The house stands ominously silent, its windows shrouded in darkness, save for a foreboding glow flickering from within. Outside, the thick fog clings to the streets like a living entity, engulfing the city in a suffocating embrace. By 6:30, the docks will be entirely invisible, consumed by the creeping brume that blankets Capflow City, casting it into a menacing twilight. Here, it’s not the fog that makes the nights dangerous, but the insidious beings lurking within, creatures that don’t merely bump in the night; they bite, slash, tear, and devour.
The air in Capflow is heavy, and thick with the stench of rain-soaked asphalt and unspoken fear. Neon lights flicker in the night, casting eerie shadows over graffiti-covered walls that whisper tales of a forsaken city. In the heart of Yasho Isle, the rule of law has become a distant memory, overshadowed by the ruthless reign of the Wolph Pack. They roam the streets like phantoms, a band of mercenaries whose appetite for chaos is rivaled only by their desire for power and a taste for human flesh.
Survival is an everyday gamble, where loyalty is fleeting and betrayal lingers just a heartbeat away. In this dark urban maze, the desperate cling to whispers of hope, while the brave or foolish dare to challenge the mercenaries' grip on the city. As the moon casts a ghostly glow on the pavement, the pulse of the city quickens, a storm is brewing, and in the shadows, fate awaits its next victim.
Capflow City, the capital of Yasho Isle, is a tapestry woven with the threads of wealth and desperation. This city is a microcosm of humanity's extremes, where the glittering allure of wealth and the grim reality of poverty coexist in a tense balance. The nightlife pulsates with energy, but beneath the surface lies a dark underbelly: drugs are dealt in the shadows, whispers of betrayal and violence are exchanged in dimly lit bars, and alleyways double as graves for the unwary. The streets are filled with the calls of street vendors as they sell their goods, creating a chaotic atmosphere. Despite the noise, there is a lingering sense of unease. The wealthy display their riches in fancy clubs and rooftop bars, enjoying cocktails while overlooking the streets below, seemingly unaware or unconcerned about the hardships faced by those outside their luxurious surroundings. In the Rolling's District, children play among the debris, their laughter in stark contrast to the sound of nearby gunfire. Here, survival is a dangerous game, and those who lose often pay the ultimate price.
The city has a pulse, a heartbeat that thrums beneath the surface, with each beat echoing the desperation of its inhabitants. As the fog rolls in, it transforms the streets into a labyrinth of shadows, a breeding ground for the horrors that haunt the night. Capflow, perched off the northeastern coast of Jamaica, is an island caught between beauty and decay. The skyline is jagged, with modern skyscrapers glinting in the sparse light, shadowed by the crumbling facades of the Rolling's District, where the air is thick with the scent of sweat and regret. The wealthy inhabit the northern enclaves, their lives cocooned in luxury, oblivious to the turmoil boiling just miles away. Opulence contrasts sharply with the dilapidated buildings and filthy streets of the slums, where the desperate roam, seeking solace in vices that line the dark alleys.
Yet, even in affluent neighborhoods, no one is truly safe from the malevolence that prowls in the shadows. A sense of unease permeates the air, an unspoken agreement that danger is never far. Gunshots ring out in the distance, and the wailing of sirens punctuates the night, echoing like the cries of the city itself, haunting and sorrowful.
Bordering the New Town and the Rolling's District stands this massive and dilapidated house, reeking of death. It is a fitting den for the Wolph Pac, a ruthless band of mercenaries with an insatiable hunger for the flesh of the living. The air around their lair is thick with the stench of blood, rotting meat, and wet fur, a visceral reminder of the horrors that transpire within. Tonight, there is a palpable tension in the air, heavier than usual. It feels like the fog outside carries whispers of impending violence. It's not just the typical bloodlust that hangs in the air, but a primal fury that makes us want to turn back. Despite this, we won't. We are curious, and curiosity hasn't killed us yet. Let's take a look inside.
