips at the memory of Tasha, her face a bright spot in his mind's eye. Sweet Tasha.But the smile faded as quickly as it had come, chased away by the stinging heat and the grit in his eyes. He blinked, squ