The clock hit 6:30 PM.
Outside, Blackridge felt different. The sky had turned into a deep, oppressive gray, the last remnants of sunlight swallowed by the storm clouds rolling over the city. A light drizzle had begun, misting over the rooftops and neon-lit streets, turning the sidewalks into a sheen of reflections.
The Cross household was silent, save for the faint sound of rain tapping against the windows. The TV screen flickered, illuminating the living room in a cold, artificial glow. The air was thick with tension—as if everyone inside could feel that something was coming, something that no one could stop.
Max sat on the couch, elbows on his knees, his foot tapping restlessly. He had barely said a word since Amelia left. Across from him, George leaned back, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Richard sat nearby, but unlike Max, he wasn't restless—he was just tense. His arms were crossed over his chest, eyes locked on the screen, waiting for something. Anything.
From the kitchen, the rhythmic chop, chop, chop of Richard's grandmother slicing vegetables carried through the air. A normal sound, a safe sound—one that didn't belong in the middle of all this.
Then, the news segment began.
The screen shifted to a live feed from the Blackridge News Network. The anchor, Liam Hayes, appeared—dressed sharply in a navy-blue suit, his tie slightly loosened. But the way he sat—**shoulders squared, hands clasped tightly together on the desk—**told everyone watching that he wasn't just reading a script.
This was serious.
"Good evening, Blackridge," Liam Hayes began, his voice carefully controlled. "We interrupt tonight's scheduled programming to bring you an urgent update on the unfolding crisis in our city."
The camera cut to the outside of a cordoned-off street in the Red Light District—flashing police sirens painting the darkened roads in streaks of blue and red. Officers moved quickly behind the yellow crime scene tape, their faces tight with tension.
The camera panned slightly to the right, revealing the outline of a building—a run-down motel, its neon sign flickering weakly. The shot was far away, but even through the screen, something felt wrong.
Liam Hayes (news anchor):
"At approximately 5:17 PM, authorities responded to an emergency call in the Red Light District. Inside a private motel room, a body was discovered in a state that—according to first responders—defies logical explanation."
The image cut to a blurred-out figure on a stretcher being loaded into an ambulance. Even with the censorship, the unnatural shape of the body was visible.
Richard clenched his jaw.
Max inhaled sharply.
George didn't move.
Liam Hayes:
"Due to the extreme nature of the scene, details remain limited, but sources within the BRPD suggest that the victim's body was found completely* dried out—*all fluids, muscles, and internal organs completely gone, leaving behind only an intact outer skin stretched over the skeleton."
The footage switched back to Liam Hayes in the newsroom.
Liam Hayes:
"Experts are now referring to this incident as the 'Dried Corpse Case.' This is the second shocking murder today, following this morning's horrific massacre at the warehouse—now known as the 'Red Floor Incident.'"
The camera briefly showed a live shot of the Blackridge Police Department, where press reporters crowded outside, shouting questions at officers who refused to comment.
Liam Hayes:
"With two murders of unprecedented brutality occurring in a single day, the question remains—are these events connected? Is this the work of a single entity? Or is Blackridge dealing with something far worse?"
A brief pause.
Then, the camera shifted to the news station's field reporter, a man standing under an umbrella near the crime scene.
Field Reporter Liam Hayes (on location):
"Authorities are keeping this case under heavy classification, refusing to release details on potential suspects. What we do know is that Blackridge is now facing a level of violence and horror unlike anything in its history. The question is—how much worse will it get?"
The camera returned to Liam Hayes in the studio. His tone, normally so composed, carried the faintest edge of unease.
Liam Hayes:
"Citizens of Blackridge, stay safe, and stay vigilant. We will continue to bring you live updates as this story develops."
The TV screen faded to black, but the weight of the news lingered in the air like a heavy fog.
The living room was silent—too silent. The distant sound of rain outside and the faint clinking of utensils in the kitchen were the only noises that cut through the oppressive atmosphere.
No one spoke.
Richard exhaled sharply, running a hand through his damp hair. The light from the TV still flickered slightly, casting his shadow against the wall like an uncertain figure, caught between two choices.
"This is what I wanted to show you," George finally said, his voice deep and measured.
His tone was calm, but not reassuring.
Richard turned toward him, his brows furrowing. His gut had been screaming at him since the Red Floor Incident, but now? Now it felt like his worst fears were coming true.
"Is it Raven?" Richard asked, though he already knew the answer.
George leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced together.
"…It likely is."
Max gulped. He could feel his pulse in his throat. This wasn't just some theory or distant threat anymore—this was happening right now, in real time.
He exhaled, shaking his head. "We need to stop him."
His words cut through the air like a blade, sharp and unwavering.