The house is enormous. It groans like a wounded beast with each creak of the floorboards sounding a warning that only heightens the sense of dread. Cobwebs cling to the corners, their silken strands glistening like ghostly fingers reaching out. The chandelier above hangs precariously, its crystals dulled with grime, casting fractured light across the walls. Each glint feels like a warning, a fragmented reflection of the chaos that unfolds below. The windows are fogged, condensation trickling down like tears, blurring the view of the dark streets outside. The city throbs with distant sirens and the faint hum of nightlife, a stark contrast to the oppressive silence inside the house. Each wail feels like a reminder of the chaos they had stirred up. The wallpaper, once grand, now peels in strips, revealing the stained plaster beneath, marks of desperation, a silent testament to the horrors that have taken place in this very room. Outside, the fog creeps in, thick and suffocating, muffling the sounds of the city. Through the front door, we enter the grand hall. Its once opulent staircase is now decayed and cloaked in cobwebs. There is an ominous glow coming from the right.
The air shifts as we step into the dining room, and the oppressive gloom of the hallway lifts slightly, though not by much. This place is a cacophony of sensations. The pungent stench of decay assaults our senses, thick and cloying, mixing with the acrid scent of gunpowder that lingers in the air. We can feel the chill creeping through the room, an uncomfortable contrast to the oppressive heat of our rising anxiety. The flickering light of the lamp casts erratic shadows that dance wildly across the walls, creating a disorienting illusion of movement, phantoms born of fear. Each breath feels labored, the air heavy and suffocating, as if the very atmosphere conspires against us. The oil lamp’s flickering light casts a warm glow on the dust motes dancing in the air, a stark contrast to the cold, damp darkness of the corridor behind us. Here, the scent of decay is sharper, mingled with something metallic that makes our stomach churn. The floor creaks underfoot, echoing the unsteady rhythm of our heartbeat, and the shadows cast by the lamp seem to stretch and claw at the walls, eager to consume any light that dares to linger.
It’s suffocating. The dining room is lit by a single antique oil lamp sitting on a table. On the dining table, an assortment of weapons lies scattered; knives gleaming dully in the lamp's light, a revolver resting carelessly next to an empty bottle of rum. The bottle’s label, frayed and peeling, reads “No Retreat,” an ironic echo of their failed mission. A rusted fork, caked in remnants of some long-forgotten meal, is positioned next to a grimy plate, the remnants of their last feast still visible, bloodstains darkening the chipped porcelain. Around the table sit four figures, and a fifth stands beside them. Crickets chirp beneath the table, a strange contrast to the scene. They look almost normal if you ignore the bloodstained military garb and the arsenal of weapons scattered about. Who are they? They're in the middle of a heated argument.
David stood up, causing the chair to scrape against the floor with a harsh screech that shattered the silence. He paced the room, his fingers trailing along the back of a dusty chair as if seeking solace in the remnants of something once elegant. The tension in the air thickened; we could almost see the waves of frustration radiating from him. Slits, on the other hand, shrank further into her seat, the frayed fabric of her uniform melding with the shadows, as if trying to disappear into the very walls that seemed to loom over us, threatening to collapse under the weight of unspoken fears.
“Why do we keep fucking up our missions?” he snapped, his voice like a whip crack. His nostrils flared as he leaned forward, a dangerous glint in his eyes. The others shrank back, the weight of his anger palpable. His fist slammed against the table, rattling the antique lamp and sending shadows dancing across the walls. “Why can’t we be more like them? More professional and organized.” The soft drip of water echoed in the dim hallway. Every drop seemed to punctuate the silence, amplifying the growing tension as they argued.
Slits shifted in her seat, her fingers twisting nervously. She glanced around the room, her eyes darting like a trapped animal seeking an escape route. The shadows cast by the lamp seemed to close in around her, and she shrank into herself, pulling her knees up to her chest as if the chair could somehow shield her from the impending storm. The weight of the moment pressed down on us, and even the flickering light seemed to flicker with uncertainty, reflecting the fear that coiled tightly in the pit of our stomachs.
“We were organized, David,” she whispered, her voice barely cutting through the tension. “It's just... things got out of hand.”
The air in the dining room felt heavier, thick with unspoken accusations and palpable fear. A thick layer of dust covered the furniture as if time had chosen to abandon this place. Outside, the fog pressed against the windows, distorting the world beyond into ghostly shapes, echoing the disarray within. The faint sounds of the city, once lively and full of life, now felt like distant whispers, muted and melancholic, as if the very essence of Capflow held its breath, waiting for the storm to break.
