Should i rewrite the first chapters?
POV: Michael
The mission briefing was short. Direct. Just like most of them.
A demon had taken over a shuttered restaurant on the edge of the industrial sector—far enough from civilians to avoid attention, but close enough to make it DARKOM's problem. The orders were simple: eliminate the threat and field-test the new prototype rounds against a live target.
Michael was the first to arrive.
His black tactical gear was already on—form-fitting and quiet, with reinforced panels and a high collar. He moved through the staging area in silence, checking his weapons one last time: a sidearm loaded with the new experimental bullets, and a compact blade sheathed against his back. Nothing fancy. Just efficient.
A few minutes later, Mary showed up.
Her gait was relaxed, confident. She offered him a small grin as she adjusted the strap of her shoulder rig.
"Still trying to make everyone look bad by being early?"
Michael's answer was a faint shrug. "Maybe I just hate being late."
Mary smirked, brushing a few strands of hair behind her ear. "Or maybe you just enjoy the quiet before it all goes to hell."
Before she could say anything else, Sergeant Harris arrived with the rest of the squad—three more operatives in full gear, moving like they'd done this a hundred times before. Their armor was heavier, bulkier than Michael's, but they carried themselves with sharp, practiced confidence.
Harris wasted no time. "We're going in fast and clean. No unnecessary risks. Experimental ammo's live—so don't waste it."
He pointed between them as he spoke. "Michael, you're with me. Jacobs with Mary. Rivera, you're paired with Trey."
Michael glanced briefly toward Mary. She returned the look with a small, acknowledging nod, then stepped away with Jacobs.
On the Approach
They moved out in staggered formation, shadows sliding along the edges of alleyways and cracked pavement. The industrial district around them was dead silent—closed factories, rusted containers, sagging power lines.
The restaurant came into view up ahead.
The sign was scorched, letters half-melted. Windows boarded up. Paint stripped from the door. No movement. No light.
A place long forgotten by the city—but something still stirred inside.
The team split up as planned, each pair slipping into position. Michael and Harris circled toward the rear loading area while Mary's group cut across the side toward the upper floor.
No alarms. No sound.
Just the weight of silence.
POV: Mary
Inside, things unraveled quickly.
The moment she and Jacobs entered the second floor, the ceiling gave way.
Two demons dropped from above, silent as shadows, claws first.
One hit Jacobs square in the chest, sending him sprawling across the hallway. The other came straight for her.
Mary dodged left, gun raised, and fired twice—tight bursts that hit center mass. The demon snarled, stumbling back.
She moved quick, dragging Jacobs by the vest into a nearby prep room, flipping a table for cover as the beast followed.
Jacobs was bleeding. Bad. A deep slash across his chest. Breathing shallow. Eyes dazed.
Mary knelt beside him just long enough to check his pulse.
Still alive.
Barely.
She stood again, steel in her eyes, and fired through the gap in the overturned table. Her bullets sparked against the demon's hide—experimental rounds flaring briefly as they made contact.
The creature shrieked, limbs flailing. Not dead.
But slowing.
She moved fast. Closed the distance. Slid under its reach, grabbed a fallen combat knife, and jammed it into its eye socket as it lunged.
Then, with one last pull of the trigger, she put a bullet through its exposed throat.
It collapsed in a twitching heap, limbs spasming.
Silence returned.
She turned immediately to Jacobs.
His head had slumped to the side. His vest was soaked through with blood.
She dropped to her knees.
"No—come on, stay with me."
She checked again.
Nothing.
Her jaw tightened, but her hands were steady. She closed his eyes, pressed his hand against his chest, and stood.
The fight was over.
But she wasn't done yet.
POV: Michael
Back near the storage hall, the cold from the old freezers still clung to the walls, despite the power being long dead.
Metal shelves lined the tight corridor, and blood streaked the tile in faded lines. The kind of place that used to store meat. Now, it just reeked of stillness and rot.
Harris raised his hand. A silent signal to stop.
"You hear that?" he muttered, low.
Michael slowed, one hand drifting toward his sidearm. He scanned the hallway. Nothing moved.
Then it hit.
A blur—too fast to track—struck him from the side like a wrecking ball. His skull slammed into the tiled wall with a wet crunch. His body dropped instantly, limp.
"Shit!" Harris backed up, eyes darting.
Something shimmered ahead—a distortion in the air. Like heat off metal. Almost invisible.
Then it flickered.
He saw the shape—tall, lean, too-long limbs, skin stretched thin and glassy over sinew. A demon built for stealth.
Camouflage.
Harris fired—twice. Missed.
The thing lunged.
But this time, Harris sidestepped, planted his foot, and unloaded the rest of his clip. The new bullets hissed as they struck.
The demon shrieked, shimmered, then solidified and collapsed in a twitching heap.
Dead.
Harris turned toward Michael.
Expecting blood. A corpse. A shattered skull.
Instead, he saw movement.
Michael stood.
Bones cracked back into place. Skin stitched together. Breath returned.
Alive. Fully.
Harris froze. His weapon dropped slightly.
"What the hell…" he whispered, voice thin. "You should be dead. You—what are you?"
Michael's gaze met his.
And hardened.
His body shifted. Smoothly, unnaturally.
His arms lengthened. Fingers twisted into claws. His skin darkened at the edges, veins pulsing with something not human.
Before Harris could react, it was already over.
Aftermath
The sound of boots echoed from the hallway.
Mary stepped into view, her weapon low, her face streaked with ash and blood.
She saw the blood. The torn body. Michael standing over it.
She didn't panic.
She didn't raise her weapon.
"Michael," she said.
He didn't turn.
"You okay?"
A beat passed.
Then he nodded. "Yeah."
She looked at the mess again—took it in, eyes calm.
Then turned and walked away, toward the arriving trucks.
POV: Michael
He stared down at what was left of Harris. Blood was everywhere, but the body already looked… still. Done.
He didn't feel guilt.
But something else lingered. Cold. Small. Unwelcome.
Regret.
Just a little.
He shifted his form back, slow and steady, and looked at his own hands. Clean again. Unbroken.
Then he noticed something glinting near the wall.
A shard—red, smooth, glowing faintly with inner light.
He picked it up.
It pulsed once in his hand. Not warm. But not dead, either.
He pocketed it without hesitation.
Then, like nothing had happened, he walked into the fading light—into the cold air and the smell of blood.