Richard nodded, his stomach twisting.That was the only solution, right? They couldn't just sit here.
But George's sharp gaze lifted to Max immediately.
"That's the problem," Richard said, before George could. "The PTRD took the case from us."
Max gritted his teeth, leaning back against the couch.
"I know, I know." His voice was tense, frustrated. "But that doesn't mean we just sit here and do nothing."
George sighed, rubbing his temple. He wasn't angry, but there was a weight in his eyes—something older, something tired.
"I showed you this news for a reason," he said. "Not to make you react, but to warn you. The Raven knows we were hunting him. He doesn't know the PTRD took the case off our hands."
The statement hung in the air like a storm cloud.
Richard shifted uneasily.If Raven thought they were still a threat, then…
"That means he's watching us," Richard muttered.
George nodded.
Max clenched his jaw. That didn't matter to him.
"What do we do, then?" Richard asked, his voice carrying a slight unease.
Max was the one who answered.
"We keep going."
George lifted his gaze, unimpressed.
"Oh? And what exactly do you mean by that?"
Max leaned forward now, elbows on his knees, looking straight at George.
"I mean, we keep researching. We can't just sit back and wait for the PTRD to do everything while innocent people are being killed."
His voice was resolute, unshaken.
Richard inhaled slowly, before nodding.
"He's right. We can't just wait around."
George exhaled, shaking his head.
"It's too risky."
There was something in his tone—not just concern, but something deeper.
Something like guilt.
Max's eyes darkened.
"Risk was part of the job the moment I became an exorcist. I signed up for this."
The words were final, like a closed door.
Richard nodded. "I agree."
Max's expression twisted instantly.
"Why are you agreeing, dumbass?" His voice had an edge—more than just annoyance, more than just frustration. It was like he was genuinely pissed off.
Richard's brows furrowed, his arms crossing over his chest. "Because you're right. We can't sit around and do nothing."
Max let out a sharp exhale, leaning forward. "No. I'm right—but that doesn't mean you need to get involved."
Richard's eye twitched.
"And why the hell not?"
Max scoffed. "Because you're staying here. I'll be the one handling him."
Richard's hands curled into fists. "Oh, yeah? And who the hell put you in charge?"
Max gave him a pointed look, tilting his head slightly, eyes sharp. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe common fucking sense?"
Richard sat up straighter, his shoulders tense. "Common sense? You're acting like you're so much better than me, like you actually have the answers."
Max shook his head. "No, I'm acting like someone who knows when he's outmatched. You? You don't. You'd rush in and get yourself killed, and then I'd have to clean up your mess."
Richard's jaw tightened.
"You act like I haven't fought before."
"You haven't fought like this."
Richard gritted his teeth. "Like you have?"
Max leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable. "Yeah. I have."
That made Richard pause for a second—but only a second.
"Bullshit."
Max's lips curled into a smirk, but it wasn't cocky—it was tired.
"You think I just talk my way through fights?"
Richard exhaled sharply. "That's exactly what you do."
Max shrugged. "Yeah, because it works. But guess what? I've also had my ass kicked more times than I can count. I've fought spirits that would tear you apart in seconds. And I survived, not because I was the strongest, but because I was smart enough to know when to back the fuck off."
Richard's anger flared.
"Oh, I get it. You think I'm stupid, don't you?"
Max let out a short, dry laugh. "No. I think you're stubborn." His eyes narrowed. "And that's the problem."
Richard's breathing was uneven now, his pulse hammering in his ears.
"So that's it? You're just gonna handle everything yourself?"
Max nodded without hesitation. "Yeah. That's exactly what I'm saying."
Richard scoffed, shaking his head. "And what happens if you die?"
Max blinked.
It was a simple question, but it hit different coming from Richard.
For a second, Max had no response.
Richard pressed forward. "What then? You think you're invincible? You think you can just—what, outsmart death? Fight Raven alone and magically win?"
Max clicked his tongue, leaning back again, running a hand through his hair.
"I don't plan on dying, dumbass."
Richard's fingers dug into his palm. "Neither do I."
Max let out a long breath through his nose.
"You're missing the point. I don't fight to win—I fight to survive. You? You fight because you think you have to. That's a whole different level of stupid."
Richard's glare hardened.
"So I should just do nothing?"
Max sighed, gripping his temples. "You should know when to wait."
Richard scoffed again. "And when would that be?"
Max lifted his gaze. "When you're strong enough to not get yourself fucking killed."
Richard's chest rose and fell sharply, his heartbeat hammering in his ears. It wasn't about fighting, was it? It was about control. Max didn't trust him.
And that pissed him off even more.
"You're not as strong as you think you are, Max."
Max's smirk returned, but it was colder now.