David’s eyes narrowed. “Out of hand? We were supposed to get in, kill Brown, and get out. We weren’t supposed to end up in a war with his security, let alone the police and Special god damn Services.” As David’s voice rose, the house seemed to respond, creaking ominously as if the very walls were listening. Somewhere in the distance, a dog howled, a mournful sound that reverberated through the fog, a reminder of the primal instincts that governed this city. His footsteps echoed sharply against the wooden floor, each step a reminder of his rising frustration. The sound seemed to bounce off the walls, intensifying the palpable anger hanging in the air. The crackling of the oil lamp punctuated the silence, each pop and hiss amplifying the tension, as if the house itself was on edge, waiting for the inevitable conflict to erupt.
Silence.
Suddenly, a crash echoes from the kitchen, causing everyone to freeze. The sound reverberates through the house, a jarring reminder that they might not be alone. The stillness that follows feels even more suffocating.
"Did we fire first?" David's voice, though quieter, is no less dangerous. "Explain that to me, Slits. We were ghosts. They didn’t see us until someone made sure they did."
Slits stays silent, her face a mask of guilt. The room is still, save for the flickering light of the lamp and the distant echo of retreating crickets. The mission had been a disaster, and worse, they had let someone escape. Someone who could bring their downfall. As the argument escalates, the atmosphere shifts palpably; the thick fog outside seems to seep into the house, curling around the legs of the table like a predatory animal. The once-muted sounds of the city become drowned out, replaced by a deafening silence that wraps around us like a shroud. The air crackles with an electric tension, and for a moment, it feels as if the house itself is holding its breath, waiting for the eruption of violence that seems all but inevitable. The crickets are long gone, having sensed what we’re only beginning to understand: you don’t stick around when the Wolph Pac is angry.
CRYPTS
“We should have off that little bastard.” Crypts moaned, his voice a low growl laced with frustration. The sharp tang of gun oil lingers on his hands, a reminder of the blood that stains his past. He clenches the blade in his lap, recalling the night his squad had been ambushed. A flashback of screams, blood, and betrayal flares in his mind, his best friend shot dead beside him. “Trust no one,” they’d drilled into him. But now, as he faced DC, the weight of those words felt like an anchor dragging him down. Every time Crypts pulls his knife, he feels the weight of its history. As he cleans the blood off its edge, he recalls how it had once been a tool for protection. Now, it feels more like a curse, a reminder of the lives he’d taken and the innocence he’d lost. The cold steel of the knife feels like a lifeline in his palm, yet his hand trembles. His mind drifts to a late afternoon sun-bathed park, golden in glow, illuminating the vibrant colors of blooming flowers. He stands at the edge of the grassy field, his heart swelling as he watches Lily dart after her red frisbee, her laughter ringing like music through the air. “One more time, Daddy!” she calls out, her voice a melody of pure joy, pulling him back to a time before the darkness swallowed everything whole.
But that laughter faded, replaced by the harsh clang of metal against wood as he slammed his knife onto the table, the sound echoing ominously in the tense silence of the room.
He let his gaze drift from the 9-inch blade, its edge glinting ominously, and locked eyes with DC, a silent question hanging in the thick, acrid air between them. Their shared gaze is electric, a fleeting moment of understanding before Crypts continued, “Was it something I said, D?” Crypts leans forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Care to bet? I’ve got a thousand dollars that says that kid tagged us.” DC leans back and crosses his arms, a frown deepening on his brow. “He’s just a kid. What if he—”. “What if he what?” Crypts snaps, feeling the weight of every unshed tear. The memory of laughter clashes violently with the harsh reality that surrounds them. “He’s a loose end, and loose ends get cut.” He studied DC, searching for understanding in his eyes. “That’s one motherfucker we don’t want sniffing around, no matter how young he looks.” DC leans against the table, his brow furrows. “You think we should’ve killed him? He’s just a kid.” His voice trembles slightly, memories flooding back. He recalled his younger days when he, himself had fallen victim to unspeakable experiences. “He might be just like I was.” He stopped, catching Crypts’ steely gaze. “You don’t get it? Of course not, we're all just killing machines here.”
As he speaks, a cockroach scuttles across the floor, an unwelcome intruder in their grim meeting. Crypt’s boot crashes down with a sickening crunch, the heel smearing its insides across the dining room floor. “Fucking bugs make me sick.” He spits on the remains, a vile contempt spilling from him.
Standing at a towering 6’5” and weighing 256 pounds, Crypts is the embodiment of menace, a former Special Service team leader who had earned his reputation as the most feared among them. He is a genius with weaponry, a predator with an insatiable thirst for blood and chaos. His time in the Special Services (SPS) had turned him into a living weapon, one that now walked the shadowy line between enforcer and hunted.
SPS were the relentless hunters sent to neutralize the criminal elements that local police couldn’t touch. But the ENTITY is no mere gang; it is a hydra of corruption with money, firepower, and men, if you could even call them that, who would make even the most hardened soldier tremble in fear? They are the puppeteers of the city, and unbeknownst to Crypts, the JIS gang he had been hunting was just a fragmented arm of this monstrous organization.
August 13, 1998, 9:17 PM, everything changed for Crypts. They had been shadowing the JIS since January, but infiltrating them proved to be a near-impossible task, one that would soon reveal its grim significance. Intelligence reports had hinted at a major shipment of firearms set to arrive at Capflow Bay, and Crypts led his team into position with a deadly precision cultivated over years of combat.
In a bold move, they had replaced the dock workers with police officers, ready to pounce. Yet, the ENTITY was always two steps ahead, their plans intertwining in ways that would shatter Crypts’ confidence. The police chief, a loyal member of the ENTITY, smiles as he plays both sides, his loyalty a dagger poised at Crypts' throat.
That night, the moon hung heavy in the sky, its pale glow casting an eerie light over the city. Crypts remembered the news reports: livestock found torn apart, wild dogs behaving erratically. A chill crawled down his spine as he thought of the grotesque creature that had attacked him days earlier. “This isn’t just another gang war,” he muttered to himself. “Something darker is at play here.” The fog stalks again like a predator, thick and suffocating, concealing the wicked deeds of the ENTITY as it cloaks the city in a malevolent embrace.
No one in Capflow got rich without the ENTITY’s blessing. From the dockworkers to the mayor, the invisible hand of the ENTITY touched everything. Those who refused to fall in line found themselves "unlived", and their families were left with nothing but questions and half-buried truths. The city’s politicians are puppets, their campaigns funded by ENTITY money, their promises carefully tailored to maintain the status quo. Even the police chief is a pawn, turning a blind eye to the blood spilled in the name of "progress."
Capflow’s citizens had learned to live in the shadows, making deals with devils to keep food on the table, always watching their backs. The ENTITY is a hydra, cut off one head, and two more took its place. Crypts knew this very well. He might not just be fighting a gang; it might just be the city itself.
Capflow wasn’t always a breeding ground for corruption and violence. In its early days, it had been a port town, a bustling trade hub on the edge of civilization, where merchants from across the seas came to do business. But behind its facade, something sinister brewed. Legend had it the island was owned by the devil himself, an ancient battleground where creatures from the depths of the earth once roamed. The older generations whispered of long-forgotten rituals, of offerings made to the beasts in exchange for power and prosperity.
Over time, the city grew, forgetting its dark roots, but the ENTITY never did. The secret rituals pass down through the generations, their ties to the supernatural cemented in blood. Capflow’s elite didn’t just control money and crime; they controlled the very essence of fear. The ENTITY uses this power to manipulate the city, and now, with the arrival of even more strange creatures, it is clear that the line between legend and reality is thin, too thin for Crypts' comfort.
His instincts screamed danger, tightening like a noose. He had brushed off the signs. The uncanny creature had been a nightmare, a hybrid of a wolf and a yeti. But now, standing in the fog, a different kind of dread churned in his gut. He stepped forward, fog swirling, shadows dancing in a way that made him question his sanity.
Uncharacteristically early, he had left the watering hole a few nights ago, a rare decision driven by the sense that trouble was breathing down his neck. An old man at the bar recounted tales of beasts that roamed the city. “They say they are creatures born from the shadows and as old as the isle itself, part wolf, part nightmare,” he said, in a voice low and gravelly. Crypts shivered involuntarily. They were silly stories, but as he stared out into the fog rolling in, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something sinister lurked within. As he stepped into the moonlit night, a heaviness settled over him, like a storm about to break. Blaming the beers he hadn’t even finished, he reached for a smoke, inhaling deeply to steady himself.