"And you're not as ready as you think you are, Richard."
The room was on the verge of breaking.
Max and Richard sat across from each other, their argument still hanging in the air like a thick fog. The weight of their words lingered, unshaken, neither of them willing to back down.
Then, George moved.
He sat forward, slowly, with the kind of calculated presence that made the air shift.
Max and Richard immediately felt it.
They weren't just talking to George Cross the old man anymore.
They were talking to George Cross the exorcist.
"Enough."
His voice wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be.
It was the kind of voice that cut through the noise—calm, heavy, impossible to ignore.
Both Richard and Max froze.
George rubbed his temple, letting out a slow, tired breath.
"Neither of you are going."
His words landed like a stone.
Max scoffed immediately. "Yeah? Says who?"
George's gaze snapped to him. Sharp. Cold. Unyielding.
"Says me."
Max went silent.
Richard shifted uncomfortably, his jaw tightening. "But—"
"No buts." George's voice was final. "I'm not asking. I'm telling you."
Max's frustration boiled over. He shot up from the couch, hands clenched into fists.
"You can't seriously expect us to just sit around while Raven keeps killing people!"
George's expression didn't change. "I can. And I do."
Richard leaned forward. His voice wasn't as loud as Max's, but it carried something deeper—something more desperate.
"Grandpa, we can help—"
"No, you can't."
George cut him off so quickly, so effortlessly, that it almost felt like he was answering a different question entirely.
Richard's chest tightened.
George sighed, shaking his head. "You don't understand what you're asking for. You think this is about being strong enough? About wanting to help? It's not. This is bigger than you."
Max crossed his arms, gritting his teeth. "Then explain it to us."
George's gaze hardened.
"You're too inexperienced. Both of you. You don't get what it means to fight someone like Raven."
Max exhaled sharply. "Then we learn."
George's patience wore thinner.
"Learn? You think you're gonna 'learn' in time to stop a man like him? You think this is some bullshit?"
Max flinched.
George shook his head. "You have no fucking idea what you're up against. And I refuse to let you both die trying to figure it out."
Silence.
Max looked away, clicking his tongue. He wanted to say something. Anything. But George wasn't leaving him an opening.
Richard felt the pressure of those words in his chest.
Max turned back to George, eyes burning.
"So what, then? You just go after him alone? You're not exactly in your strongest, old man."
George smirked slightly, but it didn't reach his eyes. "And yet, I'd still last longer than you."
Max's jaw clenched.
Richard spoke next. His voice was quieter. More careful.
"If you go alone, you might die."
George leaned back slightly, as if considering those words. Then he exhaled through his nose.
"Maybe. But if you go, you definitely will."
Max gritted his teeth. "That's not your decision to make."
George's eyes darkened. "Yes, it is."
Richard swallowed hard. "…Why?"
George glanced between them. Then, slowly, he stood up.
And suddenly, he felt larger than life.
He wasn't the grumpy old man sitting on the couch anymore. He wasn't the semi-retired exorcist who barked insults at them between sips of whiskey.
He was George Cross, one of the best exorcists the PTRD ever had.
"Because I'm your elder."
His voice was low. Steady. Unshakable.
"Because I know what I'm talking about."
His gaze hardened.
"Because if you go, you will die."
Richard felt something cold settle in his stomach.
Max, for once, said nothing.
George let the silence drag.
Then, finally—he delivered the final order.
"Richard, you're going to school tomorrow."
Richard blinked. "What?—"
"Max, you're going back to your apartment."
Max's hands curled into fists.
"And you're not searching the city for Raven. If things get worse—" George's eyes narrowed. "Then you're both leaving."
The air went dead.
Richard stiffened. "Wait. What?"
Max's entire body tensed. "The fuck do you mean, 'leaving'?"
George's voice didn't waver.
"If this gets worse, you're getting out of Blackridge. You're running."
Max laughed bitterly. "And what? Let everyone else deal with this shit?"
George nodded without hesitation. "Yes."
Max shook his head, laughing again. But it wasn't amusement—it was disbelief.
"Wow. That's it, huh? Run and let the world burn? Some exorcist you are."
George's expression didn't change.
"I never said I was a hero."
Richard inhaled slowly. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat.
"Grandpa…"
George exhaled. "It's not about winning. It's about surviving."
The rain outside pattered harder.
Max stared at him.
And for the first time since the conversation started, he looked uncertain.
Not because he agreed.
Not because he understood.
But because George wasn't saying it like an exorcist.
He was saying it like a man who had lost before.
Max clicked his tongue, turning away.
Richard just sat there, jaw tight, hands in his lap.
The house fell into silence.
George watched them both.
And when he finally spoke again, his voice was low. Final.
"This conversation is over."