But something felt off. As the fog thickened, it curled around him like a shroud, heavy and suffocating. The damp air smelled of decay, mingling with the sharp tang of gun oil on his hands. Somewhere in the distance, the city groaned a low hum of sirens and whispered fears echoing in the night. He glanced at his shadow, noticing it began to vanish, blotted out as if the moon itself was being devoured. He stared into the swirling fog, feeling an unnatural chill. It was as if the night itself conspired against him, a living entity with malicious intent. Whispers curled through the mist, echoing the rituals of the ENTITY, a reminder of the darkness that lurked just beyond the veil. Each step felt heavier, the world around him blurring into an indistinct haze. “This isn’t just a weather pattern,” he muttered, his heart racing. “It’s a warning.” The whispers in the mist seemed to echo his thoughts as if the city itself was trying to tell him something vital. The streets twist like a dark labyrinth, littered with debris and decay. Flickering streetlights cast long, distorted shadows, and the air is thick with a mix of cigarette smoke and something far more sinister. Each corner holds secrets, whispers of violence echoing through the alleys, making the city itself feel like a predator lying in wait. The night was eerily clear, the stars shone like silent witnesses, but dread clawed at his chest as he turned his gaze skyward.
When he finally turned to face the creature, his heart stopped. Memories flooded back, his daughter’s laughter before it was stolen by violence, the warmth of her small hand in his. He remembers so vividly. The sunlit park, tossing a frisbee back and forth, her laughter ringing out like sweet music. "Again, Daddy!" she squealed, her small hands reaching for the disc. He had laughed, the sound foreign to him now. At that moment, he had felt untouchable. No ENTITY. No blood. Just Lily’s laughter and the soft rustle of trees overhead. But the world has different plans. The memories fractured. The park faded into this dim alleyway of Capflow, where her laughter is replaced by gunshots. Her bright, carefree smile is wiped away by the last breath she takes as she lays in his arms, her life stolen by violence he can’t control.
A sudden wave of guilt washed over him, how could he protect others when he had failed to protect her? That warmth was replaced by an icy grip of fear. “Not again,” he whispered, sweat beading on his brow. This was beyond anything he’d faced before. Just as the creature lunged, a gut-wrenching howl pierced the air. “What the fuc...” The words died on his lips as he fumbled to unholster his weapon, adrenaline surging through him. What pounced at him was neither man nor beast, but a nightmare made flesh. The world narrowed to the creature’s gaping maw. His instincts kicked in, and he pulled his weapon. But at the last moment, he hesitated. In the chaos, he caught a glimpse of a terrified kid hiding in the shadows, eyes wide with fear. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, shaking off the memory of his daughter. In this moment, he makes a choice, he won’t let another innocent suffer. He redirected his weapon, aiming for the creature's face.
Its amber eyes pierced the suffocating night, glowing like embers in a dying fire, but the pupils, those twisted, pulsating green orbs, flared brighter as they locked onto Crypts. Four massive paws, each tipped with claws that resembled jagged blades, emerged from a writhing mass of shadow. The claws shimmer like polished steel, and each one, Crypts knew, could carve through flesh and bone like paper. The creature was a beast made of pure darkness, barely contained in the shape of anything mortal.
His breath hitched in his throat, his body frozen in place. His limbs, once familiar and obedient, now felt like stone, betraying him at the worst possible moment. He couldn’t think. Crypts' mind, usually sharp was now sluggish, drowning in a sea of dread. That’s it, he thought, death is here. And I can’t fire my damn gun.
Desperation seized him, and he forced his finger to squeeze the trigger, but it felt like moving through thick sludge. A strange, almost comforting thought crossed his mind: At least the child had escaped. Better off than me. But even that fleeting relief dissolved as his eyes drifted back to the creature. That thing doesn’t leave survivors.
The beast sniffed the air, inhaling the stench of decay that clung to the alley like a second skin. Its nostrils flared, and Crypts felt it see him not just as prey, but as something already dead. His instinct screamed for him to retreat, to disappear into the shadows. But as he moved, his foot slid on a slick metal trash can lid. He tumbled back, landing in a heap of rotten garbage. The putrid smell was overwhelming, but fear swallowed everything, his senses, his thoughts, his very being. Nothing existed but those eyes. It’s going to rip me apart. Images of his death exploded behind his eyes. He saw those claws raking across his chest, those fangs tearing into his throat. He’d seen men die in violent ways before, but nothing like this. Never to something so monstrous.
The creature hesitated. It stood still, those glowing eyes drilling into him. Every muscle in its body was taut, like a spring ready to snap, ready to tear him to pieces. Crypts’ heart hammered so violently it felt like it might shatter his ribs. His hand trembled, and finally, he fired three frantic shots into the darkness.
The beast lept. It vaulted up the side of the building with an unnatural and bone-chilling grace, claws sinking into the brick as it climbed. Its body twisted, contorting as it disappeared into the black night. Gone.
Crypts collapsed against the garbage, the adrenaline draining from his veins. His body trembled with the certainty: This isn’t over. That thing, it would return. He could feel it. It was like the fog clinging to the air, always lurking, always watching. Crypts would see those eyes again.
Then a voice, dark and mocking, whispered through his mind like the breath of death itself: “I’ll catch you on the flip side, buddy.” It was only then he noticed Jefferson and the other team members, weapons drawn, eyes wide with horror, gun trained in its direction. They’d been there the whole time, watching the impossible unfold.
The raid was supposed to be clean. Crypts had rehearsed every scenario and planned every move with meticulous precision. But he was now, sitting in the cab of the crane with Jefferson, a gnawing dread churned in his gut. Even the Zantacs he’d swallowed earlier couldn’t dull the acidic burn. Those eyes haunted him, clawing at the edges of his sanity. They were always watching, just beyond the light.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Crypts muttered, his voice barely a whisper. Below, the docks stretched out like a graveyard, a maze of shipping containers that felt more like tombstones. A perfect place for death to hide. “You’re not the only one,” Jefferson replied, his knuckles white around his rifle. “That thing… it wasn’t natural. Like Bigfoot fucked a hell bitch and had a baby with Satan’s hound.”
Crypts chuckled, but the sound was hollow. “We should’ve had an inside man by now. Why the hell can’t we crack their organization?” “That’s the problem,” Jefferson’s voice was grim. “These guys shouldn’t be this hard to infiltrate.”
A sense of unease washed over Crypts. Chief Nicolson’s orders, there was something wrong about them. He’d felt it earlier, but now, the pieces were clicking into place. “Nicolson wanted us here… why? You were supposed to be on vacation.” Jefferson’s eyes flickered with confusion. “What? Nicolson said we had no choice. Said you needed everyone for this." The reality of the situation hit both men like a lightning bolt. Crypts’ blood ran cold. “He lied to us. That bastard sold us out. We’re in a trap.” His voice dropped to a growl. “They’re here to eliminate us.” “We’ll tear Nicolson apart when this is done,” Jefferson said, but both men knew it was too late.
The JIS agents arrived, an unnatural calm in their movements as they unloaded from a container. The air felt wrong, thick with an unspoken menace. Crypts keyed the radio, “All teams, prepare for contact. We’ve been lured into a kill zone. Nicolson’s working with them.”
The voice that crackled back chilled Crypts to his core: “Copy that, lieutenant.” Silence.
The JIS agents stood still, grinning as police choppers approached, lights slashing through the darkness. “Get down! On the ground!” The commands echoed through the night, but something was wrong. The JIS stood, grinning, their eyes gleaming with something inhuman. Their laughter echoed, a sound too twisted, too wrong. They rushed forward, unarmed, yet unstoppable. “Open fire!” Crypts screamed, but bullets did nothing. The creatures moved with terrifying speed, their bodies weaving through the gunfire as though they were untouchable. “They’re not human! What the fuck are these things?!” The radio burst with static, punctuated by screams, gunshots, and chaos. Crypts ran, the docks transforming into a hellscape of blood and fire. “Help me!” a teammate screamed, grabbing Crypts’ leg. Before He could pull him up, the creature’s voice slithered through the air again: “Ready for our dance, buddy?”
In a moment his wounded comrade was snatched from his grip, and he wipped his head in the direction. The sight that met Crypts’ eyes stopped his heart: his teammate’s face was gone, shredded, half-eaten by a nightmare beast, its jagged teeth glistening with blood. The creature, a hulking beast of nightmares, loomed over him, eyes glowing like death. “Come give me a hug,” it hissed, and in a blur of motion, it lunged at Crypts. Crypts fired, but the bullets were useless. Then, a massive explosion. The beast was thrown back, but the docks were empty now, a wasteland of fire and ash. Crupts stood alone, his breath ragged, the echoes of battle fading. He thought, "Who let the dogs out!" and then, the voice.
“I did bitch.” It was the last thing Crypts heard before the beast lunged again, its fangs sinking into his throat. His world faded to black, consumed by the cold, suffocating embrace of death.
